Keeping Up Appearances

I grew up among military types. My mother’s father, General “Bagpipes” Magruder, wore a suit and bow tie to go to the grocery store. My father, also a General, looked snappy when he stepped out for non-military festivities wearing a suit topped by a Borsalino fedora on his bald head, a feather peeking from the hat band. As for me, from an early age I polished my own shoes and kept a straight gig line.

Our house always looked spic and span. My mother had to have the quarters ready in case the commanding officer’s wife stopped by. Officers’ ladies had their own calling cards, the reason for the silver salver tray on the table that stood by the front door. Hands that slipped cards into the tray wore gloves. What if you didn’t have a bow tie, didn’t have a fedora, didn’t have a silver salver, lost your gloves? What would people think of you?

We were Episcopalians, concerned about appearances. Episcopalians invest carefully and drink in moderation. We tolerate a moderate amount of pomp and color in church, like a single cherry in our Manhattans. The distribution of the shiny brass collection plates on Sunday creates a challenge. The minister, deacons, and acolytes have laid on the ceremony. We have been edified by the Bible, preached to, and blessed. Now it is time to pay for the show.

How much should we fork over? Is a pew mate watching out of the corner of her eye? Maybe, like Lucy in I Love Lucy, we have “a lot of splainin’ to do,” and we might need to dig deep. These days I wave off the collection plate because I pledge. I smile at the usher presenting the plate. I reach for it to pass it along. He knows I am a righteous dude and gave at the office. But wait, is that a new usher? Does he know that I pledge? When I join the recession to howdy the minister at the end of the service, will the new usher whisper to him, cutting his eyes toward me. “He didn’t give.”

When I was a child, soldiers herded to the Post Chapel by their platoon sergeant were stuck in the front pews. They flinched at the sight of the plate. They looked around ruefully to see what the other guys were giving. They thrust their hands into their khaki pockets and drew out a crinkly ball of cash from which they extracted a couple of George Washingtons. Their beer money.

I slurped down a vermicelli bowl for lunch several days ago, bowl bistros being as common on Central Avenue as ripped jeans. My chopsticks wouldn’t shred the lemongrass beef. The vermicelli wouldn’t hang on long enough for me to get a decent bite into my mouth. I sprayed polka dots of sweet fish sauce on my shirt. I said hell with it and grabbed a fork. Chopstick-savvy customers around us turned away, dismayed.

At the end of the meal the server, a young guy with curly brown hair, wearing several beaded necklaces, brought the mobile terminal to take my plastic. He deftly turned the terminal to present the buttons for tipping. He smiled. Without my glasses on, I couldn’t make out the percentage button. I took a chance and punched top left, guessing 20%. Was that enough? Or was that the “No Tip” button? Did I detect a patronizing smirk on his face as he whisked away the hardware? When did this become the collection plate at church?

My Life’s Editor has strong feelings about tipping. Why, she asks, because of the cost of the meal, should a server at a snazzy place on Beach Drive get more from their 20% cut than the server at the bowl bistro? They both smile nicely, take drink orders, serve, and stop by to see how things are going. The Beach Drive server asks, “Is everything to your liking?” instead of “How’re we doin’ here, guys?” Also, he has a lower tat-to-skin ratio than the bowl bistro waiter.

Herself also objects to tip jars that have multiplied at checkout counters. The jar squats there with its hand-lettered note: TIPS. The subliminal message is “If you don’t pop a bill in here, you are a cheapskate.” This requires you to wait until the barista is watching you before shoving in some greens.

For the final word on keeping up appearances, I tip my fedora to Dr. Phil: “You wouldn’t worry so much about what others think of you if you realized how seldom they do.”