I had just parked my car in front of the post office on Grand Avenue near Clark Street and was digging through my purse looking for quarters for the parking meter. As I emptied the contents onto the hood of my car, a postal worker yelled something at me. I looked up and heard her say, “So, do you need quarters?”
“Sure,” I yelled back, and she walked over to me. I rifled through my wallet and found only a ten and a twenty. “Sorry, I have no singles,” I told her.
“That’s OK, baby,” she said. “Hold out your hand.” I looked at her blankly, and she repeated her command. She then counted two dollars’ worth of quarters into my palm and started to walk away.
“I can’t take this from you,” I yelled to her. But she kept walking. “Honey, I’d rather you have the money than the city of Chicago in a parking ticket.” As she bounded down the street, she yelled, “Have a good day!”
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