There’s a old-fashioned grocery store in my extended neighborhood. It’s so vintage they stock fresh fruit and use cash registers. If you don’t want to pay with cash or a card, they’ll let you sign a tab and they’ll send you a bill now and then. They make frequent checkout errors, and the adjustments are usually fast and approximate.

But even they now have to accept the chipped debit and credit cards.

I shopped there today. I got to interact with my favorite checker, Russ. Like most of the employees, he has good social attitude and bad math aptitude. He’s tall and has dark tight curly hair. He rides a bike to work and we exchange our experiences of temperature and relative humidity. He’s the only checker I’ve ever allowed to comment on my purchases, but that’s because I owe him a few, for outstanding recommendations about new combinations of dark chocolate, coconut and almonds.

An hour ago he took my credit card and shoved it into the new chip reader. His look was halfway chagrined – like he was about to administer an enema or something. He lifted the card reader up so I could see it and pointed out its tangle of bent black cords.

“Whatta mess,” he exhaled, and body-signaled that he was about to unsnarl the cords.

“My father would caution you not to force the wires,” I commented.

“Your father would be correct.”

“I know. So do my siblings. We’re unfit for human relationships because we’re such assholes about stuff like that.”

Russ is quick but gave a delayed reaction. Then he chuckled into his beard. He handed me my receipt. For a moment he forgot my card. He pulled it out of the contraption and gave it to me.

I picked up my purchases as he started separating the cords.

“I wish you gratification,” I said. “It’s like cleaning up after a spaghetti dinner. You’re really going to be able to perceive progress.”

I left him cord-busy and grinning.