“DAD!!! You left a DOLLAR on the table!”, I shouted, waving the dollar around, following him through the busy restaurant as he had made his way to the counter to pay for our meals.

By the time he heard me, he had made his way all the way to the counter and was standing in line.

He gritted his teeth (this was common signaling towards me to let me know I had done something wrong) and growled, “𝘉𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵! Put it back!” 

I observed his body language. His lowered, tempered voice. 

I must not be communicating this right!

To my 7 or 8 year old brain, he’d left money on the table. I knew that “money” wasn’t something that we had a lot of, and “saving” money was very important to us. 

Haphazardly “leaving” money behind on a table was a conflict.

My three brothers and my mom had already made their way to the adjacent room which held two arcade games. 

We rarely ever actually played them, but it was customary for us kids to run to that room to “play” with the controllers and press the buttons for a few minutes after enjoying the all-you-can-eat buffet at the Hollywood Diner in Loves Park, Illinois.

Those few minutes in “the game room” were one of my favorite parts of our visits. Second only to being able to pile my plate high with unlimited goldfish crackers and chocolate pudding at the buffet, of course.

I decide this is more important.

Pressing this matter is the right thing to do. I just haven’t been clear.

“But Dad, you left this dollar 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆!”, avoiding eye contact with him, looking down at the dollar in my hands.

“Tina: 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘵? Put it back!”

‘When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut’ was the end-all, be-all, Dad-has-shut-down-this-topic-for-debate statement.

He gave me a few more dollars. This added to my confusion. He growled, “Go put this on the table. 𝑵𝒐𝒘.”

Other diners were now staring. I felt their eyes as they watched me begrudgingly make my way back to the table to leave the money there.

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Though I learned in the car ride home about the practice of tipping, it took years and someone else to explain to me that 15% is the customary tip in order to finally resolve that conflict. 

I don’t need to know the total of our bill to understand that a one dollar tip left for a messy family of six, even in the 80’s, means that my dad was just a cheapskate.

He was not mad at me. He was mad with himself. My loud-mouthed announcements unintentionally calling him out also likely means he was a little embarrassed, too.