Cover Up

Cover Up

Dear Daddy,

I wouldn’t tell you this if I didn’t love you: Daddy nobody, like nobody, only tips 10% now days. I know you grew up in The Great Depression.  I had nothing, like nothing, to do with that, you know what I mean?

Look, I appreciate the $2.00 you left when you and Uncle Jess were here for lunch Friday. Still you should know I didn’t want to be embarrassed. So I dropped another $3.00  on the table before I picked it up , just incase another waitress was  watching  I don’t want anybody to think my Daddy’s a cheapskate. I want them to think he’s a good tipper.  Besides, I don’t have time to tell everybody how tough you had it when you were a kid.

So, please Daddy, lighten up a bit. If it hurts that much to leave a little something extra to show your appreciation for good service, go to a drive in. Yes, yes. I know you don’t like to go because you can’t understand the order takers. You say they mumble, garble their words, and talk too fast and there’s always a lot of static.  Let’s be fair, Daddy.  I think it’s your hearing aid.  I know you don’t like to replace the batteries until they’re completely dead, but get real. You can’t have it both ways. I mean, like you want to save on tips, do the drive through bit. But pick up a new set of batteries first.  It’s a trade off, you know what I mean?

I love you Daddy. And I love my job here.  The tips are great---usually. And I do hope you’ll  come back with your friends.  I’ll be proud to be your server. 

And, I have a great idea: Next time, please put it on your Visa and let me fill in the tip. You always taught me that what you don’t see can’t hurt you.  Right on, Daddy.  Right on.

Love and Kisses,

Sue