Old Wounds Still Hurt

I was recently placed in something of a moral dilemma. I had gone to dinner with my younger brother at the oh so classy Steak ‘n Shake in our hometown. As our waitress placed our menus before us, I realized that I knew her. I had gone to middle school with her many years ago.
      Now, as shocking as it may be, I was not exactly at the top of the social ladder of coolness back then, nor do I claim to be  now. But to get to the top of that ladder now would require me to be a top notch beer pong player, so I’m not super upset about it anymore, despite all of the imaginary scenarios I make up that involve me being admired, fawned over, and even worshiped by the entire campus. But back as a very unkempt and timid twelve year old, it did bother me. And one of the people who had bothered me the most was this girl who was now about to serve me my dinner. Let’s just say that my outward appearance left much to be desired back then, and she had made sure I realized that on a daily basis.

I was at first concerned that she would recognize me and say something. That was the last things that I wanted. Having to put on a false smile and make insignificant small talk with a girl who had helped to make my adolescent years miserable did not really appeal to me. Luckily, either my looks have changed enough that she didn’t recognize me or she had forgotten about me entirely. I choose to believe the former. I really hope I’ve increased in comeliness since my pimply, disheveled preteen days. Either way, she did not seem to know who I was. After she walked away I leaned across the table and whispered to my brother, “I went to school with that girl. She was a real bitch. What should I tip her?"

You see, I had realized that before me lay a golden opportunity for revenge. Every afterschool special that I have ever suffered through had told me that ultimately a time like this would come; a time where the bullies and the bullied would face each other in adulthood and the tables would be turned. The only problem with my situation was that I had this little thing, which often gets in the way of my pleasure, called a conscience. That, plus my brother told me I was being petty. When a sixteen year old boy who has to as much moral direction and fortitude as a stuffed animal tells you that you’re being petty, you probably are. He also had these words of wisdom: “Well, look where she’s ended up. I mean, she’s a waitress…. at Steak ‘n Shake…”

I have nothing against waitresses. I know that it’s a very respectable position both as part time and full time work. But I had to admit that my brother had a point. If she had become wildly successful in life, she probably would not have become a waitress, and I would have felt more justified in continuing to hate her. But as things were, she was a waitress, and I had to admit that she was a really good waitress at that. She was friendly, prompt, and thoughtful. She deftly walked the line between being neglectfully forgetful of us and being just plain annoying with dozens of stops at the table to repeatedly ask “can I get you anything?”.

The service had been very good and I was satisfied with my meal. I had no reason to give her a bad tip other than because of the hurtful things she had said as a young girl more than eight years ago. I was pretty stuck; there really was no other option. I had to leave her a good tip. So I did, and I abated my feelings of regret by telling myself that maybe, just maybe, she actually did remember who I was and when she saw the large tip I had left her, she would be wracked with remorse for what she had done in the past. She would see that I truly had always been the better person and decide to devote her life to seeing other good deeds happen in the world, and it would all be because I had decided to leave behind a twenty percent tip rather than the five percent one the evil side of me had been begging to leave.

As it turned out though, I don’t think it mattered in any way. I paid with my debit card and my brother with cash, so I didn’t leave my tip on the table. When my former foe came around to clear away our dirty dishes, she found a two dollar tip for a sixteen dollar meal. So, maybe she wouldn’t see that I had actually been the good tipper that I was, but I still knew that she would ultimately get that money I had added to my bill at the cash register. And that was enough to satisfy my conscience, which had been relentlessly nagging at me throughout the meal, much like Jiminy Cricket did to Pinocchio. The only difference was that Pinocchio could have easily crushed Jiminy and been free for the rest of his life, whereas I will never be able to get rid of that little voice that always reminds me when I’m about to be a major asshole.