Mickey stood in the long line at the grocery store, waiting impatiently to check out. He had a few items, last minute stuff his wife Gloria needed so she could bake her fifth pie, this one apple. 

He and Gloria always wound up arguing around the Holidays. She insisted on inviting her relatives from Indiana, seventeen of them. They never turned her down. They would arrive by three, ready for dinner, spend the night sprawled out on beds, couches, recliners and even the floor. Every year was the same. “Too much damn traffic in Nashville, Mickey. Next year you and Gloria have to come to Indiana.”

And every year he was tempted to say, “You said that last year, Earl, and the year before that.”  But that was dangerous. If he wasn’t careful, he might actually have to drive all the way to LaPorte next year.             

The express lane checkout was moving; a good thing. But he was annoyed by the constant chatter coming from the overhead speakers. The store manager, one of those people who should never be allowed near a microphone, was pushing eggnog as if it cured the gout.  The intermittent ringing of a cowbell every time someone made a two-dollar donation to a food bank was getting under his skin too. He never understood why a grocery store that wants your business, would constantly put you in a position to publicly declare whether you’re a charitable person or not. He had already been to the store four times that day. On his first trip he had this conversation.

“Would you like to make a donation to the food bank?”

“Do you promise not to ring the bell if I do?” The checker laughed and agreed to give the cowbell a rest. He handed her a ten-dollar bill.

Now, standing in line for the fifth time, he was dreading the moment when he would be asked yet again to donate, only to repeat that he had already done so earlier that day. On his second trip to the store, he’d heard the guy in front of him say the same thing. Mickey wondered if it was true. During his other checkouts he’d also heard, “not today,” “not this time” and “I’ll do it next time.”  The clerks, most of them bored teenagers, were always cheerful about the refusals. He wondered if they were secretly relieved they didn’t have to ring the cowbell again.

He counted the number of people in line now. There were just two women in front of him. The one having her items scanned was well dressed. He couldn’t help noticing how attractive she was. She was wearing the kind of jeans you buy that are pre-ripped for $225. The gold jewelry on her wrists, adorned with diamonds, aroused his curiosity. How would she handle the food bank question? To her credit, when she got the soul defining question, the woman didn’t blink. She handed the checker a twenty and took her receipt.

She left the store serenaded by the cowbell and enthusiastic handclaps by the store’s employees. They were required to clap whenever the bell rang, keeping time with the bell.

Mickey thought the other lady in front of him looked even more tired than he felt. She had quite a few items, more than the express lane limit of ten. Another annoyance. She had a small turkey, milk, bread, butter, potatoes, several frozen vegetable packages, beer, stuffing mix, apple and pumpkin pies. “The limit is ten, lady.” Had he just said it aloud?

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. Apparently, he had said it. “I know I’m over the limit by five. I counted.”

He shrugged his shoulders. Finally, there was room for him to lay the apples, piecrust and spices on the conveyor belt. He pointed to the checker. “I think she’s done. You can pay now.”

“Thanks.” The woman said. She looked at the total and opened her purse. She rummaged through it, looking for her wallet. “Oh, my, I seem to have left my wallet at home. I know just where I put it, too.” She asked the checker, “Can you hold these while I run home?”

“I guess so.”

The woman was really upset. “I live about thirty miles from here. I’m not sure how long it will take me to get back. Some of my items might spoil.”

“It will take you a couple of hours in this holiday traffic,” Mickey said. He told himself he was being helpful.

Chet, the young man at the register said, “I can have someone put everything back, but you’ll have to start over when you return.”

The woman’s shoulders slumped. She seemed to shrink. “My husband’s going to shoot me. I’ll never hear the end of it.” She wasn’t actually talking to anyone.

Mickey looked at the woman. She was distraught because she forgot her wallet. Her day was ruined. “How much does she owe?” he asked.

“It’s $96.58,” Chet said.

Mickey turned to the woman. “Were you going to make a donation to the food bank?”

Five dollars. I do it every time.”

He pulled his credit card out and said, “Add five bucks to her bill. I’ll pay for it. But whatever you do, don’t ring that damn cowbell, got it?”

The woman started to protest, but Mickey waived her off and handed the clerk his credit card. “Bless you,” she said.

The kid watched the woman leave. “She isn’t poor, ya know. I carried her bags to her car last week. She drives a Lexus.”

Mickey gave the kid an appraising look. “People with money need charity too, sometimes,” he said. Mickey glanced at his receipt. “I changed my mind, Chet. Go ahead and ring the bell.”