A small-town moment in the big city

It was just lovely today. And after naps (or attempted naps), the kids and I walked down to the little grocery store on the corner. I just needed some oranges and bread.

As I approach the cashier, though, I notice my purse is lighter than usual. With dread, I rummage around inside...no wallet. Eleanor is a big fan of going through my purse, and the contents often end up in the cracks of the sofa. I have no cash in my pockets. No credit card tucked away. Just a checkbook.

So I ask the cashier if they'd take a check (my total is $3.72). She looks doubtful, then hollers away in Spanish on her store walkie-talkie. (I note: this store is about the size of a 7-Eleven, and so I'm wondering "why the walkie-talkie?" Sure enough, when she gets no response on the device, she just turns and yells over her shoulder. Voila! The manager/owner walks right over.)

After a conversation in very fast Spanish that I couldn't follow, apparently they do not want to take my check. The cashier offers an alternative: she suggests I just take the groceries and I can come back and pay some other day.

I am baffled. Do stores really do that anymore? Jewel sure wouldn't. But the cashier goes on to say that she knows us (she does? I don't know her!) or at least my kids (aha!) or at least Miles, who apparently comes in the store all the time. I suppose that, when I need something last-minute for a meal, I usually send Scott and his faithful henchman down to this store. And in our neighborhood, our particular family demographic is pretty recognizable.

It just made me feel like I was in a small town in the 1940s or something; rather quaint.

The rest of the story: I took my groceries, feeling a bit guilty, and walked home (all of one and a half blocks), got my wallet out of the couch, walked back, and sent Miles in to give the cashier $4, which he promptly dropped all over the floor.