Rich

There is this story, this thing that happened, and it’s just about the only story my dad liked to tell about me as the years went by. Because of that, I’m going to tell it here. His face would light up when he was telling it. The light was the humorous leftovers of embarrassment. Something he could laugh about NOW that wasn’t so funny when it happened.

It was simple really. And somehow indicative of my life as a whole.

My family and I were at a restaurant. Unusually, it was a sit down joint. Big Boy? I dunno. I think we were on vacation. I was maybe 4? We ate. We had a nice time. Dad paid the bill and waited at the door for us to catch up. When we did catch up, as we were walking out the door, I showed my dad my amazing luck.

Me: Hey dad, look, I’m rich.
Dad: What?
Me: I’m rich.

I had a handful of money.

Dad: Where did you get all that money?
Me: Off the tables. People left it there. I’m rich!

I had cleared probably 5 or 6 tables on my way to the door. I was amazed at how all of those dumb people had forgotten to take their money when they left the restaurant. Somehow no one noticed me doing this. Which happened to me a lot.

Mom: Oh my goodness! (For her this was like swearing.)
Dad: That’s not for you!!!

Dad grabbed the money out of my clutching hands and put it on a table near the door. He furtively ran back out of the restaurant in embarrassment. My siblings looked at me with concern, thinking I would go to jail for what I’d done. But the police had bigger fish to fry. So, in lieu of incarceration, mom and dad just explained to me what a “tip” was. And ... my dad loved this story. It always made him laugh. Like clockwork.


I was robbed.




Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2010