Cash Drawer

He looked like Raymond Carver, but with modern, rimless reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. His brown hair  combed neatly back from his furrowed brow which looked ready for spring planting, like mine. I’d stopped in at our local auto parts store for front brake pads for the Mazda, and I carried this funny collection of bills from our trip to Aruba. Hundreds, fifties and lots of singles.

“You want the knock offs for thirty or original equipment for seventy?”He asked.

“What’s the difference?”

“Maybe ten thousand miles.”

I chose the cheaper pads and I gave him a fifty. I said, “Can you use ones? I’d like to get rid of all these so I can sit down again.”

“I’ll take all you’ve got.” Ray’s lookalike replied.

As he pulled change from the register I dealt those dollar bills into a neat stack and laid them on the counter. He didn’t watch me, he didn’t pay much attention at all, and when he asked how many I said, “Twenty.”

He picked up the pile and dropped them in the singles slot in the register and handed me a twenty.

“Give or take three or four.” I said.

He smiled.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked.

“I’m not, I’m from Oregon.”

Same as Carver, I thought.

“How did you know?”

“You didn’t count those bills.”

“I trust everyone.” He said.