Yesterday morning: after a long, delicious night of sleep, stumbled out into a gray morning, headed directly to the newspaper/magazine kiosk that's planted about 15 feet from my building's front entrance.
From Monday through Saturday, a 20-something male presides there, cloistered inside the snug space inside the small structure, accepting money, giving change, doling out extras that sometimes come with papers/magazines. Not very talkative, at least with me, and puts in long, long days, opening up around 8 a.m., closing up shop around 8 p.m. On Sundays, an older couple takes over -- the ‘rents, I suspect. Both gray-haired, both 50-something, working in shifts on the day of their son's rest..
When I pulled up there yesterday morning, the 50-something male lurked inside. I grabbed a copy of El País, pulled a 20 euro bill from my shirt pocket, handed it over. The bill was accepted slowly, the man's hands unfolding it, smoothing it out, straightening a crimped corner. His eyes shifted from the bill to a pair of men who stopped to buy a paper, then back to the bill, his manner slow, methodical, a bit strange, his expression a bit dour.
He inserted one end of the bill into a small black-light bill reader that crouched to one side of the kiosk window, the machine looking brand-spanking new. It sucked the bill slowly in, spit it slowly back out. The man took it, examined it further, holding it up to the kiosk's ceiling lights. Then he slipped it back into the machine. The two males at my side began to get restless, I began wondering why this bill -- one I'd gotten from my bank's ATM -- was being examined so intensely. The proprietor accepted money from the two men at my side, someone else appeared, bought a paper, disappeared, my twenty continued being scrutinized. "Is there a problem?" I asked. No answer. "Is the bill no good?" I asked. The bill disappeared into the new high-tech toy once more, smoothly reappeared. "I think it's okay," the proprietor finally said. "Yes, I think it's okay." "Good," I said, my tone politely communicating, Would you please give me my freakin' change then so I can get on with the rest of my life? He did, his manner not terribly warm. I accepted it, said thanks, took off.
What exactly happened? I have no idea. One of those blips that appear unexpectedly on one's radar screen, an interaction with another human that don't go the as expected. The good part: they pass. And life goes on.
Sure are mysterious though.
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Sunday morning in the barrio, Christmastime -- quiet, tranquil, awash in wan sunlight.
España, te amo.
rws 8:03 AM [+]
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