The old woman had clearly not been working there long. Her gleaming pink nails hunted and pecked across the cash-register keypad, and she got the price of the coffee wrong on her first go. “You forgot these,” I said, simulating patience, as I slid the tiny packet of Tylenol forward.
She did not know how it cost, and as she studied it for a clue, something seemed to occur to her. “It’ll be all right, honey,” she assured me.
“Excuse me?”
“Everything’ll be all right, don’t worry.” She found the price (fifty cents) and began the monumental process of adding it to my bill.
“What will be all right?”
She waved the Tylenol. “Whatever you need these for.”
I was unaccountably disappointed that she did not have the inside scoop on the outcome of my many tribulations. “Oh,” I said. “I just have a little backache, that’s all.” The truth was, I was in agony and could barely stand upright.
The clack of her nails on the keyboard stopped and she darted me a serious look. In one quick but oddly perfunctory motion, as if she did this every day, she lifted her palms toward me and chanted, “In Jesus’ name, release!” Then, as if nothing had happened, she returned her attention to the cash register and triumphantly pressed the final button. “That’ll be five dollars and thirty-six cents.” Two enormous portraits of Liberace watched over these proceedings with approval.
My back did not “release,” by the way; it hurt more than ever as I handed over the money and thanked her for her efforts on my behalf. Which, really, was just as well. If a successful invocation of Christ had begun to affect aspirin sales, she might have been out of a job.
