Dublanica - Keep the Change

KEEP THE CHANGE

A Clueless Tippers Quest to Become
the Guru of the Gratuity

STEVE DUBLANICA

Authors note: I have changed the names of some establishments mentioned in this book. I have also changed the names of some individuals and modified identifying features, including physical descriptions, of other individuals to preserve their anonymity. In some cases, composite characters have been created and timelines have been compressed or altered to further preserve anonymity and to mantain narrative flow. The goal in all these cases was to protect peoples privacy without damaging the integrity of the story.

TO ROBERT B. PARKER

WED BE FOOLS NOT TO.

Contents

I m sitting in a darkened corner of a Las Vegas strip club where a young woman is grinding her shapely rear end into my lap.

The girl is blond, beautiful, and, with the exception of her dental floss excuse for a G-string, completely naked. As she rubs against my crotch, the normal physiological reaction youd expect to happen happens. Sensing the increase in vascular pressure, the girl arches her back, tilts her head rearward, and smiles.

You like that, baby? she purrs.

Uh-huh, I reply, struggling to maintain cognition in the face of diverted blood flow.

Where you from, baby? the stripper says, her voice modulated in a good-girl-gone-bad falsetto.

New York City, I lie.

Ohhhhh, I love New York. I go there all the time.

Its... a great town.

Which part of New York do you live in?

The Lower East Side.

I love the East Side, the girl says, twitching her hips from side to side. I have a funny feeling that if I had told this girl I was from Bayonne, Id have gotten the same enthusiastic reaction.

I go to the East Side whenever Im in New York, she says. Its my favorite part of town.

Lots of good restaurants near Alphabet City.

A momentary shadow of confusion passes across the dancers face. This girls never heard of Alphabet City. The odds are good shes never even been to the Big Apple. But that doesnt surprise me. An exotic dancer once told me never to believe a word they say.

The girl hops off my lap, turns around, and straddles me. Leaning forward, she puts her arms around my neck and pulls my face to her chest. Her breasts smell like a mix of deodorant and baby powder.

So, what brings you to Vegas, baby? she asks. Business or pleasure?

Business is my muffled reply.

But youre getting some pleasure in anyway, the stripper says. You bad, bad boy.

Ummmph!

What kind of work you do?

Imcan I really be saying this?Im a writer.

Really! she says, her face registering surprise. What do you write about?

Right now Im writing a book about tipping.

The stripper laughs. For the first time I spot the real woman shrouded beneath the dim lights, makeup, and attitude. My god, she says. I should be in your book. I could tell you some stories.

You are going to be in my book.

Really?

Yep. Its about everybody who works for tipsyou know, waiters, bartenders, bellhops, strippers...

How interesting, she says, undulating her body like a snake. I think writers are sooo sexy.

On behalf of my profession, I thank you.

So, youre here doing research on little ol me? She starts to bounce up and down in my lap.

I tilt my head back against the wall and think it may be time to leave the stripper to perform her erotic ministrations.

Yeah. You could say that.

Im a stranger in a strange land doing strange things with strange people. Its my first visit to Las Vegas and the citys seductive undertow is tugging on my psyche. If youve got the money, Las Vegas offers you the chance to take a vacation from yourself and become an entirely different person. Ive been here three days and Im smoking cigars and drinking martinis at ten in the morningstuff I never do at home. Since the moment I got off the plane, the towns marketing phraseWhat happens in Vegas stays in Vegashas been hissing in my ear like a sibilant entreaty from the serpent in the Garden of Eden. Those mystics from the Bible were right: youll always find temptation in the desert.

As the strip clubs high-wattage stereo system blasts music at levels guaranteed to induce hearing loss, the dancer, sensing Im a derriere kind of guy, reverses position and recommences rubbing her bottom against my pants. Watching shadow and light play on the dragon tattoo running down the length of her spine, I feel my head start to spin. For the millionth time since I arrived in Sin City, I wonder, How in the world did I end up here?

The answer is simple. Im on a journey to become a guru of the gratuity, a master of the art of the tip. My quest began on a sweltering day in August, months ago, when I accompanied my parents to a county fair in the hinterlands of Pennsylvania. After several hours of drinking beer, eating funnel cakes, and perusing prize-winning hogs and heifers, I had to take a leak. The fairgrounds bathroom was housed in a squat concrete building that looked like it could double as one of Saddam Husseins command bunkers. The interior was dark, hot, and filthy, and it reeked from the urine puddling on the floor. Holding my nose, I went in and relieved myself. Then, as I zipped up my fly, washed my hands, and turned to leave, I spotted an old man sitting in a folding chair and holding a plastic bucket. The crude cardboard sign at his feet read TIPS APPRECIATED in blocky Magic Marker letters.

Id encountered bathroom attendants before, at nightclubs and high-end restaurants, but inside the restroom at a half-ass county fair? I had no idea what to give this man or even if I should give him anything. Overwhelmed by anxiety and embarrassment, I fished a dollar out of my pocket and dropped it into the old mans bucket.

Thank you, sir, the man said, beaming. You have yourself a lovely day.

Um... you, too, I mumbled.

As I walked back out into the oppressive heat I shook my head. Why should I have left that guy a tip? What service did he provide that warranted a dollar from my pocket? He didnt offer me a towel, comb, condoms, or breath mints like restroom attendants do inside Manhattans finer nightclubs. No service was provided that merited compensation, much less a gratuity. The more I thought about it, the more it bothered me.

Then I realized I was pissed because I hadnt known what to do. And that surprised me. You see, I wrote a book about waiting tables, called Waiter Rant , in which I complained that ordering from a waiter was one of the most taken-for-granted experiences in modern life. We do it so often that we often dont think about it. During my restaurant career I noticed that in those unguarded, autopilot moments when customers interacted with servers they often let their hidden prejudices, beliefs, and character flaws slip Freudianly to the surface. Heres a nifty example. One time a group of my friends came to have dinner at my restaurant while I was working. Theyre nice peopletheyre good to their children, arrange church bake sales, and call their mothers once a week. But the moment their butts hit the banquette I saw a side of them I had never seen before. Taking an almost perverse pleasure in seeing me in what they thought was a subservient role, they transformed into haughty, arrogant, demanding customers who ran me ragged the whole evening. For the duration of their meal I was just a functionary in the fulfillment of their gustatory desires. I had ceased to exist. That evening, I learned a lot about how my friends view the world. And that was the closest I ever came to hocking sputum into somebodys food.