Form and Function

You would be surprised at the variety of things that are found in our tip jar. Very seldom is it money. Some of the items can be explained by the haste of retrieval. When digging through pockets, wallets, and purses, one is compelled to perform this kindness within a certain speed lest they be accused of drawing attention to their generosity. No one wants to be seen as a showboat. So in the mad dash to beat the quick draw of eyeballs, miscellaneous items like buttons and recites get swept up in the cash grab. There is no doubt an element of play. Only a prankster spirit can produce condoms and jellybeans. Another source of our collection can be attributed to scorn. We don't have the staff from three years ago. It's an overworked skeleton crew that messes up orders. We have countless meetings about tone and energy. Our jar has become a bit of protest art at times. When it's not that, there is a very touching human element mixed with the scant offering of financial support. I once saw a lady wait for business to slow. She tried to look around without being too obvious about it. She slipped in a baby picture. It's not clear if it was her baby picture or that of her own kid. I'm not even sure. Was that a message to us, or was it a desperate cry for this infant soul not to be forgotten? Our boss has a stupid joke that does ring true despite it not being funny. He says our jar is the love child of a time capsule and a lost and found. Back when we had more staff, there was a cash infusion from spring breakers that allowed us to spruce up the place. We got really funky sculptures and paintings to give it a hole in the wall feel. And it makes me so crazy that our tip jar is the biggest statement in the joint. It got me thinking about what children do to the decorative class of insects. Butterflies, ladybugs, or rainbow beetles would be subjected to a heartless mini-zoo with no food and dwindling air supply. Except in our case, the jar seems to be a safehouse against cruelty. These contributions were made by the dead. Men and woman with vacant stares and mechanical steps slipped distressed signals in our jar to let us know underneath all those layers of dead professionalism and mindless rule keeping are the beating hearts of people who still clung to vestiges of breathable aspirations. I think that is why we never get rid of it. It never nets more than ten dollars. Months can go by and a five dollar bill will have the company of soda can tabs and Bic pens. That's another thing that happens. After jotting down orders we leave our writing utensils in the most sensible container. It has become a convergence of worker stress and customer autobiographies. Our jar has become a talisman of sorts. It holds the entire place together when expenses exceed our revenue. I know this sounds superstitious, but if it were to fall and break, I think our eatery would go under. Perhaps the lives that touched the jar may suffer harm as well.