He had kind eyes and he needed my money

Sunday was my husband’s birthday. He is now officially closer to 40 than 30, but whatever. The only reason I mention this is to explain why I took all three hooligans to the grocery store with me. He went mountain biking to relieve some stress – DEAR GOD PLEASE BLOW OFF SOME STEAM MY DEAR HUSBAND – and I gathered ingredients for my world famous Carrot Cake.

We blazed through the store successfully, especially considering that since Ethan is too heavy for the sling or the Ergo, Max has been bumped from the cart and is now free-range and roaming like his older brother, Jamis. This only means one thing: MORE talking, instructing, pleading, begging and giving in. I was in a pretty light-hearted mood about the whole thing, but I’m telling you right now there is NO AMOUNT OF ADJECTIVES TO EXPLAIN the very specific grocery store tone you take as soon as you pull into the parking lot. Well, you know. It carries you through from the produce to the popsicles and it is NON-STOP and thoroughly exhausting. Thoroughly. Upon arriving home I would have blown off some steam with my own bike ride if I wasn’t TOO TIRED FROM ALL THE TALKING, NEGOTIATING, and GETTING THROUGH.

I know. I blather on. You’ve heard me say it before and yes, I will say it again. Moving on.

We made it to the registers. We waited in line. I avoided a candy purchase. I unloaded the cart. I managed to keep the baby from ripping open five packages and biting through three boxes while simultaneously wiping out the magazine rack. We were almost there. The finish line was near. As the clerk was swiping our groceries and dollar signs WERE SWIRLING AROUND MY HEAD OH MY GOD THE MONEY the gentleman behind us in line noticed a package of rice cakes had fallen off the conveyor.

“These yours?” he asked.

“Yup, thanks.”

Moments later I was fumbling with a wad of cash. Organizing the ones, tens, twenties and counting it all up when the same nice man started speaking to me again.

“I can save you twenty dollars if I swipe my card,” he said.

“Wha? Huh?” I looked from him to the cashier back to him, and then to the cash in my hand. My first thought was that he had some kind of discount card or coupon code. A few months ago a lovely woman wrapped me in kindness when she handed me a discount coupon for my entire purchase, so I guessed this was a similar offer.

“Go ahead. Just trust me. I’ll swipe this card,” he pretend swipes the plastic through the card reader, “and you’ll save twenty dollars.”

I am quite sure that I looked confused, but he offered me no other explanation. The kids were bopping and bouncing and pulling at the food bags as if they hadn’t had breakfast two hours ago, or dinner the night before for that matter.

Finally the clerk spoke. “You have to give him the money though.”

So now I turn back to the man. I’m starting to understand but I must have a look of uncertainty on my face.

“Trust me,” he says. “I could use the cash,” he says. “I have to buy gas,” he says.

At this point he proceeds to explain that he has a job, but it’s in Willimantic. It is 30 minutes away and he doesn’t have any gas in his car and he can swipe the card – “there’s enough money on the card, I’m sure of it” – and then I can give him the cash. I can save money. He can make money. He’ll pay in food stamps. Got it.

But I am still puzzled. No longer about the question or the offer, or whatever you call this, but about what I should do. This man has food stamps. Does he have a family at home that needs to eat? Does he really have a job in Willimantic? Does he really need gas? Do I really care? Should I care?

Twenty dollars is just twenty dollars. I could blow that on a pizza if I didn’t feel like cooking. I could blow it on another pair of lounge-erie night pants. I could blow it on two drinks at a bar – anyone like to go out tonight? Then again, twenty dollars is TWENTY dollars. It’s half of what I owe for Jamis’s winter soccer deposit right now. It’s a third of a day of childcare for the boys. It’s a week’s worth of lunches for me or Dan. It’s a package of socks that would last Jamis for a year.

I didn’t really delve into the meaning of the twenty dollars right then and there. But what I did do is reflect for a moment, because I have been there. I have been in need. I have asked complete strangers for things. And I was nice about it. This man is nice. I was decent. This man is decent. I was just as embarrassed as he is. But I was in as much need as he is. Maybe he’s going to fill up his car with gas so he can get to work so he can make more money. I did. Or maybe he’s going to walk right out of this store and use that money for something else. I have. And it doesn’t matter. Clearly he needs it.

He swiped the card. I gave him the cash. I told him he’s lucky today because I never ever have cash. I smiled. I was genuine. I thanked him. He thanked me. I walked away. I wished him well.

You know what though? I feel weird about it. I feel like a good person but I still feel weird about it. Why? I’m not sure it was a right or wrong situation. I’m not even sure it was about being decent. I think it just was. It happened. It was a transaction. But I helped someone. So it should feel better than that. Really, would you have given him the cash? With your kids standing behind you? If you had given him the cash, would you have given him the entire amount? Or would you have taken the $20 off like I did?

Please tell me, what would you have done?