A Test Of My Menschhood

You might call this post "self-congratulatory," and you would be right. I write this, though, more to spur your own thoughts on the subject rather than to revel in my own. Let me explain.


I don't speak Yiddish, but my understanding of the term "mensch" is that it means a "regular guy," or a "real human being." Somebody who is no hero, but is a reasonably upstanding member of his community, a genuine person. (Again, my lack of understanding of Yiddish fails me as to gender references. Does "mensch" refer only to males? I am referring to all human beings here.)


I think of myself as a mensch. I suppose most people would, if you put the question to them. How about you?


Part of menschhood is honesty, integrity. What you do - or don't do - when no one else is looking, when you could get away with it "scot-free" as my mom would say. From that standpoint, I have not always been a mensch. There were the times when I was a kid and would shoplift from the local Safeway, for instance: always candy bars and smoked meats. My career ended when I was apprehended and my mother was called to liberate me from the dark stockroom at the back of the store. Or later, in the early-seventies, when I was attending broadcasting school and living on not much (I was so poor, when I referred to myself as "broke" I pronounced the word with two syllables, as in "br-roke!"), I drew out my last $75 from my savings account at the bank's drive-through window. The teller did not run my passbook through the little machine when she gave me the money, so my record did not show the withdrawal. I rationalized that, "Hey, the bank can afford it, they got lots of money."


I have never forgotten that day or that woman. The bank is long-gone, eaten by the bigger bank-fishes in the sea. I think.


Which brings me to the other day. I had bought some blood glucose test strips from my local Fred Meyer pharmacy several weeks before. (I don't have diabetes, but my elderly gentleman cat, Max, who is over 80 human years old, does. I occasionally test his blood glucose at home several times over a daylong period to assist the vet in determining his optimum insulin dosage. The whole thing - testing, insulin injections, etc., works the same for a cat as it does for a human, except I obtain the drop of blood from his ear rather from a fingertip. He doesn't like that part, and I don't blame him.) When I went to use one of the strips the other day, my home testing machine informed me that the strips had expired. They aren't cheap, and the smallest quantity you can buy from the manufacturer - Kroger, which owns Fred Meyer and QFC stores locally - is 50. The strips and the machine have to be made by the same manufacturer, and I swear to god it is like a low-end inkjet printer: you might save by buying a cheap one (some glucose testers are actually "free") but the companies make their money back from you in spades on the damn ink cartridges. God forbid you would ever actually print something in color on one of those things!


I had about 40 of the expired strips left - say $15 worth - and I figured I would just have to bite it and buy a new box. But this time I would check the expiration date! Then my friend Laurie says, why not return them for an exchange? Of course I didn't have the receipt, and, like my other conception of a true mensch, I don't want to make a fuss. (Don't worry about me, I'll just shiver over here in the dark. You kids go and have fun. I'll be fine. Really. Go, and do! I'll be here when you get back. No rush. Take your time. Light bulbs and heat, they're expensive these days. Better we should conserve.) My family was about as far from Jewish as you can get, yet there are some universal and ever-popular themes in family life, eh?

But what did I have to lose? I would summon up my righteous indignation and make my case! The pharmacist informed me that they could not accommodate me, that I would have to buy a new box. OK, I tried. But when he brought out the "new" box to sell me, it had the same expired date on it. Gotcha!

I run over to one of the guys in those red vests who roam the stores, always talking on a cell phone, and who seem to be in some kind of authority position. "Operations Supervisor," this one was called. I huff, puff, and harrumph my way through my story, and he assures me he will right all wrongs. (Memo to self: in the future, always start with the guy in the red vest.) Since I don't have the receipt, he will have to give me a store credit. OK. But can I use the credit at the local QFC, since his store has no more fresh strips, and can he call over to their pharmacy to see if they have any? Yes and yes.

He gives me the gift card and I jet over to the QFC. I find that their pharmacy prices the SAME box of strips $5 higher! (Memo to diabetic cat companion: always buy your test strips at Fred Meyer. Your cat can't afford to be diabetic at QFC.) OK, I'll pay the extra. AND HERE IT COMES, the moment of truth: I run the credit card given to me by Red Vest through their machine and open my wallet to find five more dollars. They tell me that the purchase is covered, and that I have a $15 credit remaining! Glory days!

What to do? Red Vest obviously made a mistake, perhaps crediting me for the price of the 100-strip box. No one knows this but me. Out in the parking lot, it hits me: I have to return the credit slip to Red Vest's store. This money ain't mine.

Back at Red Vest's store, I go to the guy at the customer service counter, present him with the credit slip, and tell him my story. He is incredulous. He cannot believe I am doing this, and at first doesn't understand what I want from him. I don't want anything from you, I say, I am GIVING you this credit slip. So you're being honest, he says, as the true nature of the situation dawns like the golden sunrise. Yes, I am being honest, I say.

I feel good that I did this. No one would have known. I was scot-free. I am secure in my menschhood.

Are there stories in your life like this? Are you a mensch?