I have only so many nerves in this body. And by the end of the idle Tuesday shift customers who had been taking their stupid pills were getting on my last nerve.
The last half hour of portioning and peddling servings of yogurt is always the most dismal.
It was under particular thunder clouds that I stood while the door opened to reveal a very tan very wrinkly very Malibu husband-and-wife duo.
“You’re still open aren’t you?” Her scratchy cigarette voice was the first salutation of this rather raisin-like pair.
She raised a left hand bedazzled with a scintillating diamond the size of a malt ball and brushed her fried bangs aside.
Then her face-lifted husband flashed a winning smile and proceeded to order the five most complicated child-sized yogurt combinations I have created to date. To go.
Once the mini creations were all capped and tied with a bow I totaled the damage and looked up expectantly to find a black American Express credit card staring me in the face.
Now Malibu Yo never has and never will accept credit or debit cards. So the appearance of a credit card in hand as payment is always an awkward scenario to handle. From what I think I know about black cards and black card holders this couple makes a habit out of spending a quarter of a million dollars a year. Too bad none of that will be spent on yogurt in this shop.
A momentary lapse in self—trust caused me to stare blankly back at the card. I didn’t trust myself to touch it.
If I touched it I might have grabbed it. If I grabbed it I might have hopped over the counter and cash register leaving skid marks and bewildered patrons in the middle of the tile floor on my way to my car and thence to LAX en route to Bali.
No I refrained from touching it and simply stared. Unable to tear my eyes from the priceless plastic a habitual “I’m sorry sir we only take cash or check escaped my lips.
The man paused, a look in his eyes hovering somewhere between incredulous and jovial. He thought I was pulling his leg.
He also thought I was a punk college kid who knows only enough mental math to add together simple dollar amounts and squirt dairy products into paper cups.
A man with a black card in a store that only accepts cash or check. I had to physically force the corners of my mouth toward my feet so I couldn’t bubble over in laughter.
To make a brief story even shorter, a line had gathered behind this fortunate man in an unfortunate position.
One of the perfectly average people in line behind him came to the rescue with a $20 bill. To round out the already extraordinary encounter, the penniless tycoon repaid” her in the only currency he had: a pair of courtside tickets to the next Clippers game.
“I own the Clippers. Here’s my number you just call me when you want to have dinner in the press box.”
The exchange was over in a matter of moments. Sometimes a good deed goes unnoticed. Sometimes it gradually pays for itself in self-righteous gratification. On the rarest of occasions like one idle Tuesday night in a yogurt shop line karma has an immediate turnaround.