From Sunday’s Met Diary, this piece is by Neal Haiduck.
Dear Diary:
It was February 2013. With a foot of snow expected, I left work early and drove from New Jersey warily as my wipers squeaked and snow and ice stuck to my windows.
I drove east on the Cross Bronx Expressway, which was tied up worse than usual. Trucks groaned on either side of my rattling Toyota. My fingers were cold. My toes were colder. Got to get home before it really comes down, I thought to myself.
By the time I got home to my little red bungalow a stone’s throw from the Throgs Neck Bridge, the snow was already up to my ankles.
Inside, I took off my gloves, hat, scarf, coat, sweater, pants and snow boots. The bed, still unmade, was inviting me. But first, I checked my messages.
There was one from Teresa, the 92-year-old widow on the corner.
“Call me,” she said, sounding desperate.
I looked toward the warm bed, but … Teresa. There was a storm outside, and she was alone.
On went the pants, the sweater, the coat, the scarf, the boots and the gloves, and then I went out the door.
The snow was six inches deep on the sidewalks, so I tottered on tire tracks in the middle of the street. The wind stung my face. When I got to the end of the block, I pounded on her door.
“Teresa!” I called. No answer. “Teresa!” I called again. I heard the TV blaring. Was she sprawled on the floor?
I went next door and called for Kathy.
“Teresa can’t answer the door,” I said. “Probably fell.”
Kathy had a key. In the corner of her neat living room, Teresa, in pink sweatpants and sweaters, was sitting curled in her armchair, head bent down and The Daily News in her lap.
I snapped off the TV.
Startled, she looked up.
“Kathy! Neal!” she said. “What’s a five-letter word for cabbage?
[Owl Chatter: MONEY?]
We must speak out about the tipification of America. We took three of the g’kids out for frozen yogurt last week. They each took a cup and dispensed the yogurt themselves. (I helped Isaac a little.) Then they selected and took their own toppings. I was braced for the cost to be roughly the size of the defense budget, so after they put their cups on the scale, I wasn’t too shocked at the price ($26). I tapped my credit card on the little mechanism and a screen came up asking if I would like to add a tip. I was given the choice of 10%, 15%, or 20%, or I could add a “custom” tip in any amount that I would like to enter. There was also one small option in the corner for “no tip.”
I asked the young man behind the counter: “Whom am I being asked to tip?” He said “Me.” (He was the only one there.) I said, “What service should I consider when determining the amount? What service did you provide?” He said, “What do you mean?” I said, “We got our own cups, we got our own yogurt, we got our own toppings, we placed everything on the scale ourselves. Is the service you’re providing ‘taking our money?’ Actually, you didn’t even do that — I worked the credit card thingie myself. So my question is, what service did you provide that I am tipping you for?” He said: “Well you can press ‘no tip’ if you want.” I said, “Okay. That seems to make the most sense under the circumstances.”
[OC Note: The conversation in the above paragraph did not take place anywhere outside of my imagination. I did press “no tip” though — you can be damn sure of that.]
The Jets laid an egg on Sunday. Ouch. Enough said. Last week they lost but looked okay. This week they lost and didn’t. They looked the opposite of okay.
Here’s Sauce Gardner. Best nickname ever.
Oh no! Wifi in our room is too weak to support us. May be a break in broadcasting.
Will resume when we can. Weather is iffy too. Gnats game is threatened.
Later.
The Wellington Files 