Tipping Point

The customer had on what appeared to be a real floor length fur coat and one of those Russian style fur hats. I had never seen one of those in real life. I had to stop myself from reacting because she looked so out of place. I greeted her as she put two half pound bags of deluxe overpriced trail mix onto the counter, about twenty dollars worth of mixed nuts and dried cranberries. I zapped both bags with the price gun. “Happy Holidays. What kind of drink can I get started for you?,” I recited my line with as much enthusiasm as I could manage between the chaos in front of me and the mayhem behind the counter.

She leaned in uncomfortably close as if letting me in on an important secret. Her heavily made up eyes stared into mine and her thick perfume seared my nostrils. “These are for the squirrels,” she said in a shockingly bland local accent.

“Lucky squirrels,” I replied for lack of anything better to say. It took me a second to realize that she hadn’t answered my question.

“Anything to drink?” I tried again.

“Nope. I’m not thirsty.”

I bagged up her ‘squirrel food’ and moved on to the next customer. The fur coat faded into my periphery as I assumed that she had gone on to finish her shopping elsewhere. There’s one in every crowd, sometimes several.

It was Black Friday and my store was getting pummeled. This was before online shopping was popular. People took to the malls and shopping centers like ants on a picnic. Hoards of cranky shoppers descended on our understaffed franchise to refuel with peppermint mochas and gingerbread lattes. I had been at the register for hours and my customer service persona was starting to slip. I wished I was working the espresso bar, where at least I could keep my head down.

There were two of us baristas and one newly minted assistant manager, Amy, working that day. Amy was a slight but stern brunette in her early twenties. She took smoke breaks like clockwork, but rarely stopped for lunch. After working there for a few years, Amy finally got the promotion everyone thought she deserved. She wasn’t especially easy to work with, but she was one of us and proof that promotion was possible from within.

The store’s bulky cordless phone rang in Amy’s back pocket. She answered the call in the manager’s office, then returned a moment later looking distressed. “Can one of you stay until close? Dylan just called out and I need help.”

I could have used some time off to decompress, but at seven bucks an hour, I wasn’t working enough to afford rent and food. Plus, my car wasn’t going to pass inspection without new tires. I needed to come up with an extra four hundred bucks. More than that if I wanted to buy Christmas presents! At this rate, I’d need a second job if I wanted to survive 2005.

“Come on, guys. I need one of you to stay.” The other barista hesitated. I took the hint and volunteered.

“I appreciate it,” Amy replied in earnest, still quite frazzled. Moments later it was just the two of us, slinging drinks like our lives depended on it. Amy let me take over the bar while she took drink orders. It was a synergy I’d never experienced before and likely never will again. I watched with excitement as the tip jar filled up to nearly bursting, not because customers were any more generous than usual, but from the sheer number of people coming through our store.

I thought back to our previous staff meeting, last one before the holiday rush. It was unpaid of course, but we were strongly encouraged to attend and bribed with pizza. If you’ve ever smelled pizza and coffee together in the same room, then you know the olfactory confusion that prevents both flavors from being properly enjoyed.

We perked up when the managers announced they’d be responding to the comments in the employee suggestion box. This was unheard of! None of us were expecting this to be fruitful, but it was unanimous, managers would no longer be taking a share of the tips. They presented it as a gift, an early Christmas present. Naive as we were, we ate it right up. We were whooping and hollering like idiots over what amounted to the company’s simple adherence to federal and state laws. And it was at this meeting that they also announced Amy’s promotion.

My spirits soared over the pile of cash in the tip jar, the answer to my prayers! As the customers began to dwindle, we ran through the closing procedures: washing and prepping, sweeping and mopping. One of the oldest rules regarding the tips was that only managers could swap the change for cash from the register. Since the managers stopped getting tips, swapping out the change became low priority for them. In fact it, getting them to do it was like pulling teeth.

When the clock struck nine I locked the door. Then I pocketed the cash from the tip jar, leaving what was actually a significant amount of change. I turned to dump out and sanitize the coffee urns when Amy spoke pointedly at the back of my head. “What are you doing?”

I turned to face her confused. I thought it was obvious, but maybe I was doing it wrong. “I’m using the Urnex like you showed me. I mix the powder with water and-”

“Fuck the urns, I’m talking about the tips!”

“Oh, yeah. I left the change. You can just keep...oh.” I saw the look in her eye and I knew.

“You think you earned all those tips today?”

I was already reaching into my pocket. She was yelling now and I was shaking. I pulled all the cash out and put it on the counter. “Here! Here!,” I said, trying to calm her. But she was not finished. She seemed to view this as a personal insult.

“I thought since you’re a manager now…”

“Yes, but come on! Today was different and you know it!” She arranged the bills into a neat stack in her hand. “You get half. That’s what’s fair.” I had no idea what kind of raise came with a promotion to assistant manager, but maybe it wasn’t that much after all. I fell into a spiral of rationalization and guilt, but I was saving the tears for the parking lot.

Amy’s boyfriend appeared in the window to pick her up. “Can I go now?”

She didn’t answer, but her icy stare got her point across. The tears came instantly, stinging my cheeks against the cold as I dashed to my car. I dreaded the next time I’d have to work with her, but I didn’t have a choice. My roommates, both waitresses, rallied around me when I told them my story. “That bitch stole your tips. Didn’t y’all just have a meeting about that? Want me to go down there and say something?”

“Oh god…Thank you, but, no. It’s okay. I’m just embarrassed.”

“At least go to the manager. He’ll set her straight.”

It only happened when it was just the two of us, but I noticed her scheduling us together more often than before. I was nervous about going over her head. It would be my word against hers. Then one day I’d had enough. I gathered my courage and went to our manager, Ron. He just scoffed, looked me in the eye and said, “That’s something you girls will have to solve on your own. You’ve got to stand up for yourself.” I was humiliated all over again.

On December 24th I had the misfortune of being paired up with Amy again. We’d be closed on Christmas Day, but this was not how I wanted to spend Christmas Eve. We had the closing shift. Customers began to dwindle until it was just the two of us again. I was so uncomfortable, I cleaned the bathrooms twice just to avoid her. The bleach fumes sent me back behind the counter. “So, doing anything fun this Christmas?,” she asked as if we were just a couple of gal pals having a chat.

“Well my parents are-”

The front door opened with a festive jingle. A customer! Saved by the bell! Then I noticed the peculiar way he was dressed, all in black with a beanie and a scarf pulled over his mouth. It was cold, but not that cold. I froze and looked at Amy who seemed just as nervous as I was. That’s when he flashed his gun. That was the first time I’d ever seen a gun and I didn’t really get a good look at it before he stuffed it back in his pocket, but his message was received. I held my breath.

He unzipped his gym bag and held it open. “I want everything in the register!”

Managers are trained to hand over the cash in the event of a robbery. Amy rang a no-sale and quickly emptied the drawer into the guy’s bag. The company is insured for the amount of cash in the store with one notable exception.

“Hey, I want this too.” His left hand closed around the top of the tip jar. My mind went blank and what came next was pure instinct. I reached out to snatch it back. Then Amy put her hand on it too. The three of us were tugging this thing back and forth with all our might. The thief suddenly let go. Amy and I tumbled backwards. Cash and quarters, nickels and pennies, plus pieces of the broken jar cascaded across the floor with a clatter. We were all so startled we just stared at each other for a second. I could see the guy thinking, cutting his losses, and planning his exit. After a brief stumble over the mess on the floor he was gone. And the hollow sound of the store’s smooth jazz Christmas song cover track continued playing on a loop.