Not
long ago, I witnessed the best and the not-so-great aspects of human beings in
the space of five minutes.
Trigger
warning: This true account mentions people’s races because they go counter to unfortunate
stereotypes, and thus belong in the telling.
I
was standing in Safeway on the checkout line, the only one open that
mid-morning, when I realized someone was holding up the line. I’m a bit hard of
hearing, so I couldn’t tell what they said. To me, three customers behind, it
appeared like a customer was arguing with the cashier.
That
customer was an old Chinese man. He could have been in his nineties. Next to
him stood his wife, smiling blithely a sort of beatific smile. I couldn’t
figure out if she agreed with her husband or just didn’t want to contradict
him.
Ten
minutes later, and the line hadn’t moved at all. The old man was still there,
saying something to which the cashier also said something.
Right
behind the Chinese couple were two black ladies in their forties. One of them,
her face so laden with makeup it looked theatrical to me, (eyelids painted in
glittery gold and the longest artificial eyelashes) and the other lady only slightly less so, were
talking to each other about this ‘n that. Their conversation didn’t seem
connected to the goings on in front of them. Behind them, a nicely dressed white man in his
fifties stood with a small number of items already packed into his bag.
Behind
the man was yours truly. The line didn’t move.
The line behind me grew exponentially. It now began to resemble the ticket line to a blockbuster movie, curling around the next aisle.
Five
minutes more, and the man with his bag of groceries just stormed out in a huff past the old
couple and walked out with his groceries, not bothering to pay. Mind you, he
wasn’t one of those thieves who intended not to pay. He had spent fifteen
minutes in line already. He was angry. Perhaps he felt Safeway owed him for his
waiting.
I
was frustrated also but wouldn’t think to not pay for something I was taking
from the store.
The
two well-painted ladies then turned their attention to the goings on in front
of them. The one with the golden eyelids asked the cashier, “how much is it?”
and some conversation ensued. Because of my lousy hearing, I only heard bits of
it. But I did hear the number, "Eighty-four dollars and fifty-seven cents.”
The
cashier then repeated to the old man, “she is paying for you.” He didn’t seem
to fully understand, and his wife with the beatific smile seemed to understand
even less. The cashier had to say it over and over. Then, the old couple left
with their groceries.
I
asked the two ladies what it was about. “He was short,” said the less painted
one. “His debit card kept saying he was short, and he tried running it over and
over.”
“You
paid the difference?” I asked.
“We
both did. We split it,” she said, pointing to her friend.
“You
did something good,” I said. I was so pleased to have stood next to them, as if their goodness would spill some rays on me.
“Yeh,
honey-child. God sees all,” said the golden-lidded lady.
I
don’t think anyone ever called me “honey-child” before. I felt utterly blessed.
In
the car, I found myself tearing in gratitude that I got to witness the
beautiful ladies (especially after the entitled man who walked off without
paying) and that Oakland, my embattled and economically challenged city blessed
with all races and colors, is still a place where we get along and then some.
As
they say on Netflix, this is a True Story.
