Change in My Pocket

I was pulled over a few weeks ago for allegedly not observing a traffic signal. I received a ticket in exchange for my driver’s license. I earned a second ticket because my insurance card had expired the previous day and I wasn’t able to recall my password for my auto insurance website.

For the past two weeks, I have actively tried to dodge being carded. So far, I have had to show my yellow slip of shame at the bakery to buy donuts. Today I was asked for ID at Portillo’s because I haven’t signed the back of my credit card. I pulled out the traffic ticket and the cashier lowered his mouth to the microphone, “MANAGER,” he boomed.

I told him I had cash as the manager came to the register.

Handing over a crisp ten dollar bill, the machine spat out change for my dipped Italian beef and the cashier gave me three singles.

I deposited the change in my pocket and added the singles to my wallet. I rarely have cash on me, let alone change.
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As I walked around the office this afternoon, I heard the change jingling in my pockets. It’s a distinct sound, one that reminded me of my grandpa. He always had change in his pocket and you would hear the rhythm of the change as he walked or got up from a chair.

So, were it not for the alleged incident, I wouldn’t have lost my license and I wouldn’t have had that memory of my grandpa today.

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