Keep the Change

Aggravated. 

Agitated. 

Annoyed. 

I named each drop of sweat as it raced down the small of my back, waiting for my wife in the doorway of this art deco monstrosity of a house she insisted was home because “it spoke to her soul.” 

Sitting comfortably in the middle of Pacific Beach’s grungy charm, our turquoise and glass house mocked me as I sizzled under the griddle-hot glare of another relentless summer sun. In response to my discomfort, the obnoxious collection of windows for walls glittered beneath the wispy shadows cast by wind-ravaged palm trees. 

Damn that southern California authenticity. 

I couldn’t remember when the heatwave had officially started, but this was the fifth consecutive day of record-breaking heat, and I couldn’t help but wonder if mother nature's goal was to shatter thermostats. Once you hit 110 degrees, the heat starts to melt your brain, causes you to make mistakes, and both my body and my temper were well on the road to boiling.

We needed this vacation, and though I tried to visualize the frosty Swiss alps and snow-covered cabins awaiting us in crisp alpine air, I failed in the same way that waiting halfway out the front door failed to motivate Becca to finish packing.  

“I promise, Nick, just one more thing,” she yelled to me before running to our bedroom for the tenth time.

 We only planned this trip six months ago. Someone’s bags were packed three weeks ago, and I’ll give you a hint: I wasn’t the one who swore they only needed thirty minutes to pack. It wasn’t me who promised they wouldn’t leave everything to the last minute as if it were some ritual required to ensure the sun would rise each morning. 

We were fifteen minutes behind my "worst-case scenario" schedule, and she still wasn’t ready, so when the back of my legs started to feel like fried SPAM, I stepped back inside but left the door open. Temporarily free of our micro-climate's muggy breath on my neck, I slowly inhaled the sweet, houseplant-rich air of the foyer, trying to relax my shoulders enough to prevent the crick I always get in my neck when we travel. 

My therapist suggested I label my emotions before talking to lessen the potential of Becca and I arguing past one another, and I’m not one to turn my nose up at something without trying it first. 

Peeved.

Perturbed.

Pissed off.

She came flying down the hall, waving her camera around wildly. “Found it! We can go now. Are you ready?”

 I bit my tongue because “pissed off” definitely wasn’t going to help me say anything that would help us get through that front door. Instead of reminding her that I had been ready for the last 30,240 minutes, I grabbed the ancient camera I’d won her on a date at the Del Mar Fair and started snapping away.

“You’re the fittest bird in the house,” I said in my best Love Island Manchester, walking backwards through the open door.

She bit her upper lip and crossed her eyes as she bent over to grab the rest of her luggage.

“I’ll make you famous, babes,” I cooed.  

She laughed as she followed me outside, and I basked in the sound. Her’s was the kind of laughter that made you want to join in. It rises from the very bottom of her belly, and her throat becomes a megaphone, amplifying the pleasingly rhythmic sound into a deceptive bellow. All from a woman who couldn’t see the top of a fridge wearing four-inch heels. 

It was easy to enjoy how freely it burst from her lips, but the biggest draw for me had always been that her laugh was the reason we met. The booming explosion isn’t for everyone, but the moment I heard its fireball blast at my uncle’s post-vasectomy party, I became a heat-seeking missile, and the rest was history. 

Weaving in and out of traffic, I silently cursed every driver who got in my way, but it wasn’t long before the curses grew a voice and extended far into each asshole’s future bloodline, Holes style. 

Becca sat cross-legged, singing along to Justin Bieber’s “Yummy” and turning the volume up another two notches.

“If the rule is even numbers only,” I had asked her at least a decade ago, “why do you allow the volume on fifteen?” 

 She had looked up at me, amusement dancing in her dark eyes. “The way I see it, five is an honorary even number. There’s a roundness to increments of five. Odd numbers are sharp and pointy, but even numbers are smooth and round. It doesn’t hurt that everyone likes counting by fives, either.”

It could have been the distraction of reminiscing, but it was probably the fact that I was whipping around like I drove the Batmobile instead of a classic like my 1964 Aston Martin DB5. Since I was only working with your standard Disc Brake upgrade, I couldn’t manage anything fancier than slamming on the brakes to stop a second before I’d’ve put my engine in the backseat of the Tesla in front of us. 

The brochure Becca held flew into the dash with a glossy smack, and she looked at me, eyes bulging. "The airport isn't going anywhere."

I knew she was trying to lighten the mood, but her sense of humor was becoming less of an acceptable trade for her inability to sense time passing. 

"Did you read about the spa near our hotel?" she asked while lightly brushing her fingers across my arm. 

“Tell me about it,” I said, reminding myself to focus on the things I could control.

She smiled, grabbing her phone to scroll through the spa’s web-page, and I silently congratulated myself on avoiding the oppressive silence that descends after we fight.

“‘The Bogn Engiadina wellness spa in Scuol is a haven of rest and relaxation in the heart of the majestic Lower Engadin Alpine region,’” she read. “‘Here, you can bathe in pure Swiss mineral water. Our six indoor and outdoor pools boast a variety of special features, such as massage jets, bubble jets, waterfalls, as well as a whirlpool and a salt water pool.’” 

I reached over and grabbed her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Sounds incredible. We'll have to add it to our itinerary."

"You and your itinerary," she said, making a face.

“You and your first-gen, Sony Cyber-Shot!”

That incredible laugh tickled my senses again, and I was calm. We were less than ten minutes from the airport, and though I could physically feel the last seconds of my carefully-crafted buffer disappear into the abyss of the past, I took solace in knowing my ADHD-wife so well. 

I now recognize my folly. My arrogance. The audacity of thinking I could ever understand the way her beautiful mind works or fully prepare myself for the strikingly inventive ways she will test my inflexibility. 

“Oh no,” she said. 

“I think I forgot to pack an extra memory card,” she said.

I tried my best, I really did.

“We can get one when we get to Zürich,” I suggested.

“I want to take pictures now.”

“Use up the space on the memory card you do have,” I said without recognizing the futility.

“It’s full.”

“Try erasing a few.”

“They’re too special.”

“You’re too special,” I mumbled.

“What?”

“You’re in luck,” I said, pointing with my arm across her face at an electronics shop to our right. She shoved my arm away, and I whipped the car into the parking lot.

“You’re. The. BEST!” she squealed and hopped out of the car as soon as I had it in park.

I climbed out as well. “I’m gonna hit the whiz palace. Please try not to make any new best friends, Chatty McChatterson. I’m getting stressed out by how close we’re cutting it."

She nodded, and we moved with purpose. The right door had been stenciled with fresh paint and a modern font reading “& Electronics” that happily clashed with the left’s peeling paint and old-timey loops of “Al’s Goods.” It only felt right to be greeted by a softly jangling set of reindeer bells, almost as if we’d stepped through a portal to rent a movie at Ashford Video circa 1995. 

The lights inside were bright, but a thin layer of dust seemed to cover every item that sat on the shelves. A rosy-cheeked man who looked to be in his late 60’s came shuffling out of the backroom as we reached the counter, hands full of various boxes and a clipboard tucked under his arm.

"Welcome, welcome," he drawled in a warm, friendly voice. “Name’s Samuel Knapp, but you can call me Sammy. What can I do ya for?”

He carefully set the boxes down one at a time and adjusted his large, wire-framed glasses, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Becca returned the smile. "Nice to meet you, Sammy. I’m Rebecca Riggs, and this is my husband, Nick. He has to tap a kidney, but I’m hoping to buy a memory card for this,” she said, holding up the obsolete technology.

Slipping his thumbs behind the brown suspenders holding up his wrinkled trousers, Sammy pointed his pinky finger towards the room he’d just come from. "Don't have a public restroom, but I reckon I can make an exception for a sweet couple such as yourselves," he said with a wink. "In the back and to the right."

“Thanks,” I said and jogged off.

By the time I got back, I expected to see Sammy handing her a receipt, but Becca had her face in her hands, elbows on the glass, listening to the old codger yammer on about something.

"Wonderful woman you got here, son,” he said as I approached.

"I won’t argue with you there, but we’re in a bit of a rush,” I told him nicely. “We don’t want to miss our flight, so all I need to know is if you carry this old model’s memory cards.”

Pushing his glasses up with a finger, he took the camera and flipped it around, fumbling with it for a moment. "Ah, yes, a sturdy little guy. These came out, what, fifteen years ago or so? Fine camera.”

I didn’t respond, and instead studied the old man as he slowly shuffled behind his counter. He walked with a slight limp, his battered sneakers sliding along the linoleum floors, and he wore a faded baseball cap over scraggly salt and pepper hair, but the week’s worth of stubble on his face was a solid grey.

"Here they are," he said. "I might be getting old, but the memory still works like a well-oiled machine. Where ya headed?"

“Switzerland,” Becca said, “It’s our anniversary.”

The man seemed to be moving slower than before, and with her last three words, he all but froze. “You don’t say! Is today the actual day?”

My anxiety quickly flickered back to life from the smoldering coals.

“Twelve years and counting,” she gushed, eyes darting to me.

"What a coincidence,” said Greybush, “my wife and I celebrate fifty years today. I’m closing early to take her some flowers and these lemon-blueberry cupcakes she loves. She’s not a fan of frosting, but these guys use cream-cheese, and it does the trick!”

His face suddenly fell. “She got sick a while back, been laid up in the hospital the past few months. We’d hoped she could be home with me by today, but we can’t afford the in-home nurse till I sell this tough nut.” He gazed lovingly around the little shop. “The good news is, today’s your lucky day, Nick. You’re about to get the deal of a lifetime. Though, the bad news is Al was my great-great-grandfather, and us Knapp men kept this store in our family for over a hundred years. Turns out I won’t be passing the family legacy on to my boys, but my Jilly needs what she needs, and that’s what’s most important, right?"

“That sounds so tough, Sammy,” Becca empathized, and she reached out, placing her hand on top of his.

This kind of thing had always been her area. It’s not that I didn’t feel for the guy, it’s that my anxiety was currently a boa constrictor that was squeezing my chest until it burned, and if we didn’t get back in the car in the next sixty seconds, I was going to lose it.

Becca finally seemed to notice how twitchy I was getting, and when the register barked a third error message at Sammy’s bumbling attempts to apply a discount, her cheeks flushed with the realization that she contributed to this derailment despite agreeing otherwise. 

“It’s okay, Sammy, we’re happy to pay full price,” she said, placing a fifty on the counter before picking up the memory card. “And no worries on a bag. I can just carry this.”

We started to walk away.

“Let me get your change,” he offered, “that little guy’s only thirteen bucks.”

"Keep it!" I yelled over my shoulder, much louder and sharper than I had intended, but my guts were roiling thinking of all the ways international airports could bottle up.

"Safe travels to you both," Sammy replied meekly, clearly taken aback by my sudden shift in tone.

Becca thankfully had the grace to wish him and his family well in return, but I could feel her body language struggling between the apology she knew she owed me and the embarrassment I surely caused in snapping at a sweet old man going through tougher times than us. 

“Sorry,” she said as we jumped in the car, apparently deciding to focus on her actions instead of mine. 

I was grateful. “I know. And so am I.” 

The engine roared to life, and when OneRepublic’s “Apologize” came crooning out of the speakers, we couldn’t help but laugh.

The rest of the lights were green, and leaving the car in long term parking was a breeze. In less than ten minutes, we queued at the security checkpoint behind a stout woman in a polka dot dress.

"We’ll make it," Becca said looking at the line ahead of us. "They’ve got five lanes open.” 

I’ve always appreciated her positivity, and almost as if on cue, two of the five TSA agents working the checkpoint turned off their machines and walked away.

“Three still goes pretty fast,” she said, but I couldn’t miss her nervous gulp.

The woman in front of us kept scrolling through her Facebook feed and operated on a relatively consistent delay of thirty seconds before she’d catch up when the line moved.

I tried not to look at my watch, but it didn’t matter. I could feel with bitter accuracy each minute ticking away as more than one person managed to make a spectacle out of taking off their shoes, completely unrelated toddlers gummed up two of the remaining lanes, and Polka Dot demanded to see a manager when they told her some pink Kenlie Kardashian bottle of, I don’t know, Calabasas bidet water was over the liquid carry-on limit. 

I was being patted down by a handsome lad with sad brown eyes when I heard the loudspeaker crackle, “Last call for Flight 318, San Diego to Zürich, last call to board.”

I considered making a run for it. I thought about screaming to the nearest flight attendant to please hold the door, but all that did was make me think of Hodor, and I wasn’t ready to fall down such a particularly intense rabbit hole of emotion at that moment.

We finished proving to the sky lords that we had followed all their travel rules and made a beeline for the nearest, overpriced airport restaurant. We’ve both been known to get hangrier than a teenager mid-growth spurt, and it wasn’t long before we had a basket of still-hot tortilla chips and a cold bowl of salsa.

We had half-smashed the appetizer when I looked up at Becca, so many thoughts swirling through my mind, and her face, lit by the setting sun and twinkling downtown lights, suddenly glowed with a brilliant orange that made it impossible to miss how truly beautiful she was.  

* * *

Adjusting the lucky baseball cap his oldest son had picked out for Sammy’s fifth Father’s Day, Sammy let his truck idle in front of his shop as the NPR morning news finished.

"...there were no survivors after flight 318 crashed into the tarmac shortly after take-off. While the cause of the accident remains unclear at this time, authorities believe the heatwave may have played a role in this tragedy."

Clicking off the radio, Sammy shook his head. Even though he was a glass half-full kind of guy, there were days he struggled to keep his thoughts out of the dark, and stories like this only made it harder to have a smile ready for anyone that might need one.

Unlocking the double doors he saw a small white envelope lying face-up on the floor. He bent down with creaking knees and picked it up, reading his name written in a bold hand with all caps. Working his thumb under the seal, he pulled out a small handwritten note. It read: 

Sammy,

While this will never excuse the way I treated you, please accept this apology and my thanks for truly giving me the deal of a lifetime. If it weren’t for your kindness, we would have made our flight. I hope this is enough to cover the best nurse in all of California.  

XOXO And keep the change.

Scratching his head, Sammy looked inside the envelope again and pulled out a certified check for $500,000.