Conversation I had this weekend between myself and a very grumpy flea market vendor who reminded me a lot of my dead grampa:
vendor: That fabric you’re holding is really old. I can let you have it for 75 cents.
me: I like it, but I’m not sure what I’d do with it.
vendor: Fine. 50 cents. But I’m not giving you a bag for it.
me: Oh. No, it’s not the price that’s the issue.
vendor: Well fine, Miss Moneybags.
me: You know what? I’ll take it. Can you break a ten?
vendor: You’re making me give you 25 cents off an antique tea towel when you had ten bucks the whole time?
me: Wait. This is a tea towel? I thought it was a table runner.
vendor: It’s a very large tea towel and you are robbing me blind.
me: Dude. I will happily pay the extra quarter.
vendor: No. A deal’s a deal. But I can’t break a ten so you’ve gotta to go the the beer tent to get change.
me: The beer tent makes change?
vendor: They do if you buy a beer.
me: But I don’t want a beer.
vendor: Well then get me one and we’ll call it even.
me: This is all just an elaborate ruse to get me to buy you beer, isn’t it?
vendor: Busted. Don’t let ‘em put ice in it. That’s how they get you.
And that’s the story of the time I bought a 50 cent towel with a four dollar beer because I felt guilty for accidentally being so insulting nonchalant about not needing a 25 cent discount.