PASS IT ON !

 

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What an embarrassment! I was sure that in the purse, not counting the little things - two hundred bills with portraits of Franklin, so I did not deny myself anything.

And here I stand at the checkout of the supermarket “Kowalski” somewhere between Minneapolis and Saint-Paul - with a stroller, with the youngest son, sat on my down jacket with cries of “Mom, on the handles!”, with a mountain of purchases, which the assistant cashier deftly spreads on packages. There were three packages. A smile shines on the assistant's chocolate face.

The cashier girl affectionately observes.

“One hundred and forty-five dollars”.

I blithely climb into my wallet and find one - just one - a hundred bill and a trifle.

Cheeks flare up, the head under the cap becomes wet and begins to itch. It should be noted, I carefully equipyrized, planning to go to the store on foot in the twenty-degree frost.

From the awkwardness of the situation, my English acquires intricateness. I apologize and I confess that I made a mistake.

The cashier does not understand what the mistake is. The white-toothed smile of the assistant goes out. The son announces that he immediately intends to build a house out of Lego.

Everyone expects something from me.

Unable to continue to tolerate the sauna on the head, I pull off the cap, pour the contents of the purse on the counter and express a desire to give up part of the purchases.

The assistant is taken to take out of the packages of the goods I mentioned, and the cashier recalculates the total.

The amount does not want to approach acceptable. There's a queue behind us.

Finally, after the seizure of pizza with pineapples - which, incidentally, was not taken by me, but a child - the account becomes such that I even returned some of the little things.

Unlike Russian shops, in “Kowalski” cashiers and their assistants stand between the cash registers right next to customers from the adjacent queues.

The buyer from the other queue - it is not clear why - suddenly begins to talk to my cashier. The word “she” comes to me several times.

The son, having torn off from my down jacket some tie, stops the assault and doomedly climbs into the stroller. I put three bags of thin bread in a basket under the seat.

Meanwhile, there is a change of cashiers. A new one fits, throws a couple of words from the old one and, left alone, says something to the assistant. He's giving me the fourth package.

I'm at a loss. There's all the good that I didn't have enough money for. I explain to the new cashier, who, apparently, does not know how to do it.

“I can't take it. I don't have any money”.

“Of course you can”, she says. It's yours. Take this.

Two dazzling smiles shine floodlights when I - as in a dream - ram the package in a crowded stroller and leave the store.

“It's a nice day!” It's coming from behind.

It's snowing. White specks melt, barely touching the flaming cheeks. I don't feel any cold. I don't get it.

What kind of shop is this? How is that even possible? Decided to give me a gift for thirty-five dollars? Then at least the change was taken away.

Everything around is silveranding and sparkling, snowflakes are grinding. I feel like when I'm a kid when you're coming off a Christmas tree with a Christmas present.

I thought that a short way back would be tired, but from somewhere so much force came from that three more such paths would have flown.

In the evening I tell my sister and her French husband an extraordinary story of shoplifting.

“Can you imagine that? I never thought it would happen for a store to give me a bag of presents!”

“That doesn't happen”, they declare, throwing me from heaven to earth.

I clap my eyes trying to figure out who cheated on whom here - shop me or I shop.

“Did you happen to notice that the one who was standing behind you in the queue didn't say anything to the cashier?” - after deliberating, the sister and her husband are interested.

“No, nothing”.

“It's really weird then”.

“What does this have to do with anything?” “I was surprised. The woman in the next line asked for something from my cashier. They also said “she, she, she”, in the sense of “she, she” ...”

“Well, now everything is clear!” My sister and her husband laughed, and, noticing my bewilderment, explained, “That woman paid for your purchases. It's not uncommon here”.

I understand that I stand with my mouth open and, trying to give myself a more intelligent look, I object to the fact that I am.

“But she didn't tell me anything. I didn't even look at her. I don't even remember her face. And I didn't thank her...”

“She didn't do it to thank her. She just helped”.

I was trying to understand what I heard. That is, no one will ever know about it - except the cashier, of course - and yet she did. I saw that I didn't have enough money, and i just helped.

“Sometimes you drive up to the window of McAuto”, the sister continued, “you get the money, and you are told that your order has already been paid by the previous buyer”.

The hands and neck became tickled. Oh, yes - it's called “run goosebumps”.There is something in this from the old children's book “Timur and his team” where the Timur’s secretly helped people. Only here, to do a good deed, do not join any organization. And secret benevolence engaged not children, and great uncles and aunts.

“So you don't even see him, and he's you?”

“Hugh”, the sister agrees, “usually in such cases the cashier says, “I've been asked to say, “pass it on”.  Pass it on”.

I remember one St.Petersburg institution with a similar service system, where we are constantly not informed of food. When this is detected, you don't want to go back, most often, so now we're checking packages on the spot. I wonder if these unscrupulous sellers would confess, think our people also pay for each other, or would take two fees for one order.

“Pass it on?” -  I ask absent-mindedly.

“Yes, I do. It means that when you're doing well and you're going to be able to, just do something like that for someone. The other day I went to lunch at a coffee shop, and it turned out that the card can not be paid, only in cash, and I did not have enough for the coffee that I love. I said i'd come back some other time. But the man behind me said, no, no, give her this coffee, I'll pay”.

“But maybe he liked you, and he wanted to meet you that way?”

“No, it's just from the “pass it on” series. That's what they do here”. We didn't talk anymore.

His sister's voice sounded serene, and yet it felt proud - for the people around her.

 

P.S.  I showed this note to my mother. She immediately began to excitedly tell how recently sat down in Minneapolis on the wrong bus. The ride was to the final, so she fell asleep peacefully and found herself in a completely foreign area. The first stranger, to whom her mother turned, agreed to take her home. The path was not close, but when asked “How much do I owe you?” he replied that he owed nothing, and said the same thing - “Pass it on”.