By David Billingsley

“Just a minute!”

“You’re unbelievable,” I said as I watched my wife tear through miles of pockets, secret corners, and alcoves that defined the purse. I would assist, but in the last four decades, I’ve yet to locate a single requested item hiding in the depths of this mysterious and magical accessory.

And for what reason was this panic? One dollar and seventy-five cents.

She yanked her wallet out, a virtual weapon in its own right. The woman in the toll booth, a significant creature, roughly half the size of our little hatchback, tapped her fingers and stared—not at my wife, the driver, but at me. A polite beep sounded from the car just to our rear.

“Surely you have a couple of bucks or your debit card,” I stated, knowing this is a woman who commonly puts two dollars of gas in the car at the local convenience store and keeps her debit card at home “somewhere.” Sans any response to me, the search had now been redirected to the twenty-five-plus compartments in her wallet.

She halted her search for a microsecond and spoke directly to my face, “You’re an accountant, for Christ’s sake!” I shook my head, wondering how my job description would save us from the growing line of irritated motorists to our rear.

Her complexion now matched the red light attached to the traffic arm that blocked our progress. “Hand it over, Frank!” She threw her wallet on the floor, and renewed her search in the purse.

Did I have the money? Of course. This time she was going to pay.

Through the rearview mirror, I could see a well-dressed man, maybe a banker, sticking his head out the window. Colorful suggestions followed for my wife. More horns, not polite this time, echoed off the pavement, accompanied by words only allowed on cable television.

Then she did it.

She opened the door, walked calmly to the back of the car, and held her arms in the air as if she could control the building mob.

Amid the shouting, I heard her cry out, “My husband is making me suffer because I don’t have one dollar and seventy-five cents!”

The banker held some currency out his window. “Here’s five bucks, lady. Move your car!”

Through the rear window, I watched my wife shake her head and point her finger at the crowd. “No charity. I’m going to earn my way out of this.” She reached into the purse.

A young girl, colorful tattoos painted on her arms and shoulders, pierced through her lip, eyebrows, ears, and probably several other places unseen, stepped from her ground-hugging Japanese sedan which now blocked the lane to our left. She yelled out to the swelling masses that she wouldn’t budge until someone helped this repressed woman. Her glare, aimed squarely at me, pierced my own lip.

Next, the monster in the toll booth opened the door. I was sure my wife, in an expensive lesson, would soon be taken away by the transit police. Instead, the woman proceeded to block the lane to our right, proclaiming in one guttural burst, “I’m with her!”

I reached into my billfold, knowing I had exactly ninety-two dollars—four twenties, one ten, and two ones—and extracted the ones. In a virtual swipe at masculinity everywhere, the toll-road lady stared me down and forced my fingers to place the cash back in my wallet.

My wife pulled out a half-devoured pack of gum and held it in the air, losing a couple of wrappers in the process. “I want a fair price. Who will give me a quarter for this cinnamon gum?” An elderly woman, trapped behind the pierced girl, held out a quarter, and my wife proceeded to execute the sale.

From a small building attached to the toll plaza, a burly transit authority policeman moved toward us. Enough is enough. I exited the vehicle to a chorus of boos and a plethora of cell phone cameras recording the event for posterity. I implored my wife to take my money. She ignored me.

My wife had soon sold her directions to her sister’s house for ten cents, her used lipstick for twenty cents, an after-dinner mint for a dime, a broken pencil for a nickel, two ballpoint pens for a quarter, and her brush for thirty cents. And somewhere in the middle of the transactions, she’d found a dime in the bottom of her purse.

Amazingly, I found myself tallying her total in the back of my mind as she progressed. A dollar and thirty-five cents. Forty cents to go.

My wife held up one last item, a small white card, and announced the item to the crowd.

The price—forty cents.

I ripped my wallet out of my pocket, beating several interested parties to the punch, including the policeman and the toll booth lady. My wife put her thumb and forefinger close to the dollar I was now holding and quickly snatched it away.

I stared ahead, alone behind enemy lines. I swore one of drivers said, “Get a rope.”

My wife returned to the car. As she passed by the toll booth lady, she deposited the required fee in her hand.

I quickly found shelter in the hatchback. My wife smiled but kept her eyes on the road ahead. I was in trouble for the rest of my life.

She handed me the last item from the purse. The item I had bought for forty cents.

My business card.