“Find a penny......”

“Any chance I can redeem this bottle-return?” I asked the checkout at a local supermarket. “It’s all I have, and it’s only a dime.”
The lady scanned my ticket and handed me a dime. “You’ll be glad to know I’m one of the few who still pick up pennies on the sidewalk,” I added.
“Find a penny. Pick it up. All the day you'll have good luck,” she said.
I looked at her a few seconds as I walked away, then said “I’m gonna steal that!”
So there it is, dear readers. When I hear a good line, I steal it. Although apparently it’s from a song. So says Google.
“Gotta be heads,” she added. “Tails won’t work.”
Proof yet again: “just say it!”
If there’s anything I’ve learned since my wife died, it’s just say it!
Doing so for this kid seems incredibly risky. I have this habit of getting people mad.
There’s also a chance I’ll hafta repeat. My first utterance usually goes unheard. Or it’s so obscure I hafta explain.
I’m down in FL in 2016 for my wife’s mother’s birthday; she made 100. My brother-in-law and I patronized a Mickey-D’s for lunch. An oldster walked in; he’s wearing a WWII veteran’s hat. “Holy mackerel,” I exclaimed; ”I thought you guys were gone.”
So began our three-hour encounter with “Harmon.” 90-some years old, life story, abandoned as a child, cross-country in a ’32 Ford complete with hitchhiker left roadside in Californy. “Yada-yada-yada-yada;” Harmon needed an audience and we were it.
Then there’s pretty *****, my pharmacist.
“Wanna hear a story?” I asked her.
What in the world am I, a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations, doing talking to pretty *****? Years ago we’d call ***** “a looker.” Not exactly cute — she’s often frowning — but not ugly or frumpy.
What I always say about Stormy Daniels is she’d be cute without them watermelons.
***** wanted to hear my story, which was about chasing an Amtrak passenger-train near Altoona in bitter cold. She probably didn’t understand a word I said, but she was smiling broadly. I was telling her a story, and she loved it.
Mrs. Walton is spinning in her grave. Mrs. Walton was my childhood Sunday-school superintendent and neighbor. She convinced me all men, including me, were scum. She also told me Elvis Presley was “the bane of western civilization.” (Her exact words.)
You wonder how I remember this stuff; my response is how could I forget?
On-and-on it goes. Lifeguards at my local YMCA swimming-pool, complete strangers in the supermarket. And much to the chagrin of Mrs. Walton, many are female. I do this with men and they often take offense, despite my not having a fence to offer.
I’m driving back from chasing trains in Altoona, PA. I stop for gas in Blossburg. The pump is dispensing madness: “Beep-Boop! Enter ZIP; unable to read card; try-again!” Wondrous time-saving technology.
“Ever notice how these machines want you to punch in yer account-number, and the first thing the service-rep asks for is yer account-number?”
I said this to a lady I’ll never see again in my entire life. She was probably in her 60s. She laughed; I made her smile.
“I see you were named after the transmissions our buses used.”
“You got it backwards. Them bus-trannies were named after ME.”
ZOWEE-WOWEE! Just say it! Every once-in-a-while I get a slam-dunk.
“Find a penny. Pick it up. All the day you'll have good luck.”

• RE: “Chasing trains......” —I’m a railfan, and have been all my life. When chasing trains I monitor a railroad-radio scanner, and train-engineers call out the signal aspect as they pass a signal. Hearing that, I know where to be to see — and photograph — that train.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that over 12 years ago.
• My wife died over six years ago.
• “Q” stands for “Quincy.”