When I was in high school, I worked at Woolworth’s—a variety store that no longer exists. It had everything from window treatments to pets. It was my first job and I took it very seriously. I learned a lot working at this store off and on for nearly four years. But the most memorable lesson I learned came by way of humiliation.
I was manning the makeup and jewelry department, which had a hokey, old fashioned register. Computerized registers were just coming into practice, but the one I was using required that I key in all the purchases, figure out the sales tax and add that in. An elderly woman (at least elderly from my 17-year-old perspective) purchased some items from me and handed me extra change. Instead of giving me $4 for a $3.63 purchase (this is a for instance, I really don’t remember the exact transaction), she gave me $4.13. Brainiac that I am now, I can easily calculate her change being $.50. I wasn’t so quick back then and she let me know (rather loudly and rudely) that my education was a waste. I was so humiliated, I made it my mission in life to never make that mistake again. I got so good at making change and counting it back, I could do it in my sleep.
Fast forward almost three decades. Both my daughter and I had come off a rough couple years. It started with her being in a near fatal car accident on the way to take finals for her first semester of college. She’d just turned eighteen and was working two jobs while commuting to school. She was T-boned by an oncoming van one week before Christmas. She was in a coma and then inpatient rehabilitation for traumatic brain injury for eight weeks. She had to learn everything from the ground up—walking, talking, identifying objects—everything. Once out of the hospital, outpatient rehabilitation continued for another eight months. I drove her twice a week to the closest facility—90 minutes each way. I was fortunate enough to get catastrophic leave from my teaching job, thanks to accumulated sick leave and teachers willing to donate a day of personal time to me.
The following Christmas arrived and things look like they just might be getting back to normal. Nicole was back in school, only now she took the bus rather than driving. I’d been back to work and life was good. Then my ex-husband announced that he no longer loved me and wanted a divorce. Merry Christmas to me! A little side note: It turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. But at the time, I was devastated and thought my whole world was falling apart. Again!
A few months later, Nicole found a part-time job working at a gas station manning the store register. One afternoon, she called me in tears. It took a few heart-stopping moments to figure out what had her so upset.
“I used to be smart,” she wailed.
“Of course you’re smart,” I assured her.
“I messed up at work, Mom.” Sniffle, Sniffle. “Some guy came into the station and gave me extra change. I was trying to figure out what to give him back, but it was the end of the day and there were so many people around, I couldn’t think.”
“That’s understandable.” Been there. Done that.
“He started yelling at me. He said I was so stupid, he didn’t know why anyone would hire me. He wanted to know if I even bothered to go to high school.” The last few words got lost in her tears.
I swiped at my own, anger thrumming in every nerve ending. How dare some self-righteous, insolent jerk treat my daughter like that? But me losing it wouldn’t help her. I 
took a deep breath and silently asked God for control. “You can’t let him get to you, Nicole. He’s not worth your tears.” Nor was he worth mine.
“I know, Mom.” A quivering sigh came across the line. “There were a bunch of people in the store, and after the jerk left, they all came up to me and told me to forget him. It’s just…”
“What?”
“A couple years ago, I could have figured it, no problem. I used to be smart.”
Lately, there’s been a trend. I’ve come across several young cashiers who are unable to calculate the correct change unless they plug it into their registers. And no one counts change back anymore—I don’t care what age the cashier. I have a soft spot for these young people. I’ve even daydreamed about offering a free training at some of the stores in our area to help with this issue. However, I don’t think anyone but me has the emotional attachment to this art form.
But just in case I’m wrong, I’m putting it out there in cyber space. Anyone who wants to be trained in the art of making correct change and counting it back, I’m your girl! A little knowledge (mixed with a lot of empathy) goes a long way!
Comments 1
I too had to learn to count change on my first job. I was fortunate to have a good teacher on the job. It is one of those memories I cherish. Now we all have cell phones that come with a calculator. It is unfortunate that there have to be so many mean people in this world who don’t realize that we Just haven’t learned a particular skill yet.