Spare Change

I'd been scrounging the bottom of my battered Lucky purse for loose coins and was leaning against the exterior wall of a drugstore known for its tolerance of panhandlers, when the well dressed, silver haired lady came through the automatic doors. I noticed her in my peripheral vision but thought nothing of it until she stopped directly in front of me and with one perfectly manicured hand, offered me a palmful of silver.

“Here, dear,” she said kindly, “Maybe this will help.”

Slack jawed and speechless, I was still searching for the proper response while she briskly crossed the parking lot, gracefully climbed into her black Mercedes, and drove away. I had no idea whether to be insulted or grateful or entertained or just bewildered. A quick look in the security mirror ruled out insulted - I saw what she had seen, an old woman with ragged gray hair under an ill fitting knit cap, dressed in sweatpants and an ancient tee shirt over thermals and a plaid flannel shirt, Nikes that had seen far better days, a pair of dark purple fingerless gloves my cousin had made for me and sent all the way from Florida and no teeth.

“Good Lord,” I muttered, “No wonder she thought I was homeless.”

I guessed gratitude was more appropriate with bewildered a close second but entertained won out. I bought my cigarettes and Peanut Butter Cups, wrote out a check and left the lady's change in one of those plastic “Help a Hungry Child in Malaysia” collection boxes retail stores always seem to have at checkouts.

There are still a number of women in this town who would cut their throats before going to the grocery store without make up and heels. I've never been one of them, not even when I was expected to be, and it often caused ripples in my appearance-conscious family. If you judge a book by its cover, my daddy told me, you'll often be wrong and you might miss a really good story. I'm not likely to change my refugee-looking ways at this late date but I don't suppose it would do any harm if I were to remember my teeth.