I used to wait tables at a local family diner, near the north-west end of the island. One day, I waited a middle-aged couple that even now reminds me of how little I knew about life back then, though I’m not sure why. After they had finished their meal, I brought them the bill as the husband got up to use the washroom. “I apologize for my husband in advance…”, said the wife. “He’s the obsessive type. Whole numbers only. Even better if they’re a multiple of 5.” I looked at the bill. 24.14$. Was I about to get an eighty-six-cent tip? It wasn’t the money that bothered me really, I was earning enough at the time to guarantee my livelihood and a night out once in a while. I was just curious to see if the man would really tip me eighty-six cents. Not to my detriment, nor for his cheapness, but for the satisfaction that perhaps he hoped I would partake in. We waited for close to a half hour. Then, without saying a word, the woman took out her coin purse and sheepishly tipped me twenty percent. She then got up to collect her husband, who by now had undoubtedly counted all the plies in the toilet paper and had moved on to examining the many flaws in our washroom vanity.