I suspect that I was somehow born with an ‘old soul’; many, if not most, of my friends and acquaintances are significantly older than I am. As my husband often observes, “The average age of your closest friends is deceased!”
Since I’m friendly by nature, it’s no great surprise that I count a number of decidedly interesting local characters among them. Including the impish elderly woman who collects money from passersby opposite the entrance to my neighborhood supermarket, usually while swiveling on a purloined barber’s chair.
We meet each other several times a week when I do my twice or thrice weekly shopping, and aside from giving her my requisite shekel or two, we generally exchange a smile and a few words. Although I never give her more than five shekels at a time, I have no doubt that my frequent modest donations have added up to at least a thousand shekels over the years.
At one point, she experimented with pushing the limits of our association and began asking me, “Could you buy me two bottles of olive oil?” Or, “Could you purchase a six-pack carton of Coca Cola for me?” And on, and on.
Aside from the fact that I could not afford the big ticket items she invariably requested, I instinctively sensed that if I acquiesced even once I would be embarking on a road from which there was no return.
So I very politely, firmly, and unequivocally explained that those items were not within my budget, and (the trump card!) that my husband did not allow me to shop for her, although he was very much in favor of our present arrangement. After many such less-than-pleasant exchanges, she apparently got the message.
I felt doubly vindicated for adopting this position when I repeatedly personally witnessed that clever senior citizen ‘cashing in’ all those expensive grocery items for cold, hard cash. I marveled at the “racket” this little old lady was running, viewing it with equal parts disdain and admiration.
Nevertheless, over the years of our acquaintance, we had managed to establish and maintain a cordial relationship of sorts.
That is until a few weeks ago, when I inadvertently allowed my chronic “Foot in Mouth Disease” to get the better of me, and ostensibly tank our relationship forever.
The store was practically empty, and I was approaching the checkout counter manned by the lovely, soft-spoken female cashier I favored. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the elderly woman hobbling towards me, her arms laden with large packages of disposable plates. That’s when I made my first mistake: I immediately offered to let her go ahead of me.
But the little old lady had no intention of purchasing these expensive items herself; she had been scouring the store for pricey merchandise, and was now searching for a likely victim.
Although it had been quite some time since she tried that tactic on me, she apparently viewed my offer as an invitation. Instead of going ahead of me on line, she asked me to pay for her purchases!
I patiently explained that my husband does not allow it, but then (in an obvious moment of temporary insanity) joked, “You’re richer than all of us already!”
The cashier giggled, and laughingly commented, “I can’t believe you said that!,” adding that she regularly witnessed the wily old woman asking customers to buy her salmon and other high-priced items.
I checked out and left the store, stopping briefly to drop some coins into the old woman’s bag. Her reaction left me stunned.
She fished out a shekel, handed it to me, and announced, “I don’t want your money!”
Oops! She obviously did not find my observation as amusing as the cashier and I had.
As she did not seem to be in the mood for negotiations and I was in a rush to get home, I did not belabor the point. Instead I gave the spurned shekel to another collector, and put the matter on the back burner, hoping that it would blow over by the time I returned to the supermarket.
Alas, it was not to be. Although I sincerely asked for mechila on every subsequent visit, she refused to accept my money or my apology. Instead she unequivocally announced, “I don’t want to talk to you!” and proceeded to ignore me.
I was beside myself. I have always been non-confrontational, perhaps to a fault, and I recited a special prayer for help with shmiras halashon every morning. Yet I had carelessly managed to offend a Jewish woman, decades my senior, who now refused to even talk to me!
I decided to lay low for a while, and likewise tried – albeit unsuccessfully – to find and update the sweet cashier regarding the damage I had unwittingly wrought, but she was never on shift when I shopped.
Then on erev Shabbos, when I usually avoid any unnecessary shopping altogether, particularly during the soaring temperatures of the early afternoon, I unexpectedly ran out of a crucial ingredient mid-recipe. I grumpily donned my sheitel and set off for the shopping center, opting to shop in the less crowded smaller shops rather than the supermarket.
And, in an undeserved but much appreciated display of Divine providence, that is where I serendipitously bumped into the elusive cashier, doing her own last-minute shopping.
I quickly seized the opportunity to apprise her of the fallout from my “joke,” but she was apparently already aware that the elderly woman had been terribly offended. And, when I lamented about my unsuccessful attempts to apologize, she offered a tip: “She loves cold seltzer, so maybe try offering that to her.” And in parting, she added, “I think we both learned a valuable lesson.”
I continued to ruminate and lose sleep over my sin, until the following week, when I saw the old woman sitting on her perch at the entrance to the supermarket. This time, when I approached her to ask forgiveness, she looked me straight in the eye, and nodded yes!
I was euphoric, but had not quite completed my teshuva process.
“I hear you like cold seltzer,” I said. “Would you like me to buy you a bottle?”
She looked pleased at my offer, but responded, “They don’t sell cold drinks in the supermarket…”
“I know,” I replied, “I can buy you a cold drink at the cafe.”
“Get me a Diet Sprite instead,” she said, cautioning, “Make sure it’s diet!”
I hightailed it to the cafe, and happily paid seven shekel for an ice cold can of Diet Sprite. The old woman accepted it gratefully, delighted to receive a refreshing treat on such a hot day.
But not nearly as delighted as I was. I practically danced my way into the supermarket.
Best seven shekels I ever spent!
