Party: three people; mother, husband & emo son.
Visiting from: Nebraska.
The story.
The mother's face is stuck in a wild smile, like it's both her name and occupation accompanied by bright-blue eye shadow. The son avoids eye-contact at all costs, with his hands in his lap and his hair covering a good portion of his face. The father gives off the warmest vibes, something that screams Midwest. I decide to begin with an open-mind, generously imagining the starting point of my gratuity.
Tip Prediction: a possible 20%.
Light talk begins about where they're from -- Nebraska. I notice that the father cannot speak unless one hand is on the top of his belly. We're talking about a large belly, here.
Father: "... people out here just don't understand the real pace of life. You gotta enjoy life, you gotta slow-down, you gotta stay away from these cabs like you got here." This makes me smile on the inside: the pace is what I love about New York.
But, lucky for them, I let them in on a secret: I, too, am a Midwesterner. They name towns near where I grew-up. We're bonding. The excitement raises with the tip meter prediction.
New TP: BINGO -- solid 20%.
The meal arrives; all three seem to be happily shoveling and indulging upon my recommendations. I notice that the awkward teen is eating mashed potatoes with a butter knife. He occasionally shoots dirty looks at his smiling mother. I find a challenge in opening this kid up.
I immediately regret this most recent challenge. Emo Nebraska kid now stops eating when I make a joke about accidently cutting his tongue while eating the potatoes; his mother continues to smile. I'm uncomfortable.
In between checking on other tables, I keep darting over to their facial expressions. I am now thinking that the mother's smile is either permanent or a facial disfiguration. The corners of her lips don't fall, and the arches of bright-blue pigment on her lids seem to be getting brighter. The light is blinding. Midwesterners + blinding light = Jesus. I am now imagining Jesus enjoying a nice mashed potato, via butter knife. I smile.
I drop the check at the table.
NYC Waitress: "If ya'll have any questions about anything, let me know... these things can be confusing."
Father: "Oh, I think we'll be alright, you've been so right-nice to us all evening. I only hope we can find another person in this city with half your kindness."
Father: "I only wish we could pay you in New York dollars."
NYCW: "Come again?"
Father: "You know, it's not the same out here as it is back home. I just wanted you to know that before we left the tip. You were amazing. I'm going to tip you in Midwestern dollars.. and tell you again how wonderful you are."
I immediately revisit tip prediction mode; their bill is $116. I decide to abandon predicting the tip.
The family leaves, quickly. The mother waves goodbye as they hit the stairs for the decent back into Times Square. I wave back, smiling her smile. I look at the signed credit card slip left for my enjoyment.
There's a smiley face on the top of the slip. For some reason, it makes the $6 in Midwestern dollars much friendlier. I can't help to be upset; in truth, the exchange-rate/expectation among the regions in the United States greatly vary.
I'm wondering if I can pay my back-July rent in Midwestern dollars. Standby for results.
Isn't this the truth, though?
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