“Say I’m in a restaurant and the owner’s serving me.” Doc asks. “Do I tip him?’

“It depends,” I say.

“On what?”

“If no waiters are working but there’s busboys I’d still leave a tip.”

“’Cause the busboys get some of it.”

“Right.”

“But if there’s no busboys?”

“Then I’d say no.”

“Well listen to this,” Doc says. “I’m eating lunch in a place, no waiters, busboys, nothing. The owner served me. And after I paid up she had the nerve to ask me, “Where’s my tip?’

“How’d you respond?”

“I told her that my coming in there was my tip.”

“Correct answer,” I say.

“Well the lady got a little pissed.”

“Some people.”

Doc takes a draw on his cigar and watches the smoke drift toward the ceiling. In the background some show called Pawn Stars is playing on the television.

“So I never went back there. “ Doc says. “But when I walked past the place yesterday she ran out and asked why I haven’t been there in a while. So I told her.”

“Good.” I say. “Maybe she learned something.”

“So you get questions like this a lot?” Doc asks.

“Wherever I go.”

“That’s when you get when you say you’re a tipping guru.”

I reach over and pull a galley copy of Keep the Change out from underneath the golf magazines on the coffee table and toss it to him.

‘Well you can read all about it here,” I say.

“Cool,” Doc says. “Does that mean I don’t have to buy a copy?’

“You wish.”

As I listen to the rattle and hum of a restaurant on a busy Saturday night I look at the patrons around me having a good time. Roots is an expensive place – but then again so are the customers. Most of the guys here are wearing blazers, expensive shirts and the badge of rich North Eastern men everywhere – shoes with no socks. I’ve never quite understood why waspy men think it’s cool to have smelly feet. To my left two horsey looking women who look like they play lots of tennis are laughing and drinking martinis while their richly clad husbands honk about the stock market. In my polo shirt and slacks I feel a bit underdressed. No one hassled me about the dress code when I came in, but when the maître’d gave me a big smile and a friendly hello I had the sneaking suspicion he noticed I was wearing socks. I’ll live.

“This is a nice place,” my date says. “Thanks for taking me here.”

“No problem,” I reply, wondering if I’ll need a loan shark’s services to pick up the tab.

“Very busy tonight,” she says. “I thought most people were still on vacation.”

“Their yachts must be in dry dock.”

My date laughs. “So how many guys here aren’t wearing socks?” I ask

“I can see seven right off the bat.”

“These guys must buy Odor-Eaters by the gross.”

After ten minutes the hostess glides over and says our table is ready. Before I can ask the barmen he says he’ll transfer the Perrier to our bill. Classy. Not a lot of places will do that. The hostess seats us at a table in tight corner next to the waiter’s station. It is not the best table in the house but that’s what you get when you make a reservation at the last minute. I’m sure some customers would freak out if they got sat here, but if a bad table’s the worst thing that happens to me all week I’m ahead of the curve. But I like overhearing waiters as they ply their trade. The table will do.

My date and I order a mess of oysters and a prime New York Strip steak. When the waiter asks me what I’d like to drink I order another margarita. I know I should order red wine, but after two margaritas, margaritas go with everything. When our steak arrives it’s cooked to perfection and our side of grilled asparagus is very tasty. As I eat I notice the servers are friendly, prompt and very professional. I guess they didn’t notice I was wearing socks either. Passing on dessert we chitchat with our waiter, pay the bill and leave. I didn’t have to utilize underground-banking services after all so I leave a nice tip. The server deserved it too.

Well fed and slightly tipsy, my date and I emerge from the restaurant’s air-conditioned confines and into the warm evening air. Lighting up a cigar I suggest we go for an after dinner stroll. Digesting red meat involves peristalsis. And as we walk past the fine shops and real estate agencies advertising homes costing a million bucks we find ourselves at the scene of a murder.

The Promenade is a nice little spot in Summit on Springfield Avenue. A little oasis of tranquility, it’s a miniature park wedged between two buildings. It has a water fountain, greenery and four or five benches to sit on. During the day it’s a place where mothers come with their children and old people stop to rest their feet. On the evening of July 17th an El Salvadoran restaurant worker named Abelino Mazaniego was sitting on one of those benches drinking some post shift beers when he was approached by a pack of teenagers. One of the kids pulled the man’s shirt over his head and he and his accomplice severely beat him. One teenager even recorded the attack with his cell phone camera. Mr. Mazaniego died a few days later. But the authorities didn’t know they had a murder on their hands until that video started making the rounds on the Internet. The attackers were apprehended and initially charged with manslaughter. After it was discovered the motive for the attack was robbery the charges were upgraded to murder.

The citizens of Summit were shocked that such a thing could happen in their affluent burg of 21 thousand people. They last time they had a murder was fifteen years ago. But that was a domestic killing, not in the center of town. In response the townspeople laid flowers and lit candles at the scene of the crime. Many also donated money to take care of the restaurant worker’s funeral expenses. There are good people everywhere and Summit has more than its fair share. But my question was this – why didn’t any adults see the attack and do something about it?

Walking into The Promenade with my date I sit down on the bench where the worker was attacked and puff on my cigar. The flowers and candles were removed so it looks like nothing ever happened here. But as I sit where a man spent his last conscious moments I look at the lines of sight into the park. The stores looking into the square were empty that night. And any customers milling outside the restaurants across the street would have been unable to look in. With a group of teenagers blocking their view no one could have really known what was going on even if they had looked. So there’s a good reason no adult saw anything.

As I’m pondering this fact two men across the street eye me surreptitiously. Maybe they think my sitting on this bench is sacrilegious. They could be right. My date won’t sit on the bench. But one day mothers, children and old people will sit on this spot with no idea what happened here. It’s the way of the world.

I take a draw on my cigar and think of the reactions the townspeople gave to the press after the incident. Most of them were shocked and saddened by the evil that visited their city. They have every right to be. It’s tough when the world’s darkness shows up in your backyard. But one lady’s comment got to me. She said the murder was “embarrassing.” That pissed me off. Why? Because none of the teenagers who witnessed the attack called the police. Not a single one. That’s embarrassing. And not just for Summit, but for all of us.

A gentle breeze floats the laughter of customers outside Roots into the little park, twisting the smoke from my cigar into curlicues of drifting chaos. Shaking my head I get off the bench and walk with my date into the night.

Back in a few days. Thanks for tuning in.

Steve

“How’s your food?” my date, a classy brunette, asks.

“Expensive,” I mumble through a piece of egg sodden brioche.

“It’s such a lovely day,” she says, stretching languidly while looking up at the flawless blue sky. “Don’t you think?” Even the weather here is ritzy.

As my date and I aimlessly chat about the weather a woman driving a battleship grey Audi TT pulls into a parking spot in front of the restaurant. I also notice that she’s taken up one and a half parking spots. Munching on my expensive Canadian bacon I see the woman start reading a book. And as she turns the pages she’s oblivious to the black Mercedes trying to squeeze in behind her. But since Audi Lady is hogging up so much space the task is beyond the capability of even the most skilled parallel parker.

After a few minutes of trying to make two pieces of matter occupy the same space at the same time, a visibly annoyed man jumps out of the Mercedes and tries directing his companion into the spot. After she tries and fails several times the man’s face flushes red with anger. “Look,” I say to my date. “This shit’s starting to get good.”

““Why can’t that Audi move up and let them in?”

“I think the driver’s on another planet.”

By this point the Mercedes is blocking traffic and cars are clogging the street. Not to be deterred, the man walks over to the Audi and taps on the window. Audi Lady looks at him sweetly and makes a “Sorry. I’m not leaving motion.” Apoplectic, the man throws his hands up in the air, storms back to his car and the couple drives away.

“Why go through all that frustration?” I say to my date. “There’s a perfectly good parking lot across the street with plenty of space.”

“Serendipity,” she says.

“Huh?”

“In this town everyone’s rich. So when everyone’s equal serendipity becomes a status symbol.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Have you ever found a parking space right in front of the place you want to go?”

“Yeah. That’s killer.”

“Well the guy in that Mercedes wanted that experience. He wanted to pull up with no muss or fuss and be on his way. But when he couldn’t get that experience he flipped out.”

“Why not park in the lot?”

“Probably beneath him or something. That’s why he spent five minutes all worked up trying to get that spot.”

I never though of serendipity being a status symbol. But when I think back to my waiter days my date’s insight makes sense. I can’t tell you how many times people came in off the street with no reservation and asked for the best table in the house. Sometimes I was able to give it to them, sometimes not. Most people were gracious, accepted the fact it wasn’t their lucky day and sat elsewhere. But some customers, just like that man in the Mercedes, flipped out. It was as if they thought the table belonged to them by divine right. Maybe telling them “no” trashed their delusion that life should just be one series of effortless moments after another.

“That guy in the Mercedes is in for a world of hurt,” I say.

“Why do you say that?”

“Serendipity’s a happy experience because it doesn’t happen all the time. Not getting it is what gives it meaning. If he doesn’t grasp that he’s fucked.”

As we finish up our meal I look at the woman in the Audi again. But she’s not reading anymore. She’s drinking Grey Goose straight from the bottle.

“Jesus,” I say, shaking my head. Would you look at that?”

“Oh my God,” my date says. She’s not on another planet. She’s hammered.”

Audi Lady takes one more immense guzzle from her bottle before stowing it under her seat. Then she gets out of the car, grabs what looks like a couple of rolled up paintings from the trunk and stumbles onto the sidewalk. She’s emaciated, pale and shaking. I worked with alcoholics for years. This lady’s drinking far more than she’s eating. I have no idea why’s she’s a drunk but it doesn’t matter. She may have a nice car and a great parking spot but if she doesn’t get help she’ll die within the year – beyond serendipity’s cool touch forever.

Suddenly this town doesn’t feel ritzy anymore.

Luckily I score a parking spot in front of a Starbuck’s inside a busy strip mall. Now it’s a hot day and I’m loath leaving Buster inside a car but I had the A/C blasting so the interior’s cool. Keeping the windows shut I lock the door and walk in to get my java fix. Besides, how long could it take?

Inside the cool shop I see there are two people ahead of me on line, a man buying a boat load of coffee beans and a large older woman wearing a dress that fits her like a potato sack. Feeling like a pastry I try walking up to the display case to peruse the goodies but the large woman’s blocking my way. “Excuse me ma’am,” I say politely.

The woman lets out a sibilant hiss of air and looks at me like I’ve crawled out from under a rock. Smiling at her disarmingly I note her flaming orange hair, granny spectacles, garish lipstick, over abundance of rouge and clumped orange mascara. If she was trying to look like The Joker she succeeded.

The woman’s response to my polite request is to block the display case with her rotund frame. Its then I realize her large body is throwing off a negative gravitational field, a repulsive force that shouts, “Stay away from me!” Undeterred I slip past her and begin perusing the cookies, scones and doughnuts I shouldn’t be eating. Her sense of space violated, the old woman lets out a large “Harrumph!” and moves her considerable body mass five inches to the right. Ignoring the negative vibe from the woman I look at the pastries and decide to get myself a double chocolate brownie. Man, all that sugar and caffeine’s going to hit my system like crystal meth.

When the old woman finally gets to the head of the line she instantly starts peppering the barista with a million questions. What’s a frappuccino? What does it cost? Can you make it low fat? How many calories are in it? After the worker patiently explains everything the woman starts rambling about her day, how hot it is outside and what a nice young man the barista is. As I listen to her talk I can almost see the words tumbling out of her mouth and scattering on the floor. Rapid and pressured speech? Bi-polar makeup and hyper vigilance about her personal space? Yep. This woman’s nuts.

I try being patient. Judging from the frumpy condition of her clothes going to Starbucks might be this woman’s only weekly treat. But as she drones on and on I feel beads of sweat start clustering on my back. Not because I’m hot mind you, because I’m worried about Buster. Glancing at my watch I see five minutes have already elapsed. Looking at my car I can see Buster’s still wagging his tail happily but soon the it’ll get too hot for him.  And with my luck someone from PETA will come barging in demanding to know who left a dog outside in a car. Unconsciously I let out a loud sigh. Big mistake.

“Do you mind?” the woman says, looking at me over her granny glasses. “You have to wait like everybody else!” I just shake my head and shrug.

“Ugh,” the woman says, her hands fluttering as if she’s trying to fan away a foul stench. “I’m surrounded by freaky creepy people. Freaky creepy people!’ I guess she means me.

“What would you like to order ma’am?” the barista says, wearing a smile covering up his desire to scream.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“What would you like, sir?” another barista, a pretty girl with brown hair, asks me. Thank God.

“A medium coffee and a brownie please,” I say.

As the pretty barista fills my order the old woman decides on a frappuccino and a scone. But when it comes time for the woman to pay there’s a mixup and my coffee gets rung up instead of her frappuccino.

“I didn’t order that!” the woman says loudly. I look at the barista and our eyes lock in server solidarity.

“We’ll just give you the frappuccino at that price ma’am,” he says, knowing if he tries voiding anything the old lady will flip.

“That’s very nice of you,” she says curtly.

“Just wait at the bar, please. Your drink will be right up.”

As the old woman waddles away I notice she doesn’t leave a tip. No shocker there. I pull out my wallet and pay for my order. “Have a nice day brother,’ I say, popping a dollar in the tip jar.

“You too,” he says, smiling knowingly.

Walking past the old woman I rapidly put cream and sugar into my coffee, replace the top and start heading for the door. As I do so the woman looks at me angrily, her stenciled eyebrows twitching like Herbert Lom from the Pink Panther movies.

At forty-two I’ve discovered my patience for stupidity is wearing thin. Maybe my years in mental health and waiting tables burned it out of me. Or maybe I’m just sick and tired of all the bullshit. And just as the old woman’s about to say something to me I fire up my thousand-yard stare and dump a dose of “Shut the fuck up” energy into her crazed eyes. The woman flinches; steps back and I walk towards the door, not feeling one iota of guilt. But before I can get out outside I hear her screech, “This isn’t what I ordered. This isn’t what I ordered!” Looking over my shoulder I see her hectoring the poor barista and notice his pleasant face has replaced by a blank stare. Bitch should have left a tip.

I get into my car, crank up the A/C and drive off with Buster no worse for wear. “Freaky creepy people,” I say. “The world’s full of them.”