The Tip

The elevator opened out onto the South Bend Marriot's fourth floor. The same familiar sight greeted Reg as he made his way down the pale green corridor: identical doors, distinguished from each other only by their accompanying numbers, guiding him toward Mr Carlton's room. Holding a tray of steak sandwiches and french fries, Reg made an extra effort not to drop it ' not like last time. The pain of his arthritis was only kept at bay by numerous pills, but there were still occasions when his limbs failed to do exactly as he intended. Approaching the door marked 42, Reg steadied the tray on a nearby trashcan. He rapped the door and then quickly resumed the position of porter-holding-tray. A quick intake of breath. The sound of bolts and locks being adjusted. The door slowly opened with a slight creak.
'Good evening, sir,' beamed Reg.
'Hi,' Mr Carlton replied, with little enthusiasm. He was wearing a red bathrobe, and his hair was still damp ' loosely falling across his forehead. 'Just put it down on the table, willya?'
Reg obediently placed the tray down and made an extra effort to ensure it was aligned square with the table's edge. He turned round and smiled again at the young man. This was the part he always hated; yet he had learnt to hide his apprehension with the expertise of an actor. The dreaded pause should last no longer than three seconds, he had always told himself. If no tip came, after that, it was a signal for you to get out ' fast. Guests don't like employees loitering around their bedrooms, especially when they're wearing scant clothing. Mr Carlton looked at Reg for a split second before catching himself.
'Oh, sorry,' he said as he walked over to the cabinet and fumbled through a wad of crumpled green notes. 'Forgot about you yanks and your tips. Here you go.' He handed a few green to Reg with an awkward smile. His accent was unusual ' probably British. Not many foreigners come to this part of the States, Reg mused. As usual, he resisted the urge to count the money there and then. His time here was up, so a quick exit was necessary.
'Enjoy your meal, sir ' and have a great evening.'
'Thanks. You too.'
As he made his way to the door, Reg noticed a woman doing something with make-up as she stared at the bathroom mirror. She was also in a bathrobe, but Reg had failed to notice her when he'd entered. The layout of the suite was such that the bathroom was hidden from the main door. She stopped what she was doing at looked at the old man.
'Oh, didn't see you there, ma'am,' Reg chirped. 'You have a nice stay too.'
Distracted for a moment from her cosmetics, the woman turned to her partner. 'You did tip him, didn't you?' she said in an accent similar to his. Her manner was relaxed. Warm. Friendly.
'Yeah, yeah. Of course, I did,' came the reply.
'Fifteen percent? You know that's the amount in this country?' she turned to smile reassuringly to Reg.
'Well ' I think so,' he replied, unconvincingly. 'It was five dollars, I think,'
'Michael! You and your maths never did get on!' she reached over to the cabinet and ruffled through the money.
'Here ' have a bit extra. Just in case my husband didn't give you enough!' She smiled, thrusting the cash into Reg's hands, before returning to the mirror as quickly as anything. Reg paused for a moment, slightly embarrassed. The husband turned to devour his meal, seemingly unaffected by any possible faux pas he may have committed.
'Thank you,' smiled Reg, who made his way out of the room and into the corridor. A slight spring in his step, he examined the contents of his hand once he was out of hearing distance of Mr Carlton's room.
A hundred dollars!
Reg stopped briefly and counted the money several times before carrying on to the service elevator. All the way there, he wrestled with his conscience. Did she mean to give him that much? Was it because she was foreign and unfamiliar with the money? The guilt faded quickly as he reasoned that you have to be fairly well off to stay in a hotel like this if you're travelling ' plus, they seemed pretty rich.
But then, the woman wasn't stupid, and he saw her look at the notes. By the time he'd reached the kitchens, his conscience was clear.
He couldn't believe his luck ' this was the best tip he'd had all day, and it was worth several times more than the food he'd delivered. Not bad for five minutes work, he figured. This will go towards his holiday fund. One day, he'll have saved up enough to treat Martha to a stay for a weekend at that fancy hotel up north. The one right by the marina, looking out over Lake Michigan.
Then he'll be the one tipping the porter¦