THE TIP JAR

by Marianne Carlson

Helen was not a wealthy woman, far from it. She worked as a food server at a bar and restaurant called Annabelle's.  They used to be waitresses, now they are servers. Although she had  zero patience with political correctness, apparently the political correct mafia sent out a decree declaring that waitressing was demeaning, serving was worthy, therefore she served.  Actually it's not a bad motto. "I serve."

Annabelle's owner, an intense, methodical man with no sense of humor named Matt required that his servers wear uniforms: pale blue/green dresses which fell to the knee. The servers hated them. The color washed away any sign of health, they always clocked in  looking as if they had been up all night. Matt had poured over catalogs for days before choosing these uniforms and he chose this particular "green" because he thought it would be a good neutral color that would please both his customers and his staff. The opposite was true.  No one would say it to his face, but there was a universal groan from  hungry people as they slipped into a booth on the day the uniforms made their first appearance.

        "What happened to your uniforms? I liked those little red checks!"

        "What a horrible color."

         "He can't be serious."

"Barf green."

Matt was unaware of the bruhaha his choice of uniform caused, but Helen was mortified. Customers and staff alike were unhappy, and from that day forward life at Annabelle’s took an unfortunate turn. For Helen, the turn was almost catastrophic. It was as if she woke up one morning a different person, like a child recovering from a long illness who was regaining her strength, but not her old self,  which had been replaced with a much sadder soul. 

“What’s with you these days?” Helen’s long-term lover, Jeff, asked as they lingered over coffee. It had been a long day at Annabelle’s, a day where everything that could have gone wrong, did.

“I’m just tired. Matt has been in a terrible mood for days now, the sous chef never showed, tips are down, Agnes quit.”

“Agnes quit?” Jeff was surprised, he always liked Agnes, she had the same biting sense of humor that he had.

“Yup, she told Matt that life was too short to wear vomit green every day, took off her apron, threw it in his face, and said I quit.”

“Wow!” 

“You should have seen the look on his face, I think it was the first time he realized what effect these new uniforms have on his beloved Annabelle’s.”

Without Agnes, work became tedious. Helen did not realize the joy Agnes had brought to her day. No one else had the ability to make her laugh in quite the same way as Agnes because her laugh consumed her. When Agnes laughed, Helen laughed, sometimes with her, sometimes at her, but there always seemed to be something to tickle their funny bones. They had nicknames for the regulars: Shifty, for the man with the shifty eyes, Ms Tits for the buxom blonde who came in every morning for coffee, and Quaker Oats for the truck driver who ate oatmeal every morning for breakfast. The customers still came like clockwork, but without Agnes, the nicknames didn’t seem satisfying, they were merely customers.

What did not tickle her funny bone, was the gnawing sense that Agnes had been stealing. The tip jar on the counter was a prime target, it always sat there unattended, and more than once Helen saw Agnes take money from the jar and pocket it when she thought no one was looking. Now that she was gone, the jar remained solvent, bills and coins stayed put.

Several days after Agnes quit Helen and Jeff were getting ready for bed when their was a knock on the door. They were both tired. This was odd, no one was expected,  so when Jeff opened the door to find a most distraught Agnes, neither knew quite what to do.

"Can I come in?"

"Of course, what's up?"

She was so agitated that every cell in her being seemed on fire. She sat on the couch, fell on the couch is more like it, and speaking in a whisper, told them she was being stalked. 

"Stalked? Who is stalking you? You don't have to whisper,  only Helen and I are here.

"Please close the blinds."

"Ok." Helen closed the one remaining blind, tip toeing to the window at the same time rolling her eyes behind Agnes' back. 

"Who is stalking you?"

“I don’t know. Maybe one of the customers from Annabelle’s. Maybe one of the staff. That creepy sous chef. He gave me the creeps from the day he walked in the kitchen.”

“Were you followed today?” Helen thought about the sous chef’s absence, but said nothing.

“I think I was. Can I sleep on your couch tonight?”

“Of course.” Jeff grabbed a pillow and blanket from the linen closet, handed them to Agnes with a smile, went into the bedroom, and fell asleep quickly, like a small tired child exhausted from play. No stalker would disturb his sleep but this was not the case for the two friends who noticed a small dark car parked outside. The sous chef drove a small black VW.

Helen and Agnes kept vigil, waiting for the car to move, but it remained until about 2:00 a.m. when a patrol officer checked the car and told him to move on. With the aid of the cop’s flashlight, the girls could make out the profile of the sous chef.

The following morning Agnes was gone when Helen dragged herself out of bed. The sous chef was also gone from the kitchen at Annabelle’s. when she clocked in. He, too disappeared in the dead of night never to be seen again. Helen tried repeatedly to contact Agnes with no luck. She simply vanished.

What also vanished were the barf green uniforms. The little red and white checks reappeared, and business at Annabelle’s immediately picked up. The tip jar was almost always full but Helen’s heart was empty. For days her hands shook when she poured coffee, mixed orders, arrived late, burst into tears for no reason. Before going to bed at night, she always checked. The black VW parked outside frightened her, so much so that she called the police who told her that there was nothing they could do. The driver was not breaking the law. Not yet.

It's All Temporary