Oh Magnificent Tip Stealers

Case Study: It was a fairly busy night. This Mista Sophista approached the bar and ordered a Jack and Coke.
     Something about him stank of putrid sewer rat, so I spied as he pretended to put money into the tip jar but instead took money out.  Oh you magnificent tip stealers and the way you steal my tips.
     I called the bouncer and the rest is anticlimactic.
     Fifteen years in the bar biz has taught me some things . . .

Case Study: It was a very busy night. I looked up and the industrial-sized cherry jug tip jar was gone. Time freezes when your tips disappear. You stand there dazed, hopelessly scanning the area for a trace of your beloved jar. What should I do? Where should I look? Who should I punch?
     The first thing you must do is race to the front door and tell the doorman to stop anyone with an industrial cherry jar bulge in their pants. Then you run to the bathroom – the best place for a tip stealer to count a kilderkin full of cash.
     Once in the bathroom, I could see the legs of the offender through the opening under the stall. He was sitting on the toilet bowl, feet spread, with a mound of dollars, quarters, and shards of glass between his toes -- as though he had just squeezed yesterday’s Oriental walnut salad onto the floor.
     I tore open the door, grabbed his neck (giving it a loving “squeeze”), and dragged him off the toilet. The rest was anticlimactic.
     Case Study: It was a very slow night. I got off shift early and sat on a stool, nursing a draw, and chatting with the doorman and the other bartender. The offender -- a young punk derelict wannabe -- was dreamily staring at a dollar bill that was on the bar, gazing softly into Washington’s eyes, as if George himself were whispering, “Take me. We can be together -- as lovers. Then nothing do us part. Not the Delaware, not the Redcoats...”
     The derelict, unable to disregard George’s promise of perfect love, swiped the money off the bar. . .
     Now Big Black Bitter Ted is bitterer than your average big black bitter bouncer. It’s just not easy being big and black in a bar full of tiny whites.
     Ted is 6’4”, weighs 275 pounds, and has fists the size of Jack barrels. His scowl alone could drag you out of the bar. When Ted asks you to leave, you just leave.
     The offender exited without a ruckus.
     Shortly after, I stepped outside for a cigarette. The punk wannabe was outside also, leaning against the smoking wall. I stood beside him and lit my smoke. Not knowing I worked there, he turned and announced abruptly, “That big nigger kicked me out of the bar.”
     Oh you magnificent tip-stealing racists and the way you be racist and steal my tips.
    I said something like, "The nerve of him,” and added. “Hey, I know the bartender. I can probably get you back in. Wait here.”
     “Thanks man,” he said.
     “White power dude,” I responded, then went inside, found Ted, and beckoned him outside. “There is somebody I want you to meet,” I told him.
     Outside, the offender was still smoking. “Hey Ted, this guy wants to get back inside, I said, "Oh, and by the way, he called you a nigger.”
     That white boy sure could run. Run white boy run!
     Case Study: It was a fairly slow night. These two offenders (heretofore referred as “Wily” and “Sly”) were sitting at the bar drinking pitchers of Stone Ale. I thought I saw Sly lift a dollar off the bar but wasn’t certain, so I planted another dollar in their vicinity.
     When they thought I was distracted, Wily snatched the bill, stuck it in his pocket, and high-fived his pal. So I devised a plan.      While they were enjoying the band, I filled a pitcher with murky sinkwater. Then I added olive juice and Worcestershire (to give it that Stone brown hue) and set the noxious concoction in the beer cooler to get nice and chill.
     When the tip-stealers finally motioned for more, I topped off the sordid pitcher with a dose of beer foam, brought it to them, poured three glasses, and received their payment – a crispy, green-greeny, shimmering twenty dollar snap.
     With the bill still in my hand I said, “Cheers fellas,” and we clinked glasses. Then Wily gulped and turned stark white. Sly drank and spit it onto the bartop, “What the fuck dude!!” he cried, and spit again.
     I folded the twenty, thanked them for such a gracious tip, put it in my pocket, and summoned the door Gargantuas. The rest, as the saying goes, is anticlimactic

Ode to You Magnificent Tip Stealers
(and the way you steal my tips)

O’ tip stealers
Resourceful and magnificent
Are the ways you steal my tips.

With your beady eyes
And drunky drool
And fingers with sticky grip.

 

EJD
4/24/02