Karma

Ok, now I'm really a nice guy. I don't try to rip anyone off. I'm honest about my product. And if someone tries to give me a tip for making a special order for them, or adding a few rings to make a piece fit, I hand them their change and ask them to pass it on to one of the street buskers instead.

But sometimes, every now and then, rarely but once in a blue moon, something occurs that is beyond my control.

Just the other day a man came by booth.

Oh, wait. Before I tell you that story, I should mention a different one. And before that, I should say that I was born in Chicago. I'm an American. Canadian, too, now, but still American. So please don't think that I have anything against Americans. I don't.

Last year this couple came to my booth early in the morning, as I was setting up shop for the day. They were from Georgia, southern US Georgia not Georgia on the deep Black Sea. And after a short but pleasant conversation, out of the blue, the guy says, "I really like Canada. If there weren't so many left-wing anti-gun freaks, I'd consider moving here." The wife, to her credit, looked aghast that he had said such a thing. After the momentary shock of I-can't-believe-I-just-heard-this, I replied, "Yeah. And if it weren't for all the right-wing gun-toting nutcases, I might have stayed in the US." And to think, I was actually civil and smiling politely when I said that. I mean, it's not why I moved to Canada, but I couldn't help saying that.

Anyways, just the other day, this guy comes up to my booth and he's wearing a "Trump" baseball hat. My first thought was, "Wow. You got some balls wearing that outside of the US." But then he started talking and I realized that he really was a jerk. I mean, like a complete jerk. A total blockhead. A real imbecile. An absolute, one hundred percent, abnormal wrinkles around the mouth, flatulantly speaking asshole.

He was, in short, exactly the sort of person that I truly don't want to sell to. No interest. Nada. Zip. Zero.

But he picked up a $100 bracelet and asked if I accepted cash.

"Sure", I said, with as little enthusiasm as I could muster.

"'Murican?"

"Of course."

"What's the exchange rate?"

Ok. So at least he realized that he was in another country. Given some of the the things he had been saying earlier to his friends, I was truly wondering. I mean, not all who land here in Victoria with the cruise ships do. We are, after all, their only stop in Canada, and it just doesn't occur to them. No problem. We all understand. But given some of the excrement that exuded from his lips, I was truly surprised at that question.

Now, again, to be fair, I'm really a nice guy. I've been told so by many people. In fact, my wife, when we began courting said, "You're a nice guy, but..." I didn't actually hear anything she said after that for a few minutes, but then I realized she was talking about how she liked me and was a bit concerned that I might not like her, and that this might upset our friendship, and was I interested in exploring a relationship with her. Ladies out there, you might not be aware of it, but there is a switch in the male brain that turns on with the phrase, "You're a nice guy, but..." and continues with screaming internal sobs of "Nooooo! Why me?" Please. If you have any compassion at all for the guy, never, and I mean never, use that phrase on a friend.

Where was I?

Oh yes, nice guy. Really. I am.

Exchange rate. Right.

"20%."

If you're at all familiar with the Canadian dollar, our beloved Loonie (don't you just love a currency called "The Loonie"), and the US dollar, the almighty buck (which makes me think of a male deer on steroids), then you know that the current rate is closer to 30%. It wasn't that I was trying to rip him off. Not at all. It's just that I'm not a bank. I'm not a currency exchange. It costs me money to deposit US cash, and I'm not sure what the exchange rate will be when I eventually get around to thinking about considering the possibility of going to the bank, so I give myself a little cushion. And besides, I can calculate 20% in my head.

"What's that come to?"

"$120." See? I can calculate 20% on $100 in my head, no problem. I'm good with math. My Dad used to say that it was my first language.

"Really?"

By this point I was tired, and just wanted this guy out of my booth. You'll notice that I haven't said a word about what he actually said or did that made me come to conclusion about his anatomical development. That would be backbiting, after all, and I won't do that. I just know that humans are deuterostomes, which means that our rectal opening develops first, meaning that as we grow in the womb, there is a point in our development during which we are basically just an asshole. And I'm aware that some of us never develop beyond that stage. And there, standing in front of me, was a prime example. And I just wanted him gone.

And being a nice guy, (remember, I'm a nice guy) I said, "Really. But I'll let you have it for $100."

"Oh, okay." And he reached in his wallet and handed me a $100 bill.

A $100 US bill.

He took the bracelet, from which I had already removed the price tag, and walked away.

I must have stood for there for a full minute or two puzzled about something, holding that bill, with a bit of a frinkle. That's a cross between a frown on your face and that wrinkle that develops between the eyebrows. I stood there. For well over a minute.

And then I realized that we had both converted that money in the wrong direction.

By the time that dawned on me, he was long gone.

And I was left thinking, oh well, karma in action.