Last night in a supermarket about 3 AM, I saw a woman have a serious breakdown. She was buying some items — not a lot, maybe $35.00 worth of cheese, meat and cereal. A basic shopping list. The checkout clerk rang her up, she swiped her credit card —
— and it was declined. No good. Not accepted.
The clerk was very polite in informing her she'd have to pay some other way but she had no other way: No cash, no other card. She did not seem shocked that her card was rejected; just that it had happened sooner than expected. "I thought I had more money left," she muttered before bursting into tears. They were not tears of embarrassment. They were tears of desperation and panic and "I don't know what to do anymore." (That was something else she said.)
I was two back from her in line. The man after her and ahead of me was an Orthodox Jew — beard, black suit and hat, ziziths dangling from under his coat. We stood there and watched this poor woman weeping. She was about 45, maybe 50. She looked sad before the clerk gave her the bad news, and you could tell it was the latest in a long string. "I can't pay," she moaned. "I don't know what to do."
The checkout clerk didn't know what to do, either. He gave a look to those of us in line. It seemed to be saying, "Please…let's give her a minute." No one in line was impatient.
And then the woman let out a cry. I cannot describe it. If I was writing a scene in a TV show and I wanted an actress to make that sound, I have no idea what words I would put on the page to tell her what I had in mind. I'd probably write something about a cry of pain that seemed to say, "I can't endure any more of this…there is too much pain in my life."
That still wouldn't get the actress to make that sound but it might summarize what was on that poor woman's mind at that moment. Clearly, she could not pay. Clearly, she could not get on with her life in any way without groceries.
I saw the gentleman ahead of me take out his wallet and check how much he had. I whispered to him, "I'll split it with you." Behind me, the next person in line pulled out a ten and a couple of others kicked in. There were at least ten people waiting to pay at this, the only counter open at this hour. Most of us got together and paid for the woman's groceries and we gave her about thirty dollars in cash that she really seemed to need.
She cried about that too, crying at the generosity but also, I'm sure, that she was dependent on, as they say, the kindness of strangers. She thanked us about eighty times and then made her way with her purchases out the door. (In my area, they have to charge now for paper bags. I noticed that the checker didn't charge her for the ones she needed.)
I have no idea where she was going. I wonder if she did.
The gent in front of me paid for his purchases and departed wordlessly. As I swiped my credit card, I turned to the people after me and said, "If this isn't accepted, you're all paying for my English Muffins." A bit of a laugh. Then I asked the checker, "How often does that happen?"
He said, "Maybe twice a week. When it happens, it happens most often on the late shift. But usually, they swear the card is good and our system is screwed-up. They get angry at us, like it's our fault they can't pay. Sometimes, customers like you pay for them. A couple of times, I've felt so bad for the people that I've paid for them. That's if it's only a few dollars. I couldn't have paid for this woman. Not on what we get paid here."
The next person in line said, "If you pay for them, do they come back the next night figuring you'll pay for them again?"
He said, "No, never. We never see them again. That woman who just left here…you will never see her in this market again. It's too painful. It just reminds them of how bad off they were that night."