The Tipper

The waitress looks out from the kitchen. "Oh God," she groans. "It’s the Tipper— the guy who gave me a ten last week for a nine sixty-eight check. Thirty-two cents, thirty-two goddamn cents. Ain’t that a kick in the teeth?"

Her name is Holly. She’s thirty-one and pretty, with streaked blonde curls tied up into a loose ponytail. She’s been left at the altar twice. She’s a good waitress, though—very efficient and makes people feel comfortable—so she almost always gets good tips.

She remembers how the customer’s eyes had danced when he handed her the ten with the check and said, "Keep it." Did he think this was going to turn her on? Did he think this would make her want to bring him home for coffee? She couldn’t understand it, simply couldn’t understand it, because he had seemed like a decent enough guy and had flirted with her a little. And he wasn’t even a foreigner. Some girls would have demanded an explanation, but she has too much class for that. It just isn’t her style.

The cook holds one of the swinging doors open and sizes the guy up. "Don’t worry," he mutters, "we’ll fix his ass."

If smoking had been allowed he would have made this vow with a half finished, unfiltered cigarette butt sticking up from his lips as if glued there, his eyes squinting from the blue smoke. He wants one now, wants one real bad, but it’s getting busy and there is work to do. He stirs the clam chowder, takes a small taste and makes a circle with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. "Primo," he says out loud, but mostly to himself. He is a good cook, a good chef, and he knows it.

The Tipper is with a date this time. Holly forces herself out to the table with a smile and he smiles back in recognition. He is an engineer, thirty-five, with dark curly hair and friendly dark eyes. He is casually but neatly dressed in jeans and a dark green sweater. He wonders if he should have given her a bigger tip, but was so infatuated with her that he wasn’t thinking as clearly as he should have been. The check was seven sixty-eight, he clearly recalls, and he figured the ten would round it off rather nicely for a thirty percent tip. Thirty percent initially sounded good—for it was twice the accepted standard—but now it seemed paltry and he was embarrassed: two dollars and thirty-two cents was an insult for a lady like this. He should have given her at least a five dollar tip, maybe even a ten; a twenty for the whole thing would have been perfect, just perfect; no—a twenty and a ten so there would be no mistake about his appreciation.

His date looks like a mannequin in a store window: thin, snarling lips and long brown hair which she brushes one hundred times each night. The waitress has life while she has none. He wishes he hadn’t brought her.

"The clam chowder is excellent," says Holly, and they order two.

She hates this woman. Her hate for her is greater than her anger at the Tipper.

While she is taking their order, Rhonda the Bimbo Waitress hovers nearby with her tray and stares without embarrassment. She kind of likes the guy, and like Holly feels an instant revulsion toward the date. She waits until Holly is done taking the order and then hurries after her back to the kitchen.

"He doesn’t look like a Turk," she announces.

"Huh?"

"He doesn’t look like a foreigner."

"He might as well be," sighs Holly.

"We’ll baste that Turk," croaks the prep cook gleefully. "Baste that turkey’s ass." He’s a young guy with greasy hair, a mustache and a perpetual two-day beard.

"Two bowls of clam chowder," says Holly to the cook.

"Two clam chowders, comin right up!"

Tight lipped, he laughs by sniffing loudly through his nose. He dips the ladle into the bucket and stirs it up good. It is a wonderful concoction of fresh clams, Atlantic Clam Juice, diced potatoes, corn, whole wheat flour, rich cream and a secret blend of seasonings. It is quite possibly the best clam chowder in the entire city. There is an annual chowderfest in the city every summer but he never bothers to enter. Let the customers be the judge, not an esteemed panel of ass kissers. When he moved to this restaurant a year-and-a-half ago many of his customers followed him and there was an immediate upsurge in business. The thick, tangy aroma wafts up to his nose like cigarette smoke. He scoops some into a smaller pot.

"Two clam chowders!" he sings. "One!" He suddenly spits into the pot.

Holly makes a face. She knew this was coming and the guy probably deserves it, but still she doesn’t like it.

"Two!" The cook spits again and stirs. His eyes are laughing.

"Oh!" squeaks Rhonda. "Chef’s Special, huh?"

He sniffs mischievously and almost smiles. God, this girl is stupid, he thinks to himself. Doesn’t look bad, though: Bleached blonde hair, pouty lips and fairly big tits that jiggle when she walks. If she didn’t look so good she’d be gone because she’s always screwing up the orders. He lets go of the ladle and motions to her with both hands.

"Just stay right there, Rwanda. Don’t fuckin move, OK?"

Her blue eyes get big and she freezes like a child in a game.

The cook firmly but respectfully grabs Holly by the arm and leads her to the stove. Palm up, he gestures toward the small pot of chowder.

"Go ahead, he’s your customer. Give him his medicine."

"And that bitch he’s with too," adds Rhonda.

"Let me handle this," he snaps.

"No, I can’t," protests Holly. "That’s disgusting. That’s not right."

"Go on. Time’s a wastin. Ya don’t want your customer to get mad, do ya?"

She looks at the chowder. She knows it would blend right in and nobody would even notice, but still…

"I know you like him," chirps Rhonda, "but he’s got to take his medicine. Come on, Holly, give him his medicine."

Holly leans toward the pot, closes her eyes and spits small and quick. It feels strangely liberating.

Rhonda claps—a quick little pitter-patter. "Good girl," she says, and the others clap too.

"One more time," says the cook.

"What?"

"One for the Tipper and one for the broad. Go on, it’s all right."

Eyes open, she spits again, daintily, like a Southern belle might. It is easier this time.

More applause.

"OK Rwanda," orders the cook, "you’re up."

She steps up closer to the stove. "This one’s for…" She builds up some saliva, happens to imagine it lubricating the customer’s cock and lets the spittle drop in like a big raindrop. "…the Tipper." She hacks and then spits violently. "And that one’s for his broomstick girlfriend."

"All right, come on," says the cook. "We gotta hurry up here. Vernie’s gonna be back any minute now." Vernon is the manager, out for a drink with his boyfriend.

The prep cook noisily hacks twice. This is painful and you can literally hear the phlegm tearing loose. Vrroooh. He sends a big louie into the chowder.

"Yuck!" cries Rhonda.

There are traces of blood in it. He looks at it with pride, wipes his mouth on his sleeve and steps back. This is more than enough for two.

The cook looks at the busboy. "Georgie?"

Georgie is sixteen—a little shy but with a devilish streak in him too. The cook is his hero because he always has things under control. He wishes he could be like that. He hesitates in front of the chowder.

"Come on Georgie, you can do it," urges Rhonda.

He likes Rhonda. Whenever she makes the wrong type of ice cream sundae she gives it to him instead of dumping it out. He wonders if sometimes she does this on purpose just to be nice to him.

"Time’s a wastin, kid," intones the cook.

A strange glint comes into Georgie’s eye. He grins nervously and picks up the pot of chowder. "Wait a sec," he says. "I’ll be right back."

He takes it into Vernon’s little windowless office nearby and shuts the door.

"Hey kid," calls the cook, "what the hell are ya doin? You’re not gonna piss in it, are ya?"

He doesn’t answer.

Rhonda puts her hand to her mouth. "Oh my god."

The prep cook tries the door: "It’s locked."

"Forget it," says Holly sharply. "I’m going to give them some regular chowder."

The cook holds out his hand to calm her and everyone else down. "Hold on. Hold on." He raps on the door. "Georgie?"

No answer.

"Rat poison," declares the prep cook. "The rat poison’s in there."

The cook laughs up through his nose. "You’re not creamin in the chowder, are ya kid? Thinkin' of Rwanda’s tits and creamin' in the chowder?"

Rhonda blushes and slaps him on the arm. "Stop it. Don’t talk like that."

At last the doorknob jiggles and the door opens. Georgie sheepishly emerges with the pot of chowder and everyone just looks at him for an explanation.

"Aw, I didn’t do nothin," he says, avoiding the cook’s eyes. "I was only funnin ya."

The cook rolls his eyes, grabs the pot and rushes it back to the stove. Turns the gas up high and stirs. After it starts bubbling and is nice and hot he scoops it into two stoneware bowls. It looks and smells just like regular chowder.

"There ya go," he yells to Holly. "Two clam chowders."

She doesn’t like this anymore, doesn’t like this at all. "Listen—" she begins.

"Just take it." He is busy on another order and doesn’t look at her. "Just take it. They’ll love it."

She hates this job. Considers quitting right there. Just finish the night, she tells herself, just finish out the night.

It looks just like regular chowder and she doesn’t think they will notice. She prays they won’t notice: Dear God please let them just eat the chowder and go home. Please. Help me out of this and I won’t ever let it happen again. I will stand up for what is right.

It is a long trip out to the table. She feels like she is being watched, like she is walking a tightrope in the circus. She sets the bowls down in front of the Tipper and his date and tries to smile. "There you go. Sorry about the wait" It had seemed like a long time but really wasn’t. She says this just to have something to say, some comforting words for herself as well as the customers.

"Took her long enough," snips the date to the Tipper, ignoring Holly.

Holly wishes she had dumped the hot chowder on her head.

The Tipper smiles up at her apologetically. "No problem, no problem at all." He smells the chowder slowly and imagines it is her scent he is inhaling. "Smells delicious."

"Best in town." It is very difficult for her to say this.

"We’ll see about that," sneers the woman to the air.

The chowder is still steaming hot. They stir it to cool it down. While they do so, Holly takes a few steps back and waits. The cook and the others gather just outside the kitchen doors. No one wants to miss the moment, the first taste. The Tipper attempts conversation with his date while they are stirring but she says not a word. He knows the chowder had better be good, trusts that it will be. She needs food, good food, to humanize her. He opens some little packets of oyster crackers, breaks them up and drops them into his bowl to help with the cooling process. She looks with annoyance at the sound of the ripping cellophane.

They each scoop out a spoonful and blow on it. They lean forward and bring the spoons up, closer and closer.

"Agggghhhhh!" screams the woman before the spoon even reaches her lips. It is a piercing scream that can probably be heard through the closed doors and plate glass windows. "Agggghhhhh!"

The man rises from his chair. "What’s the matter?" he yells. His first thought is that she had been seized by appendicitis and is in unbearable pain.

"There’s a hair in my soup! There’s a hair in my fucking soup!"

The cook glares at the busboy. Georgie holds his palms up, hunches up his shoulders and rather convincingly shakes his head no. The cook’s eyes sweep across the prep cook’s mustache and Rhonda’s neat blonde hair, and touch on Holly’s ponytail. This is not good, not good at all.

The man sinks back into his chair and doesn’t even look in her bowl. Compared to appendicitis, a hair is nothing. He is more upset by her behavior than he is by the hair.

She is on her feet now, ranting and raving: "How could you take me to an unsanitary hole like this? I’m calling the Board of Health. I’ll shut this fucking place down!"

"Sir, ma’am, I’m very sorry," says Holly in between the rants and the raves. She picks up the bowls. "I’ll get you both fresh bowls of chowder on the house. Your entire meal is on the house."

"On the house?" This is the first time she has addressed Holly directly. "This isn’t a house! This is a sewer!"

The cook rushes to the cash register and then to the couple. "Here," he says. "Here’s a gift certificate for a hundred dollars with our apologies." He hopes he doesn’t sound too much like Vernon, but he’s to do something because his livelihood is at stake.

The Tipper reaches for it but his date snatches it away, rips it in two and throws the pieces in the cook’s direction.

"I’m sorry," says the Tipper to Holly.

She wishes she hadn’t said anything to the cook. Maybe there had been some mistake. Maybe he thought he gave her a twenty instead of a ten. That does happen from time to time, and he looks like the sort of guy who would leave a twenty.

Still spouting, the woman flies out the front door, and her companion follows. Holly watches them leave, then turns around. All eyes are on her. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she will quit.

*************************************************

After work Holly stops at an all night donut shop for coffees for herself and her two roommates. She hates drive-ups, so goes inside. The same two girls from last night are on duty: a heavyset, slow moving girl with spiked red hair and a lip ring, and a thin, tired looking girl with dark circles under her eyes.

The spikehead had waited on her. The girl’s mind must have been elsewhere because she had screwed the whole order up and had to start over. Blatant screw-ups, like regular coffee instead of ice coffee. Holly felt bad, though and tucked three-dollar bills into the tip cup. The girl was already turning away, and Holly wondered if she saw her put the money in. She should have timed it better. If she had dropped some quarters in the girl would have heard the chink of the coins and instantly known that she had a tip, but Holly prefers giving bills over quarters because they make more of a statement. A quiet, dignified dollar bill beats four quarters any day of the week.

"That’s her," sneers the spikehead. "That’s the bitch who didn’t tip me last night after she changed her order and I had to redo the whole thing."

The thin girl comes to life a little. "We’ll show her," she grins. "Won’t we?"

David Bright has published short stories in The Iconoclast, Artisan, Synapse, The Pegasus Review, The Rose & Thorn Literary E-Zine and others.

He has worked in journalism contributing to a variety of publications ranging from Computerworld to Woman's World. He lives in Onset, an old fashioned village near Cape Cod. He is the editor of Gemini, a fiction and poetry magazine to be introduced in September 2006.

Email: David Bright

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