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The Purchase
The first who was in line held out a twenty dollar bill and said, “twenty dollars on pump 3”. The clerk took the money, pounded out the amount on the register and put it in the drawer as the woman left. The next customer who had shuffled impatiently for his turn, now stepped to the counter to order, “two packs of Marlboro Lights”. The clerk pulled the packs off the shelf, picked the customer’s money up from the counter and rang up the sale. The change rolled down into the cup for the customer to scoop out. Next a teen wordlessly showed the clerk the drink she’d gotten at the fountain and handed him the exact change. She paused long enough for him to count it and left. The observer was now the only customer. As he stepped to the counter time froze. As it does when one least expects it. When all sounds and motions stop, because thought comes so fast that inner dialog becomes the moment. “Here is one,” the Gift spoke to him. The observer’s mind received a rush of simultaneous input that occurs only in these rare moments. Transactions taking place with an absolute minimum of words. The wordless dropping of payment on the counter. Change sliding into the cup. Hands that do not touch. He'd been ready to imitate the procession. To accept cool distance as normal behavior. I’m here to pay for my gasoline. The clerk's here to take my money. I will leave. He will stay. We will never consider one another during our brief encounter, or after. “But you are considering, yes?” asked the Gift. “I’m thinking how monotonous this must be for him.” “Why?” “I suppose because... the dreariness of it.” “What makes it dreary?” “Standing there behind a counter... seeing one person after another... no... interaction...” “You mean so many lost opportunities.” Suddenly time slammed back into place. “May I help you?” prompted the clerk mechanically. “I got gas; pump 5,” the observer replied. The clerk checked his gauge and said, “13 dollars and...” The more rare times come when time stops twice in one encounter. This was one of them. “So many lost opportunities” the Gift persisted. In the past he would have countered, “I’m just paying for my gas”. But he’d learned since that stories often begin with the most mundane of circumstances. Still, avoiding the effort he’d expend removing his mask, he resisted. “I don’t know this man... I don’t know what it is you want me to do here.” “Be you so that I may be.” “...8 cents,” said the clerk as time began once more. He fished for his wallet and discovered he only had a 10, so he gave the clerk his card. He read “Tom” from the clerk’s nametag. “Say Tom, where’s a good place to sit and have coffee around here?” The clerk startled slightly at hearing his name, and perhaps at being asked a question not related to his duties. He laid the receipt and a pen on the counter and said, “Phoenix Bookstore. Three blocks down on the left.” The observer signed the receipt. “Ah, so you can just grab a book and read with your coffee, huh?” “Yep,” said the clerk, not at all distracted from his determination to have his pen returned. The observer didn’t give it up. “That’s a great idea, Tom. Thanks! You go there much?” Tom looked at the observer for the first time. His eyes narrowed with the sort of suspicion people learn to have about strangers. He held out his hand for the pen. “It’s popular with a lot of folks around here.” Instead of handing back the pen, the observer moved it to his chin as if in deep thought and said, “I’ve been meaning to re-read ‘Out of the Silent Planet’ by C.S. Lewis”. Then pointing the pen at Tom he said, “You ever read it?” “No.” “Do you like Science Fiction? Fantasy?” Tom reached over and extracted the pen from the observer’s hand. “Some,” he mumbled. “Ah - well let me tell you - that is one excellent book. It’s really the first book of a trilogy. I highly recommend it.” With the expertise of experience he paused expectantly. Tom looked around. There were no other customers to serve and so, no escape into implied hurry. “I’ll check it out,” he said. “Well look,” said the observer reaching over and extracting the pen back from Tom’s hand. “Let me write it down for you so you won’t forget.” “I won’t for...” “Oh, no problem! I’ll just write it on the back of this receipt. It’s the least I can do. You’ve pointed me to a place to get coffee and reminded me that I want to re-read it.” As he wrote he continued talking. “You know... this is a nice place. It’s not often you pay for gas and end up talking with someone... life gets so unreal... people wrapped up in themselves and their problems... but you’ve been be so friendly.” After Tom accepted the paper, the observer again held out his hand; this time empty. The clerk, cornered once again, offered his in return. As they shook hands the observer said, “Thank you, Tom.” At the touch, and the name, and the praise, Tom smiled. With the smile came the eyes that now acknowledged the observer as more than an exchange. Like many who are not used to receiving he rushed to give back. “Well, thank you for the tip about the book.” “My pleasure, Tom. I can’t get over how nice and friendly this place is. They sure are lucky to have a nice man like you working here.” “Well, thanks,” said Tom visibly blushing. “Well, I’m off to that bookstore,” the observer shared. “See you around!” “Yeah,” grinned Tom. “You take care now.” As he started up his car he asked, “That’s it?” “That’s it,” said the Gift. “You planted me and I will grow.” |