Kindness in the line

I counted out my money very carefully this morning.

I thought I had a dollar bill left, but I never found it.  I scraped up quarters and dimes and nickels and pennies even; it was a scraping spree of the like that hasn’t been seen since I was a unemployed teenage smoker out of money for cigarettes.  The desperation of searching coat pockets, household receptacles that collect change and pens, purses and bags that are currently out of rotation can be fun, like a melancholy treasure hunt.

All in the service of a cup of coffee.

I arrived at the cafe and after some friendly banter with the barista, ordered my drink and began my count-out of change.  I counted a dollar.  I added some coins.  I forgot how much I had counted.  I counted a dollar.  I added some coins.  I counted one dollar and seventy cents.  I forgot how much I had counted.  I subtracted some coins.  I added some coins.  I asked for help from the barista and he counted the coins and at this point I was wading through the pennies.  And they weren’t even that deep.

And it wasn’t enough.

“You need another dollar”, the barista said.

Would they consider pouring out half of the Americano? Would I have  money for half a drink?  One sip?

The compromises, the humiliation of NOT ENOUGH.

I paused, caught in my poverty net, the coffee drink on the counter, unclaimed.  Embarrassed to have portrayed myself as someone who had the money, who deserved to have a drink at a cafe instead of just drinking Folgers at home.

I noticed the man behind me in line, subtly waving a dollar bill.

“Do you need this?” he asked as he handed it to the barista.  I felt so much gratitude for this person who rescued me from humiliation and that was all I had to repay him with.  I hope it was enough.