Tips

by Angelica Davila

Thirty-two bucks worth of tips. What could she buy with thirty-two bucks? She could pay thirty-two dollars on her student loans. She could pay thirty-two dollars on her credit card debt. She could pay thirty-two dollars for a week's groceries, possibly. She could pay thirty-two dollars at the gas pump, if she even had a car. She could pay thirty-two of sixty dollars at the doctor's office. Or she could just save those thirty-two dollars. Save them for an emergency or a nice spring day.

She couldn't help but smile at the thought of saving her tips. She didn't smile because she wanted to. She smiled because she thought it was funny. What good would thirty-two dollars do in an emergency?

Alyssa imagined it. She had fallen down the stairs somewhere and broken her spine. When the hospital gave her the bill, she would smile and say "Why, I've been saving thirty-two dollars just for this occasion!" The nurse would say something along the lines of, "Well, it's a good thing you thought ahead."

"Thirty-two dollars," Alyssa spoke to herself. Her smile was gone as she continued to walk with her eyes to the ground, as she usually did. She knew exactly where she was going. It was the same path that she took every night from the restaurant to the 'L' tracks. It was only seven blocks, and she usually made it onto the platform as the Red Line train was arriving.

She loved the solitude of these seven blocks. It was the only time when she didn't have to deal with the white noise in her life.

Thirty-two bucks, she continued. She could recall when she used to think twenty dollars was a lot. On her birthdays as a child, Alyssa would eye each white and yellow envelope, knowing there would be money inside. Her little fingers would itch against the side of the envelope as she opened it. She never ripped the envelope open. She was cautious of the adults watching her. She knew a kid who tore right through the envelope and tossed aside the card would be seen as a brat.

It was for this very reason that Alyssa would read the card, even those really long ones. She would thank whoever gave her the card, perhaps hug them if they were family. Then she would happily pocket the twenty-dollar bill in each card. Sometimes a card would have a fifty. Those were her favorite, not because it was so much money to her innocent mind, but because it looked completely different than any of the other bills. The president's portrait was bigger on the fifty-dollar bill, and that made it special to her. She was even reluctant to actually use that bill, for she would get more common twenty-dollar, ten-dollar, five-dollar, and one-dollar bills in return.

The only other bill that held a special place in her mind was the two-dollar bill. It was the least common. They were supposed to be lucky, too.

Sure, lucky, Alyssa added with the snort only she could hear in her mind.

As a child, Alyssa had managed to collect three two-dollar bills. She kept one in her wallet growing up, and the other two underneath the clothes in her drawer.

The fate of her first two two-dollar bills remained unknown. Maybe she had spent them on ice cream one day or, perhaps, her mom had taken them and never replaced them. Before Alyssa knew it, she only had one two-dollar bill. It was the one that was always in her wallet, even transferring into newer wallets over the years.

She and the bill parted on one of those days when things don't go the way they were supposed to. In Alyssa's case, this seemed like everyday. She was on her way to class, hurrying down the subway steps. She slipped her fare card into the slot, but it didn't go through. She only had thirty-nine cents on the fare card, and the only money in her wallet was the two-dollar bill. Now, an employee of the Chicago Transit Authority probably carried that two-dollar bill in his wallet.

"Give me your wallet."

Alyssa looked up. She was frozen, unable to think. The man was dark, young, probably her age. Sweat beaded his forehead. He held the gun to her face, but his arm shook, very subtly.

Alyssa moved her dry lips. "Please," she began. Thirty-two dollars in tips, she thought. Thirty-two dollars for the gentleman with the gun. Thirty-two dollars, the only thing she had in hope, and it would be gone soon. "Please, please shoot me."

The man didn't respond. It was his turn to be frozen. The way that she said it. She meant it. The way that she continued to look at him in his silence, her eyes were desperate, but not desperate to survive.

"Please, you'll be doing me a favor," Alyssa said.

The man's lips trembled. "Why do you want to die?" he managed to ask. He still held his arm out, pointing the gun straight at her.

"Same reason you want to kill me."

"I don't want to kill you. I just want your money."

"Same thing."

They faced each other in silence. Seconds, minutes, eternity, who knew? The man slowly lowered his arm, and Alyssa began to cry.

"Why are you crying?" he asked. His own eyes gaining that familiar mist.

"Because nothing is ever right anymore."

The man pursed his lips before speaking, "I know. I know what you mean." He placed his gun on the sidewalk, sickened by his own actions. "It's not loaded. It never was." He looked at the girl. "My name is Clarence, and I hope you can forgive me."

She rubbed her eyes. "I'm Alyssa, and I have thirty-two dollars in tips. Do you want them?"

Clarence shook his head. "No."