Somewhere in this area lives a slightly built, 30-ish woman who was the subject of an 82-cent misunderstanding Friday.
If she contacts me, I’ll issue an apology-explanation, whichever comes first, or, depending on how offended she was, she might get an explalogy or, as my English teacher may say, an apolognation.
Let me explaogize:
As we were heading out of town, I stopped at a local Allsup’s for munchies, but the ATM refused my card. It rejected the card and in the same sentence demanded it again. Nothing worked.
I had exactly $4 on me, 18 cents short. Rather than beg people in line to make up the difference, I assured the clerk I’d immediately return with the rest of the money. I assured her I’d fish out a few coins from the car’s catchall.
The clerk said it was OK, and given such an opportunity to leave the store owing 18 cents, for a second I was tempted to break into a sprint, dash through empty fields, vow never to return, wander through the exurbs East of Eden, and abscond with the Diet Coke and burritos, which I’d not fully paid for.
As I was leaving the store, my son Diego, who’d forgotten his billfold at home, nevertheless flashed four singles and asked me to order four dollars’ worth of gas for Pump 1, for someone else.
Where’d Diego get the four bucks? Did he find my stash?
In my car I located a dollar bill which, combined with what Diego gave me, amounted to five. As I stood in line, Diego explained that a woman at Pump 1 had asked him to buy her four dollar’s worth of gas.
In line, I bragged to the man in front and woman behind me what a wonderful deed my son had performed. One said, “It’s becoming common for people to ask others to buy them gas.” The other said, “It’s sure nice of you,” to which I explained that the compliment should go to my son, as it was his treat.
So I gave the clerk five ones, reminded her of my 18-cent indebtedness and asked her to put the remainder —$4.82 —into Pump 1.
At that instant I saw Diego dashing to the pumps to go to the woman’s aid.
She’d forgotten on which side the tank was located, and as she began to turn the car around, someone else took her spot in the queue. Diego directed traffic and explained to the interloper that the woman who had turned her car around had already paid for the gas, and would he please back up? That’s hard to do when every spot at the pumps is taken.
As she began filling her car, like Santa Claus, the Three Wise Men and Andrew Carnegie, I explained that she was actually getting more than she expected.
“We paid $4.82 instead of just $4,” I explained. And with that, she thanked me, hugged me and listened as I put on my best Dr. Phil voice and pontificated about how she must “promise me that the next time someone is in need, you’ll help out.”
“I promise,” she said, and added, “I always do help out.”
The trip to Santa Fe revolved around discussions of Good Samaritanship, the pity that poor people really get clobbered at the pump, and even about how some people take advantage of others’ generosity. It was a couple of years ago that I was approached by someone at a gas station, asking if I could divert the hose I was using and pour a gallon or two into his car.
And I told Diego I almost got flipped off once after making sure the $5 I gave a woman went for bread and milk instead of cigarettes or liquor. Or maybe the woman was on the verge of giving me half of a Peace Sign.
I felt good all weekend, having helped a woman who certainly did not come across as a user.
. . . But Monday, my wife Bonnie said she hesitated to burst my bubble, but felt she needed to.
Diego had confided to her that the endowment we’d made wasn’t nearly as benevolent as I’d thought. He had sensed my elation and, well, didn’t want to let me down.
It turns out our total outlay was only 82 cents, not $4.82. The four dollars Diego entered the store with had come from the woman herself.
The motorist had merely asked Diego to do the honors because she had stuff in the car which she didn’t want to leave unattended.
With my help, the woman was able to add about 35 ounces of gas, which got her exactly 5.91 miles farther down the road.
Tampering my elation is the question of what the woman must have thought about my self-promoting philanthropy. Did she say, “There goes the last of the big spenders” as I passed myself off as Bill Gates?
St. Frances of Rome, the patron saint of motorists, is probably looking down askance.
Can’t say I blame her.