a writer's journal - politics, music, american culture, esoteric aspects of life, and stories

Sunday

Tipping points

When I was a waiter, and I was seeing a girl who was a waitress at the same place, we had separate apartments but did a lot of living together. I always cooked dinner, she always cooked breakfast; we fought quite a bit and had lots of fun. We had a vicious running joke whereby whenever one of us was pissed at the other, we'd leave a tip with the meal the other one served up, a few bucks or some silver. Eventually it started making things worse, but that made the gesture more vital.

I am occasionally reminded of this whenever I eat out. I get a glimmer of hatred in me as I tip.

She and I split up after a while, and I realized that I hadn't left her a tip on that last morning.

So I went back to the diner on her shift - I'd quit the job the week before - and sat in her section. She refused to serve me, and I dumped out my spare jingle and blew.

You ever do that? Go to a restaurant, leave some change, and go?

It's funny, but I can't do it like Warren Zevon did - "I went home with the waitress / the way I always do" - if I'm working as a waiter, I sleep with the waitresses, but if I'm a customer, I sleep with other customers. I tip pretty good.
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