Seven Cents

I walked over to the market this morning to buy eggplants and a french roll. It was a lovely day, just under 70, pretty, with contrails fading out into fat paths, as if someone had passed a dry brush, across the cobalt sky. The eggplants were $1.49 a pound, and I bought two to make eggplant parm for tomorrow, 2.29 pounds in all. The clerk rang my three items up, but rang the eggplants as $1.99 per pound. I pointed out the error, and she sent the bagger back to check the price. We waited. We waited. She asked if she could finish my order, because there were people waiting behind me. I agreed, paid the small bill, and went in search of the bagger, who was slowly making her way to the front. Yes, the cost was $1.49 per pound.

But now I had to go to Customer Service to get my refund. Sigh. The girl at Customer Service spent an inordinate amount of time, using pencil, paper and a calculator, and finally gave me sixty-three cents. "No," I said, "that's wrong." I pointed out that the price was off by fifty cents. She, however, had used a different amount because she had misheard it. She called the register to get the correct price, calculated again, and handed me thirteen cents. I told her she was still wrong. I pointed out again that the price was off by fifty cents, and since I had more than two pounds, the refund would be more than a dollar. She just couldn't see it. She handed me some more coins, but it still wasn't right, and I worked through the problem again. She finally slapped seven cents down on the counter and said "I'm not going to argue over seven cents." Well, I will.

The eggplant is cooked, and we'll be off tomorrow for a weekend with the kids. No shopping for a bit.

I finished French's In the Wood. The ending was not what I expected, but the story is so well-written that I didn't want to do anything but read it. I don't know if I can go right into something intense. I think I need something silly.