Don't Put It On MY Bill

More excitement in the Gas Station Chicken Store!

 

I go there daily, you know. My visits are pretty much routine. I fill my 44 oz Diet Coke, cash in scratcher winners, and buy more scratchers. I usually have correct change. But lately, I've been playing a $3 ticket, which throws everything off. I get change back! Like on Wednesday, when I didn't get my magical elixir, because I had other errands that would take two hours.

 

The Man Owner was working the register. He looks like a taller version of Ned Flanders. He has a positive outlook on life like Ned Flanders. But he has more than three fingers on each hand, and doesn't wear glasses.

 

Anyhoo... after all these years of frequenting this establishment, I feel like I know what to expect from the Man Owner. Apparently, I don't.

 

Man Owner opened up the register to give me two dollars back. I could see into the drawer. He flipped up that little metal thingy that holds down the one-dollar bills, and reached to pull one out. There was something on the top one. Writing, in black marker. I couldn't tell what it was, but it was two lines, covering the whole front of the bill.

 

Man Owner set that one aside, on top of the drawer, over the larger bills' compartments. The dollar bill under that one also had writing. And the next. And the next. And the next!

 

"G*d d@mn it! I wish I'd been here when they paid with these!"

 

I was shocked! Man Owner never shows anger. He was just a little steamed. I could tell by his frown, even though his voice was not any louder. I've never heard any employee swear in that store!

 

"Of course, it spends the same... What's the matter with d@mn people?"

 

I had no answer. I often pose that same question myself! Man Owner handed me back two clean bills. I didn't see what he did with the marked ones.

 

I imagine him scrubbing them on a washboard in the office, hanging them on a line with springy wooden clothespins.