I was visiting my parents in Rochester last weekend. On Sunday, I “gassed up the Gremlin” for the trip back east.
I don’t mean that literally — I retired my old 1973 AMC Gremlin in 1981. “Gas up the Gremlin” is just my generic way of purchasing 12 gallons of Sky Chief for my current 1998 Honda Civic.
Actually, I couldn’t find any Sky Chief, Fire Chief — even a Texaco station, for that matter — in the Flower City. I pulled into a Quik Fill station and prepared to buy the car a drink. A young woman beat me to the pump — I had thought she was filling up her own car, but she was on the job.
“Fill it?” she asked.
There hadn’t been a “full service” sign at the station. Gas bartenders are rare birds these days, and I was kind of surprised at the question. “Yeah,” I answered. “It will take 11 or 12 gallons.”
The saleswoman kept an eye on another pump, and about 15 seconds later asked: “You did say ‘Fill it,’ right?”
I again answered in the affirmative. “Oh, good!” she said, a bit relieved. “I forgot if I asked. If you had only wanted $10, the rest would have come out of my tips.”
She was talkative, and full of information. Tips? At a gas station?
“Not everyone tips, and they don’t have to,” she continued. “But they help if you want a pack of cigarettes or a Red Bull. I had a Red Bull about an hour ago.”
Tips are not on my mind, not at a gas station. I don’t consider myself a miser, but I’m not lavish with money around strangers, either. I can see tips at restaurants, where waitresses are on the run all the time. Extra dollars here and there ensure prompt service, the whole point behind the custom.
I also tip barbers. My main man Richard DiCristofaro at the Wedgeway Barber Shop in Schenectady — and barber Dawn — always deserve a couple extra notes for their ever-challenging scissors-and-razor jobs above my ears.
Bartenders, yeah I guess. It’s nice if a man or woman behind the bar is paying attention, and knows when a thirsty man needs a cold Coors Light. And I always tip the guy who delivers my newspaper, every December. He drops off a Christmas card in the newspaper box on the side of my house, a little reminder that says, “Every morning, in cold and rain, about 5:30 a.m., I’m delivering the old Gazette.” I generally return the card with a $20 bill.
But that’s about it.
Lately, I see more and more tip jars in more and more places. Counter clerks at submarine sandwich shops want stray coins and bills; so do clerks at some dry cleaners. Taxi drivers expect a financial favor, although I’ve never been able to figure out that one — the driver picks you up, drops you off and makes his fare. He just did his job, and expects a little bit extra? I resist tipping in cabs, mostly because I resist taking cabs.
I do not tip dentists, doctors, furnace specialists, chimney sweepers, wood delivery men or bellboys. Bellboys! Like I’m living in the 1940s. I’d have saved the guys a trip — and tip — by carting my own luggage.
I also stiff florists, candy concessionaires at the movies and tailors. It’s nothing personal ... just can’t see pressing a few dollars their way. And the more tip jars I see, the longer my list becomes.
Like last weekend. I’m afraid gasoline station attendants are the newest addition.
