One morning, in the neighborhood hardware store, I was set to buy a screwdriver, just right for a chore that day. A woman at the checkout was talking on her phone. I waited. The storekeep held out his hand, “One key, dollar seventy-eight.” Still talking, she lifted a shoulder to squeeze the phone to her ear, dug deep in her handbag and placed a wadded bill on the counter. The storekeep eyed her and lay her change on the counter. A coin rolled to the floor. She glared. The storekeep came from behind the counter and gave her what I would call a gentle, arm’s length push out the door. They had words. When he returned, I looked at him. He said, “Sorry ‘bout that.” I said, “I don’t think either of you were at your best.” I didn’t buy the screwdriver.