Does anybody else keep an Aldi quarter in the console of their car?
I never use cash so I have no change, but this supermarket has a shopping cart rental policy with a 25¢ collateral. For those who don’t know, the carts are daisy-chain linked with a latch device that can be unlocked with a quarter. When you return the cart, you re-lock it to the others and a quarter pops out. So it’s ultimately free.
I parked, put the quarter in my pocket, and started across the parking lot.
I thought I left the shopping list in the car. I froze, patted my pockets, and dug my hands in them to fish around for the crumpled paper.
When I pulled it out, the quarter also popped out.
The sun reflected off it as it flipped in the air in its arc toward the ground. It pinged on impact and rolled in wide, aimless swirls on its side mocking me in its escape. I could hear it laughing as it neared the storm drain glancing its rim. It slowed to circles of ever-tightening circumferences like Gene Kelly spinning around that light post in the rain.
It finally fell flat just a few feet away from a kid walking with his Dad. The father was on his phone and barely noticed his son pick up the quarter and put it in his pocket.
They walked past me.
The kid and I looked at each other.
I futilely felt my pockets for another one.
Nothing.
Just the shopping list.
I read it and wondered if I could carry all the items in my arms while lumbering down the aisles without a cart. Never.
The kid, maybe third grade, locked eyes with me as they walked toward the store.
I pointed at his pocket then at myself.
He made an exaggerated frown.
I repeated my sign language in a yell- pointing jabs at his pocket then poking myself in the chest three hard times.
Nothing.
I followed them to the row of shopping carts. His dad, still on his phone, said, “Shit, hold on, I’m at Aldi now getting a cart.”
His son proudly offered him the quarter. “Thanks, buddy!”
I neared them and stopped.
The father pulled the phone away from the side of his head. “Can I do something for you?”
He had a weird eye.
It had like this film over it, an opaque gray. The other was fine, brown.
I looked down at the kid who, get this, folded his arms.
“Uh, John?”
“Yeah Nance?” I walked into the kitchen.
“What’s this?” She had the strips of paper lined up on the counter.
“What?”
“There are four different receipts from Aldi?”
“Yeah. Long story. But I know everyone there on a first-name basis.”