For the love of Money

This week I worked and was expected to buy my own lunch. Something foreign to me. But because I do not believe in going hungry I shopped around for healthy and inexpensive and found a place that offered takeout which would be cheaper than dining in.

‘You have been served by Sara today,’ It says on the receipt, the latter printed on cheap, grimy paper rolls in smudgy blue ink. Underneath, the cost of mediocre weekday takeout – in a cardboard box – and just over the dotted signature line, a presumptuous request:

‘Tip:’

My thought was why as the consumer am I expected to pay her wage? How preposterous! The curmudgeonly, supposed recipient does not even try to smile. Black grease wedged under her long fingernails. Peeling polish that once was cherry red. Hair in a messy bun strands of black and silver falling onto her forehead. Sweat. Impatience, though there are no other customers waiting behind me.

Sara must have been beautiful once. I do not know how I know. Or why that would matter on a day when I just want my lunch. Sara is a face and a hand at a register on a counter. All I am is her worst kind of customer: modifications to the order.

Sara must have been happier once. At one point she must have actually smiled and even had ambitions. The American Dream… she may have even woken her up every morning before the alarm set for five a.m. and scurried for the bus at five-thirty.

The tip must have mattered at some point. Been expected, or at least sought. Before money was deducted from her pay for her past mistakes. Before the cameras were installed and a supervisor was hired, just in case.

I ask Sara where home is. She tells me Honduras. ‘Do you want to go back?’

Not now. She can’t. She has two young boys waiting at home. Because they only remember American life. Because her shift doesn’t end until three and she has to get home, for the work at home that awaits her.

And tomorrow there will be other, similar orders to fill. Other receipts, on which the same request will be printed, are ignored, for a tip.

As will her name: ‘You have been served by Sara.’ She is called away. ‘Excuse me,’ ‘Hey,’ ‘Please,’ and ‘You! ‘This is not what I ordered!’ ‘What is wrong with you?’

I decided to provoke Sara’s memory. ‘Do you remember falling stars, how they leap slanted through the sky?’

Sara does not remember the last time she looked at the sky or took a whole day off.

She does not remember that I had asked her for the dressing on the side. I do not remind her.

I think of falling stars like our wishes, when we have them, how and why we stop having them, and when haven't any at all.

I included a tip on the receipt.

(Have you ever thought you would not do something only to find yourself after speaking with a stranger changing your mind?)