But That Telepathic Thing, Though

I wonder how many years you have to live to have seen it all? Forty-four obviously is not enough. I say this because every time I utter out loud I have seen it all, somebody comes along and makes a liar out of me. At least, once a year, every year that I can remember. Remember this year?

On this most recent occasion, I made a silent pact with my tongue that I would not speak such insanity again. See, what had happened was, I’m standing in line at customer service. In front of me are two females, each with a little girl. One female has on camo leggings that would fit her daughter better, and the other, the topic of this discussion, has on zebra-print shorts that stop just before her butt cheeks begin and a cascading weave that stops just above the backs of her knees. Her entire body is plastered with tattoos, and she’s openly holding a stack of bills in her hands. Dollar bills, to be exact. Lots of them.

Based on this and my right to make assumptions, her occupation is clear. When it’s her turn, she walks up to the counter and states that she needs a money order. The clerk asks for how much, and she states, “For about two hundred,” and hands the clerk the stack of bills.

“How much exactly?” the clerk asks.

She sighs and says, “However much money I have right there.”

The clerk asks, “How much is it?”

“I don’t know the exact amount,” she says, “I just know it’s about $200. Give it here, let me check again.”

A look of confusion crosses the clerk’s face as she hands the money back. Zebra-print presses the money against the counter with the palm of her hand and exclaims, “That should be about $195, not $200.”

“But you didn’t count it,” the clerk says, her tone becoming irritated. “I can’t give you a money order, if I don’t know the amount.”

“I told you the amount. It’s about $195.”

“But you didn’t count it,” the clerk repeats. “It’s my job to sell money orders, but you have to know how much you want one for. I don’t know your business.”

“Look, I don’t have to count it. I know how much it is, so give me my money order.”

A manager who’s been restocking literature in the area, comes to the clerk’s rescue. “Is there a problem?” she asks.

“Yes,” Zebra-Print responds. “I need a money order, and she won’t take my money.”

The clerk interjects, “That’s not so. I asked how much she needed a money order for, and she told me for however much money she gave me, but she hasn’t counted the money to know how much it is.”

“I don’t have to count it. I just know how much it is,” Zebra-Print blurts out.

“Okay, settle down,” the manager says, walking behind the counter, “I’ll count the money. What’s the amount of the money order?”

Zebra-Print sucks her teeth, “The same thing I told her, lady—for however much I got, and I got about $195.”

“Ma’am, I’m not trying to be disrespectful, but can you count money?”

“Hell, yeah, I can count money,” she says, pressing her hand on the stack of bills again. “This right here is about $195.”

“That’s not counting. You have to count every bill.”

“Here,” she says, thrusting the money at the manager, “you count every bill.”

The manager shakes her head, counts the bills in a few minutes and states, “You have $193.”

“I told you it was about $195. Now, can I get my money order? I need to get some sleep. I gotta work tonight. Sorry, y’all,” she says, looking back at the rest of us standing in line. “These people always wanna give you a hard time with your own money.”

By now, I have started whistling Dixie and remnants of a song by Lil’ Wayne about Bush. Yeah, don’t judge me. It made about as much sense as the shit I’d just been subjected to. I am accepting donations. For real.

Side Note: Another argument ensued when Zebra-Prints wanted a money order for a “no-change” amount, but had to take into account the money order fee.

I’m done for real now. *crickets*