Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [5]
6 The Tip
Each year on their anniversary they went out to dinner. He insisted on this because it was traditional, although he knew she would just as soon stay home. Sometimes they went to the Mission Country Club, sometimes they went downtown to one of the big hotels or to a restaurant they had heard about. One year they decided to try a supper club near the Warwick Theater which the Barrons had recommended, and they were not disappointed. The food was excellent, there was nothing wrong with the service, and the atmosphere was pleasant. After dinner they lingered awhile listening to the music and they got up several times to dance. Then it was time to go home so Mr. Bridge signaled for the check. It came to eleven dollars and twenty-five cents. He examined it to be sure they had not been overcharged and that the addition was correct. Then he laid three five-dollar bills on the tray. The waiter, bowing and smiling, inquired in a practiced murmur whether there would be anything else, and Mr. Bridge was astounded to realize that he meant to keep all of the money.
“You will bring me the change,” he said.
When the change was brought to him he counted it and found that it was correct. He put two dollars into his wallet, twenty-five cents went into his trousers pocket, and he left one dollar and fifty cents on the tray. Then he stood up, the waiter held the chair while Mrs. Bridge got to her feet, and they walked out.
As they were driving along Ward Parkway he considered what had happened. He was afraid his wife had been embarrassed.
He said, “Maybe I should have let that fellow get away with it. After all, another two dollars wouldn’t break me.”
She replied that she thought he had done exactly the right thing.
“I’ve had waiters pull that stunt on me before,” he said, to justify himself. “They take advantage of people every chance they get.”
She agreed, and told him about a very similar experience on the Plaza when she was having lunch with Grace Barron.
“My Lord,” he muttered, “that fellow was hoping for thirty per cent!”
“He did seem awfully pushy,” she remarked. “Next year we’d better try someplace else.”
7 No Oil
According to the mileage on the speedometer it was time once again to have the Reo lubricated. The company recommended a lubrication every one thousand miles and he did not like to drive farther than this without having the job done. He suspected it was not necessary quite so often; however, he did not want to take a chance on damaging the motor. The company also recommended a change of oil every thousand miles and he had accepted this without thinking about it, but now the idea began to irritate him: very possibly the auto manufacturers and the petroleum industry were conspiring to sell the public more oil than the cars required. He decided there was no reason to change the oil each time the car was lubricated. As long as the filter was functioning the oil should be all right.
At the garage where he parked he looked around until he located the manager, whose name was Jerry Buckworth. He was wearing his usual blue smock with Jerry stitched in white script above the pocket, but Mr. Bridge addressed him formally because he was the manager.
“Good morning, Mr. Buckworth,” he said.
The manager took the cigar out of his mouth and replied, “Good morning, Mr. Bridge. What can we do for you?”
“I would like to have the Reo greased.”
“When will you need it?”
“Six would be soon enough. Don’t change the oil.”
“We’ll have her for you,” the manager said.
Mr. Bridge nodded and walked out of the garage.
That evening when he returned to pick up the car he was met by the manager, who explained apologetically that the oil had been changed.
“I told you not to,” said Mr. Bridge.
The manager explained that he had forgotten to tell the mechanic.
“Well,” Mr. Bridge said, “I am not going to pay for that