One hundred. Ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.
I shook the bill folder and furrowed my brow. Facing the money back around, I counted again.
One hundred. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.
(This is the point where I mouth "what the f***").
There was no mistake. Not only was there no mistake, I had been shorted forty cents.
BIG DEAL, one might think. Well it is. If everyone just goes around shorting me twenty cents here and forty cents there, I would owe more money than I should at the end of a shift. Not only that, but that's worse than working for free which I as a server technically already do due to our hourly checks being taxed out to zeros. I would be paying money to work. Oh wait, and then tipping 20% of what I should have made at the end of the night out. I'm sorry, but I'm not having any part of that nonsense.
A bit of what I would call disgruntled, I approached the ladies to see them tucking away all of the change from the twenty I broke down for them into smaller bills.
Biting at the inside of my cheek, I debated what to say as I closed in on them.
"I'm so sorry to do this ladies, but I'm still short forty cents for the tab."
They looked at me like I'd backhanded each across the face. Yes, I slapped you with a reality check. You shorted me, and I'd like the rest. Yes, I did just have the balls to come back over to your table and politely confront you. No, I did not call you a penny-pinching, Fran Dresher-sounding hag. I just want my money.
"Oh I'm SO EMBARRASSED !" the first woman feigned.
"Here, this is yours. Keep it all," the second woman chimed in, presenting a crumpled up five dollar bill from her designer purse.
And don't spend it all in one place as well, I suppose.
I felt like Rob Schnieder's bellhop character from Home Alone, holding out an extended white-gloved, finger-rubbing hand.
And the tip, ahem?
Yeah. Goodluck on that one. Go big or go home... just go home.
-Malia Etienette
