Remember when Mrs. HM was complaining about those surly bell-ringers she's encountered this year? I know, I know...it's hard to remember, what with everything Mrs. HM writes being a complaint about something. But this was just a few days ago.
On Friday, there was a new surly bell-ringer at Waterside Mart. The weather was really brisk that day. I didn't even want to pull the trash dumpster back down the driveway, much less do my walk in the evening. This bell-ringer was perhaps in her mid-50s. She stood outside the door, clanking her bell intermittently, wrapped in a piece of cloth I can only describe as looking like the old purple fabric remnant that my former colleague, ParkingSpaceStealer, had used as a makeshift sling to stabilize The Pony's arm at Lower Basementia, the second time he fell at school and broke an elbow.
Surly Bell Ringer stared at me as I sat in T-Hoe in the last parking spot. I was not giving her anything. Not because of her demeanor, but because I can't donate every day at every store I go to. Besides, I needed small bills to pay for my imminent Terrible Cut, and I was NOT giving her a twenty.
A twenty counts the same as a dollar, you know. Because you have to fold a bill up to stuff it in the cauldron. And short of stretching it out and saying, "Here, I'm donating THIS," a dollar looks the same as a twenty. You won't get credit for a twenty. It would be like paying for a big salad, but then some Humpty Dumpty with a Melon Head hands it to the salad-orderer and gets credit for it instead of you. I know that the goodness comes from giving, not from getting credit, but that's how I am with bell-ringers.
Ding dang dong it! As I was paying $10 with a twenty for two scratchers, I turned to see that Surly Bell Ringer was now INSIDE the store! Standing by the door. Looking my way. I was afraid she was like that internet cat. If I looked away, and then back, would she be closer?
I put that ten from my change in my shirt pocket and turned to leave, and saw Surly Bell Ringer back outside by her cauldron. I walked past, not meeting her eye. When I got in T-Hoe, I wanted to take my money out and sort it, to have correct bills ready for my Terrible Cut and tip, and the other bills folded neatly in half to put back in my purse to give Farmer H to pay off HOS (his oldest son) for work on the Freight Container Garage this week.
That darn Surly Bell Ringer was looking right at me, her head all wrapped in a headscarf like a cat I once saw on mycathatesyou.com, with the caption, "I hate you for bombing my village in Croatia." (This link, thumbnail number 6)
Thank the Gummi Mary, a big white work pickup truck pulled in beside me and blocked most of my torso from Surly Bell Ringer's view.
Bell ringers. Not one of my favorite harbingers of Christmas.
3 comments:
So, the bell-ringer rings your aggravation bell?
Do they really expect a tip from every single person that passes their way? That's not the spirit of Christmas, that's straight out begging.
Sioux,
And pushes my aggravation button, and trips my aggravation switch!
***
River,
Since there's a different bell-ringer every day, they don't know the people who stop there daily, and might have already donated. They used to be cheerful, and it made you want to give. But now, I guess maybe workplaces are forcing their employees to sign up and do a shift, and they're not happy!
Post a Comment