Considering Kindness: How a Quick Connection Can Shift Your Perception

And someone else’s, too

Photo by Tolga Ulkan on Unsplash

I walked up to the checkout line with a handful of items for dinner, pleased that only one person stood in front of me. Exhausted after a weekend of parenting six kids alone and runing from back to back to back basketball games all morning and afternoon, I was more than ready to throw some food on the table for the kids and curl up on the couch for the rest of the night.

The man in front of me wore warm clothes, a fleece earflap hat pulled down tightly over his head, and a mask covering most of his face. All I could see were his worn, piercing blue eyes. He may have been 30 or 60; it was impossible to tell. But he looked just as tired as I felt.

The cashier scanned his three items. “$5.64 is your total.”

He pushed his card into the card reader. It didn’t work.

“Go ahead and try again,” she encouraged. Still nothing. “Maybe swipe it?”

His eyebrows furrowed, and his mounting frustration was nearly palpable. I reached for my card to pay for him when suddenly the machine beeped. He stood there.

“You’ll have to follow the instructions on the screen to complete your transaction, sir.”

He gestured to the card reader. “You do it.”

The cashier held up her arms defensively. “I don’t know how your card works, sir. Just follow the instructions on the screen.”

His arms fell helplessly at his sides and he stared at the screen, but didn’t make a move to do anything else. I realized that he probably either couldn’t read or maybe couldn’t read English. “Tell me!” he practically shouted. A manager appeared, standing next to the cashier and looking expectantly at the man.

“Do you need to enter a PIN?”

He shrugged, pushed a few keys, and there was another beep.

“You do it,” he said to the cashier again, gesturing.

“Sir, you’ll have to do it. Just press the green button.” He didn’t know what to do, still.

I cleared my throat and stepped towards the man, hoping my masked smile showed in the corners of my eyes. “It’s ok, can I help you?”