This story is true.
Eleven nights ago, I was in a sleepy little ice cream shop on the other side of town. I was unprepared to eat ice cream. I'm unclear whether one needs to prepare to eat ice cream, but if one does, then it should be understood that I had not.
I went to the Brown Cow with two friends and we arrived devilishly close to closing time.
Worried about being the archetypal customer-delaying-the-high-school-kids-from-going-home-on-time, I rushed my order. I bought an ice cream dish for $3.75.
It should be noted for the sake of this story that I went to the ATM earlier in the evening to get a wad full of fresh bills.
I handed the 16-year-old girl one of my new $20 bills and got change for a $10. Pausing for a quick re-calculation in my head, I told the girl she gave me the incorrect change.
Light panic hemorrhaged in the teen's eyes as she looked dumbfoundedly down into her open register.
"You gave me a ten, though," she said somewhat trying to convince herself.
Everyone knows ATMs spit only twenties. They were all I had in my wallet, so I politely stood my ground.
"No. All I've got are twenties. I couldn't have given you a ten."
"But... I put it right in here," the teen said resting her index finger on the open section where the $10 bills were buckled.
I could see the blood retreat from the teenager's face, manifesting into tension that tightened around her neck like a noose. She stood in front of her gaping register, appraising the situation. Her scruffy coworker wanted nothing to do with the mix-up. He burrowed his chin into his chest and concentratedly scooped my icecream like a neurosurgeon. He only looked up once while I was there and I believe it was only to see if the girl had yet begun crying. The meek young thing was visually rattled. While I could not see either of my friends, I sensed their anxiety and perhaps embarrassment. I also sensed that they, like the ice cream scooper, were pretending the situation was not happening.
She handed me another ten spot and the rest of my change and I tipped her a dollar - 27 percent - because I didn't intend to make her feel bad. My two friends also tipped generously; their tax for associating with a bully.
We left assuming I had done what was just.
After all, ATMs only spit twenties.
Hours later, as late night bled into early morning, a wave of guilt crashed over me as I realized the new ATMs allow $10 withdrawals as well. Recalling everything clearly now, like an amnesiac on the mend, I remembered how enamored I was with the new option of having tens along with twenties. So enamored was I that I chose $50 instead of $60.
For those of you keeping track at home, that's two twenties and a ten...
...I had ripped off the ice cream teen.
I was a sonuvabitch
=====================
Seven days ago, I sheepishly returned to the Brown Cow, hoping that the teen I swindled was on shift.
I pictured the girl's drawer coming up exactly $10 short several days before.
I pictured her having to pay for my miscalculation out of her pocket, or worse - getting fired - which would have cost her much more in the long run.
I was an accidental turd.
The store was crowded, despite the chilly weather. The teenage girl was there, standing near the tubs of ice cream chatting with a co-worker. I cautiously sidled up to the counter, made eye contact and asked the girl her name.
I was given the same glazed look of terror that I received several nights ago. I wondered if her features naturally rested in this panicked orientation.
"Me? My name's Maggie," said the teen.
"Do you remember me?" I asked. "I was in here around 10 o'clock Tuesday night ordering $4 worth of ice cream. I told you that you gave me the wrong change? I gave you a ten--"
Maggie smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant smile. It was a smile of confusion. Perhaps she thought I was back to rob her again. Suddenly, her ice cream sidekick chimed in.
"That was you? We were just talking about that," said Maggie's co-worker.
I felt a tender spot in my heart for Maggie. It was connected most acutely to her name, as I had always liked the name Maggie. But more than just this girl's name, I had needlessly wronged this girl and I had now just been slapped with an extra dose of guilt from her co-worker (whose name I probably would not like, had I ever learned it). Thoughts wafted into my head of Maggie retelling this story through a veil of tears to everyone she knew.
I shrugged it off. I held out my hand and offered Maggie a $10 bill.
I told her I was wrong. Told her that I thought I was correct at the time, but I had made a mistake and felt horrible about it. Told her I was a jerk.
She smiled, but still looked like she'd recently taken a boot to the noggin.
I smiled back, shrugged and said, "I just wanted to make things right. I hope I didn't mess things up too much."
I walked away and all I could hear were the sounds of teenage girls giggling.
A teenage girl giggling is like a cow farting: it really has no meaning.
I didn't think my actions had much meaning either...
=====================
Three mornings ago, I was slipping my belt through the loops in my slacks. Northwestern Memorial dutifully requires everyone on its payroll to wear an ID badge. I usually clasp mine onto my belt loop. While I'd never had any problem before, it occurred to me at this moment that one day - someday - my ID badge would slip off my belt loop and I'd be screwed.
No doors would unlock for me, no security guards would grant me access to anything and they'd never allow me in the operating room again!
I sat at my desk wondering when I'd have a chance to regain my security clearance (I was forced to borrow a temporary badge from the security guard) when my phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Ah yes. I am looking for Adam Shafer," said a voice with an obvious - though not thick - African accent.
"You got the right desk. This is Adam."
The security guard who granted me a temporary pass also had an African accent and I assumed it was him telling me that he made a mistake; that I was not allowed in the building unless I had my own badge.
"Ah yes. Adam, my name is George Stapleton. Did you lose your hospital ID badge recently?" I never caught the security guard's name – he was new. There seems to be high turnover amongst hospital security, which would've explained why he was calling. For a brief moment, I assumed "George" had called to tell me I had to leave the hospital. George the security guard was new and he was as unclear of the rules as I was. I was sure that they were going to send me home until I had a proper ID badge.
Something like this happened on an episode of "24" and they didn't allow the guy to enter into his building without his badge. I think a nuclear bomb blew up during that episode. It may or may not have been caused by the guy's lost badge. Sitting at my desk on the phone, I couldn't exactly recall how the events played out.
"Uh, yeah," I stammered. "I lost my badge about an hour ago."
George went on to tell me that he normally takes the train into work, the same train I take. He found it lying in the middle of the street no more than 100 yards from my car. He assured me that it was fine, and he'd be happy to return it to me. He said it was important for him to return it because he imagined something like an ID badge is important to me.
Turns out, George was not the security guard downstairs, but part of the YMCA's main office somewhere else downtown.
"I like to put myself in the other guy's shoes, so it's no problem," George continued. "I figured I'd call now so you wouldn't spend your day worrying."
We exchanged phone numbers and he offered to return it to me.
I imagine that I've seen him on the train before.
It was soon made clear that he had seen me before.
"Adam? Were you in an ice cream shop on Friday evening having an altercation with one of the employees?" George asked.
I immediately felt cornered; as if my ID badge was a booby trap and this was my last chance to walk away from it before I got clamped. The connection didn't make sense to me though. I couldn't lie. He was clearly confident that I was in an ice cream shop on Friday night.
Occasionally, when playing poker, I come across an opponent I'm pretty sure has a solid hand, solid enough to take all my money. Everything inside me screams fold; cut my losses and hope for better hands in the future. Most of the time I do fold. But every once in a while, I've just got to see the cards. Even if it costs me twice as much, I've got to know for sure what cards the guy is holding.
"Uh, yeah. I was in the Brown Cow on Friday. I wasn't really having an altercation though. It was just a mix-up."
I went into a bit more detail because George's use of the word "altercation" made me think that this was why he was calling.
Had Maggie set me up? Was this revenge? How did she get my contact information?.
"Right, right," George said. "I thought this was you. I was sitting in the Brown Cow when you walked in."
Chills.
"Yes," continued George. "I don't know that I've ever seen someone admit a mistake like that before."
I can't be sure, but sitting there on the phone with George, I bet I had the same glazed look of panic that Maggie had when I handed her back her $10.
George continued with a little laugh, " It looks like you're experiencing some good karma, huh?"
I didn't believe in karma - not really - until right then.
"Well good," said George. "Now I really want you to get your ID back."
Yesterday morning at 7:30, George handed it to me. I told him I owed him an ice cream.
Maybe he'll call in that ice cream one day.
Eleven nights ago, I was in a sleepy little ice cream shop on the other side of town. I was unprepared to eat ice cream. I'm unclear whether one needs to prepare to eat ice cream, but if one does, then it should be understood that I had not.
I went to the Brown Cow with two friends and we arrived devilishly close to closing time.
Worried about being the archetypal customer-delaying-the-high-school-kids-from-going-home-on-time, I rushed my order. I bought an ice cream dish for $3.75.
It should be noted for the sake of this story that I went to the ATM earlier in the evening to get a wad full of fresh bills.
I handed the 16-year-old girl one of my new $20 bills and got change for a $10. Pausing for a quick re-calculation in my head, I told the girl she gave me the incorrect change.
Light panic hemorrhaged in the teen's eyes as she looked dumbfoundedly down into her open register.
"You gave me a ten, though," she said somewhat trying to convince herself.
Everyone knows ATMs spit only twenties. They were all I had in my wallet, so I politely stood my ground.
"No. All I've got are twenties. I couldn't have given you a ten."
"But... I put it right in here," the teen said resting her index finger on the open section where the $10 bills were buckled.
I could see the blood retreat from the teenager's face, manifesting into tension that tightened around her neck like a noose. She stood in front of her gaping register, appraising the situation. Her scruffy coworker wanted nothing to do with the mix-up. He burrowed his chin into his chest and concentratedly scooped my icecream like a neurosurgeon. He only looked up once while I was there and I believe it was only to see if the girl had yet begun crying. The meek young thing was visually rattled. While I could not see either of my friends, I sensed their anxiety and perhaps embarrassment. I also sensed that they, like the ice cream scooper, were pretending the situation was not happening.
She handed me another ten spot and the rest of my change and I tipped her a dollar - 27 percent - because I didn't intend to make her feel bad. My two friends also tipped generously; their tax for associating with a bully.
We left assuming I had done what was just.
After all, ATMs only spit twenties.
Hours later, as late night bled into early morning, a wave of guilt crashed over me as I realized the new ATMs allow $10 withdrawals as well. Recalling everything clearly now, like an amnesiac on the mend, I remembered how enamored I was with the new option of having tens along with twenties. So enamored was I that I chose $50 instead of $60.
For those of you keeping track at home, that's two twenties and a ten...
...I had ripped off the ice cream teen.
I was a sonuvabitch
=====================
Seven days ago, I sheepishly returned to the Brown Cow, hoping that the teen I swindled was on shift.
I pictured the girl's drawer coming up exactly $10 short several days before.
I pictured her having to pay for my miscalculation out of her pocket, or worse - getting fired - which would have cost her much more in the long run.
I was an accidental turd.
The store was crowded, despite the chilly weather. The teenage girl was there, standing near the tubs of ice cream chatting with a co-worker. I cautiously sidled up to the counter, made eye contact and asked the girl her name.
I was given the same glazed look of terror that I received several nights ago. I wondered if her features naturally rested in this panicked orientation.
"Me? My name's Maggie," said the teen.
"Do you remember me?" I asked. "I was in here around 10 o'clock Tuesday night ordering $4 worth of ice cream. I told you that you gave me the wrong change? I gave you a ten--"
Maggie smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant smile. It was a smile of confusion. Perhaps she thought I was back to rob her again. Suddenly, her ice cream sidekick chimed in.
"That was you? We were just talking about that," said Maggie's co-worker.
I felt a tender spot in my heart for Maggie. It was connected most acutely to her name, as I had always liked the name Maggie. But more than just this girl's name, I had needlessly wronged this girl and I had now just been slapped with an extra dose of guilt from her co-worker (whose name I probably would not like, had I ever learned it). Thoughts wafted into my head of Maggie retelling this story through a veil of tears to everyone she knew.
I shrugged it off. I held out my hand and offered Maggie a $10 bill.
I told her I was wrong. Told her that I thought I was correct at the time, but I had made a mistake and felt horrible about it. Told her I was a jerk.
She smiled, but still looked like she'd recently taken a boot to the noggin.
I smiled back, shrugged and said, "I just wanted to make things right. I hope I didn't mess things up too much."
I walked away and all I could hear were the sounds of teenage girls giggling.
A teenage girl giggling is like a cow farting: it really has no meaning.
I didn't think my actions had much meaning either...
=====================
Three mornings ago, I was slipping my belt through the loops in my slacks. Northwestern Memorial dutifully requires everyone on its payroll to wear an ID badge. I usually clasp mine onto my belt loop. While I'd never had any problem before, it occurred to me at this moment that one day - someday - my ID badge would slip off my belt loop and I'd be screwed.
No doors would unlock for me, no security guards would grant me access to anything and they'd never allow me in the operating room again!
I sat at my desk wondering when I'd have a chance to regain my security clearance (I was forced to borrow a temporary badge from the security guard) when my phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Ah yes. I am looking for Adam Shafer," said a voice with an obvious - though not thick - African accent.
"You got the right desk. This is Adam."
The security guard who granted me a temporary pass also had an African accent and I assumed it was him telling me that he made a mistake; that I was not allowed in the building unless I had my own badge.
"Ah yes. Adam, my name is George Stapleton. Did you lose your hospital ID badge recently?" I never caught the security guard's name – he was new. There seems to be high turnover amongst hospital security, which would've explained why he was calling. For a brief moment, I assumed "George" had called to tell me I had to leave the hospital. George the security guard was new and he was as unclear of the rules as I was. I was sure that they were going to send me home until I had a proper ID badge.
Something like this happened on an episode of "24" and they didn't allow the guy to enter into his building without his badge. I think a nuclear bomb blew up during that episode. It may or may not have been caused by the guy's lost badge. Sitting at my desk on the phone, I couldn't exactly recall how the events played out.
"Uh, yeah," I stammered. "I lost my badge about an hour ago."
George went on to tell me that he normally takes the train into work, the same train I take. He found it lying in the middle of the street no more than 100 yards from my car. He assured me that it was fine, and he'd be happy to return it to me. He said it was important for him to return it because he imagined something like an ID badge is important to me.
Turns out, George was not the security guard downstairs, but part of the YMCA's main office somewhere else downtown.
"I like to put myself in the other guy's shoes, so it's no problem," George continued. "I figured I'd call now so you wouldn't spend your day worrying."
We exchanged phone numbers and he offered to return it to me.
I imagine that I've seen him on the train before.
It was soon made clear that he had seen me before.
"Adam? Were you in an ice cream shop on Friday evening having an altercation with one of the employees?" George asked.
I immediately felt cornered; as if my ID badge was a booby trap and this was my last chance to walk away from it before I got clamped. The connection didn't make sense to me though. I couldn't lie. He was clearly confident that I was in an ice cream shop on Friday night.
Occasionally, when playing poker, I come across an opponent I'm pretty sure has a solid hand, solid enough to take all my money. Everything inside me screams fold; cut my losses and hope for better hands in the future. Most of the time I do fold. But every once in a while, I've just got to see the cards. Even if it costs me twice as much, I've got to know for sure what cards the guy is holding.
"Uh, yeah. I was in the Brown Cow on Friday. I wasn't really having an altercation though. It was just a mix-up."
I went into a bit more detail because George's use of the word "altercation" made me think that this was why he was calling.
Had Maggie set me up? Was this revenge? How did she get my contact information?.
"Right, right," George said. "I thought this was you. I was sitting in the Brown Cow when you walked in."
Chills.
"Yes," continued George. "I don't know that I've ever seen someone admit a mistake like that before."
I can't be sure, but sitting there on the phone with George, I bet I had the same glazed look of panic that Maggie had when I handed her back her $10.
George continued with a little laugh, " It looks like you're experiencing some good karma, huh?"
I didn't believe in karma - not really - until right then.
"Well good," said George. "Now I really want you to get your ID back."
Yesterday morning at 7:30, George handed it to me. I told him I owed him an ice cream.
Maybe he'll call in that ice cream one day.
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