Going to the coffee shop, car wash or even the gas station has been presenting a dilemma lately. I love my coffee, I am what you could call anal about my car and I love Ho-Ho’s, a delicacy one can only purchase at the local Amaco.
One of my first jobs was counter boy at Dunkin’ Donuts. I applied to be a “donut finisher”, even though I didn’t know what that meant, but they offered me a position as the morning counter boy instead. This meant getting up at 5 a.m. to arrive at Michigan’s only Kosher Dunkin’ Donuts by 6. Mind you, I’m not Jewish, but I felt if I had to work at a place that couldn’t even add the ‘g’ to the end of their trademark name, at least I could work at an establishment that had some claim to fame.
This was my introduction to public service. It was my first job where being nice and giving good service was reflected in the form of a gratuity. It’s also where I learned to appreciate and show the wait staff how grateful I am for good service-even if it is to a fault. You see, I seem to have a problem of over-tipping: If the waitperson smiles at me, I give an immediate 25%, if they offer to take my coat, it’s 30% and if they tell me the specials and promise to “hold one for me because there’s only one left”, they become the beneficiary to my life insurance policy. Maybe it’s because my expectations of good customer service has dwindled over the past few year, but I find myself wanting to hug the waitress when she announces the soup du jour without my asking. I’m ready to purpose to the waiter who tells me his name.
Unfortunately one of the side effects of my over-tipping disorder is the dread I feel when I’m not 100 percent sure the waitperson knows I tipped them. The mere thought of them watching me leave the restaurant with thoughts of “look, there goes the cheapest guy on earth” makes me break out in hives. The only remedy to my phobia is to watch them receive the tip and wait for a reply or reaction. Most of the time it’s a subtle “do you need change” or “thank you, have a good night” and an occasional smile a wink. Whatever it is, I crave it. If I don’t get this simple satisfaction, I simply can’t leave the building until I know they are aware it was me who contributed to their retirement fund and helped with their mortgage.
This entire issue didn’t affect my daily life until recently. There was a time when tipping was just expected in restaurants and hair salons. Today it seems anyone who has a pulse and is able to put your muffin into a bag requires an extra 20%. I’m not sure who invented this policy that tortures me, but I think they should be hanged. I now can’t even go into the men’s room without helping the guy who sprays me with a cologne I don’t even like, put his youngest child through college. It seems everywhere I turn, there is a clear container that says “Tips” with a smile face on it, like that makes it less intrusive. I’m well aware I could just leave my loose change, but I know they will notice and shoot me. If the tip in the jar doesn’t have a president’s face on it and is made of paper, I’m convinced I will be shunned from the establishment for the rest of my life.
This phobia all came to a head one day. I was at a bakery getting lunch. As I looked at the pastries, I opted for a bowl of soup and a roll. The smiling young man rang up my order and gave me my change. I looked down and saw the familiar jar with the slogan “we rely on our tips” looking at me with a vengeance. I have a reputation now, if my bill is 4.99 and I give them a ten, they inevitably have no more 5’s. “All I have is five singles if that’s o.k.” he says. “No problem” I reply, knowing full well that he knows I won’t leave a five, but will “happily” drop a single into his new car fund.
As he hands me my change-five singles and one shiny penny- I take one of the dollars and drop it into the friendly jar. The problem was, he turned away at the same moment to get my soup. HE HAD NO IDEA! At this point I had two choices, either wait until he turned back so he could see me drop another dollar in, or go with plan B, the option I probably should not have taken. As his back was turned, I quickly stuck my hand in the jar and pulled my dollar back out. In my head it was going to be easy-just retrieve the buck, wait until he is looking at me and drop it back in and leave-simple. The wrinkle in my plan occurred when he realized he forgot to ask me if it was for here or to go. As he turned in what seemed like the speed of light, his friendly smile turned to one of accusing horror. He just busted me stealing his tips. I was speechless. I had no clue what to say or how to get out of this. Not only had one of my biggest fears come true-I was now going to go to jail for robbery.
I looked around to see if the store had any security cameras. I knew if this went to trial, I was going to need proof of my initial generosity if my story was going to stick. “I know this looks weird”, I mustered to say with a nervous laugh, “I gave you a tip and I’m not sure you were aware of it, so blah, blah, blah, blah blah”. The more I talked, the more guilt I felt. I’m sure he could see it in my face. My tomato red face admitting guilt I didn’t even have. My story made absolutely no sense. I mean, what kind of person is so obsessed with the fear of not being acknowledged that they would risk going to prison?
I finally said “it’s to go”. He looked at me like I was a side dish he didn’t order. “My soup…it’s to go” I said with total humility. He reluctantly turned and ladled my soup into the to-go hot cup and with an attitude handed it to me and said “have a nice day”. I’m pretty sure he meant “you are a cruel, cheap non-tipper”. It was a nightmare and I could only see one way out. I pulled out the other four dollars, counted them in front of him, and deposited the 100 percent tip into his little jar of happiness. Once I got back to work, I threw my soup away, certain that he secretly spit into it and had to go somewhere else for lunch-forever!
