The Tip

 They tell me,

"It's only a few dollars."

But that's not what I see.

I don't see dollars.

I see hours.

I see cold mornings,

long days,

aching backs,

missed birthdays,

and alarm clocks that rang

long before the sun came up.

Every dollar in my wallet

cost me a little piece of my life.

So when I buy a coffee,

a sandwich,

or a meal,

I'm not handing over money.

I'm handing over hours.

The price is on the menu.

I look at it.

I decide if it's worth

a piece of my life.

If it is...

I buy it.

Transaction complete.

Or at least,

it used to be.

Now the machine turns around.

Fifteen percent.

Twenty percent.

Twenty-five.

Sometimes it asks me to tip

before anyone has done a single thing.

Before I've taken one bite.

Before I've taken one sip.

Before they've had the chance

to earn the very thing

they're asking for.

And suddenly,

the price wasn't really the price.

Now I'm expected

to solve a problem

I didn't create.

If your employer doesn't pay enough,

I understand your frustration.

But I didn't set your wage.

I didn't hire you.

I simply came in

to buy a cup of coffee.

A tip was once

a thank you.

A quiet way of saying,

"You made my day

a little better."

It wasn't expected.

It wasn't calculated.

It wasn't printed

in giant buttons

on a payment screen.

It was simply...

gratitude.

Maybe that's what I miss.

Not the money.

The honesty.

A price that means what it says.

A thank you

that means what it's worth.

Because every dollar I spend

was first earned.

And every dollar I keep

was earned too.

So don't ask me

to feel guilty

for paying the price

we both agreed to.

The menu made the offer.

I accepted.

That should be enough.