A Quarter for Your Troubles

I went to the Norton Simon Museum on Monday with my brother in law. I had left my purse in Spike's car so I had grabbed one of my quarter rolls from the laundry jar in order to pay the entrance fee. When we arrived at the museum entrance, there was a surly little bottle-black haired goth girl at the desk. She had obviously not had her morning java and was trying to process the visitors with as little personal interaction as possible. It was $8 for me to get in so I took $2 worth of quarters out of my $10 roll and handed it to her. She looked at me with disgust dripping from her eyes but didn't take the money from my outstretched hand.

"Is it okay for me to pay with quarters?" I asked, caught off guard by her hesitation.
She rolled her eyes at her co-worker who was watching with amusement. "I guess..." She looked suspiciously at the coin roll.
"You can count it if you want." I offered.
She took the roll and picked hatefully at the plastic coin wrapper. Then for what seemed like hours she meticulously organized the quarters into neat little piles of four. She counted, then recounted the amount like an Atlanta dealer.
"You're a quarter short" she triumphantly snarled, glaring at the offending coins.
"Sorry about that. Here's another quarter. And you know what, here's another quarter for you to keep for taking the time to count them."

I handed her two more quarters and got the coldest look I've ever had the pleasure to receive. I had to run around the corner as fast as possible so I could bust out a huge laugh at this afflicted museum worker. I'm sure she has taken that quarter home and made some kind of Hollywood-voodoo doll out of it. That would explain the painful stich in my side I get whenever I chuckle thinking about her.

I can't wait to go to the museum again. This time, I'm paying with pennies.