I bought a few items at a hardware store in Fresno. The total came to $20.03. All I had was twenties, no change, no bills smaller than a 20. I didn’t want to use a debit card. The nice clerk said, “No problem,” accepted one of the twenties and called it even. I am forever indebted to her for her generosity. The three-cent shortage might come out of her salary in order for the store to report its sales and employee compensation accurately. Or she may have simply reached into her purse for the money before she turned in her receipts at the end of her shift. She didn’t look like she was part owner of the store and could make these snap decisions regardless of fiscal policy. I love her.
Here I am, a total stranger, buying supposedly ordinary items that could be used for any number of nefarious things. The innocent little can of acetone could be used to make a bomb. The nitrogen-rich plant food could be used to make a bomb. The bag of nails could become the shrapnel in a home-made bomb. The butane-filled barbecue fire-starter thingie could be used to detonate a bomb. Yet even with those possibilities, she let me walk out three cents richer. Bless her heart.
I wonder if she’s a closet anarchist.