Turns On A Dime

“Shit,” the new manager grumbles as she drops a collection of quarters back in the drawer.

“Short?” I ask as I tidy a pile of polos.

“Yup, and I’ve counted it three times.”

I look at my watch, a stainless Tourneau timepiece recognizing my ten years of service with Banana Republic. It’s already late, late enough to guarantee we won’t be leaving on time. Which means I’ll miss the Real Housewives reunion. Yes, you haters, this is what my life has come to.

“Want me to second count it?” I offer.

She looks up, eager to accept but unsure of protocol.

“I was a teller back in the day,” I confess. “I know, you find that insanely sexy. Most people do. Move over.”

Positioned in front of the register, I start counting, bills to coins, highest to lowest. As the ones pass through my hands, I flip them upright and facing to the right. Eventually the other two sales associates, finished with tidying tasks, gather around to watch me count.

“She was a teller,” the manager shares.

“Oh yeah, where?” It’s the college kid talking, the one home from Vermont for summer break.

“Corestates,” I answer, the word sandwiched between tinny clinks of pennies dropping into the drawer.

“What’s Corestates?” It’s the other sales associate this time, also a twenty-something.

“They were bought by First Union.”

Nothing.

“Who was bought by Wachovia.”

“Oh,” they harmonize.

“Christ, I’m that old? You know, I had electricity growing up.” I peck at the calculator, announce my total. “Two-eleven and sixty-six cents - is that your number?”

“Yup. Forget it, we’ll just close out short.”

I step away from the register, rest my aching hips against the back counter, curl my fingers over the edge. The nicked wood is rough against my knuckles. As the machine processes the last bit of paperwork, one of the sales associates asks me how old I am. I feel defeated, deflated. I touch my index finger to the corner of my eye and rub the surfacing crows feet. Even without squinting, they’re there.

“Thirty-six,” I say as a wrinkled ridge passes beneath the pad of my finger.

“No way,” one exclaims.

“Yeah, get out,” chimes the other.

“I pegged you at twenty-five,” the manager agrees.

And just like that I was young again, sprightly in my step, youthful in my swagger.

“Really?” I cooed, my cheeks pinching to a bright rosy red. “And by 'really' I mean, don’t stop.”