EDITOR'S PICKS
Sean McKlusky's Pick:
The Tip
by Alexander Spires
The three hundred and seventh (give or take) submission this time around was The Tip. This story reminds me of the teaching of guru whose name escapes me and who I will not attempt to quote but rather ask the question: If a baby is left in a room with something of value and a thief comes and steals it, does the baby know a crime has been committed? This analogy serves to make one think about the concept of right and wrong, good and evil, and the ultimate subjectivity of all morality and ethics. "The Tip" introduces a five dollar bill in the first paragraph and successfully takes the reader through several agonizing moments in the evolution of a character. It creates a culture in a microcosm then challenges established social morays within that context. Not only does it speak to human nature but it manages to simultaneously develop a setting, a character, a stream of consciousness and action to keep the reader interested till the very end. What you as a reader think about the situation, the characters and the action in this story may just serve to teach you something or force you to admit something about yourself. But don't worry, man. It ain't THAT heavy. I mean, it's just a fiver, right?
The band sucked and the bar didn't take tips. It was just after passage of the smoking ban, so there was a lot of in/out traffic. Myself included, the fuming mob centipeded out the front. I noticed the fiver sitting by an empty glass on a table next to the band's 'please buy our CD' stand. Outside, the smokers talked about how shitty the band was and flashed off small fires to stoke death in a stick. After breathing poison I stepped back inside to drink some. The fiver was still there, next to the CD stand, but the glass was gone.
I watched another group go out to smoke and a waiter came by my table. She meandered all the way to back and up to the front again — I doubt I'll ever know how bar waiters can carry so many glasses with only two hands. She passed up the cash twice. I looked up at the bar and there was the sign I'd seen earlier, large as life and clear as day, taped to the mirror above the bottles, 'Our staff will not accept tips.'
I thought about it: Arthur Doyle's deductive reasoning method works out that if the staff will not accept tips then the money cannot be a tip. It was a cash bar so it couldn't be paying for anything, all money was tendered over the counter. Its owner couldn't possibly have lost it, it was there, smack in the middle of the table where an ashtray had stood for nearly a century before they finally tore it down only a month prior. I concluded that the money had been discarded for the furtherance of someone other than whoever left it... secret surprise charity from a wealthy benefactor who'd prefer to remain anonymous. It could not be a tip, even if it had been left as one the staff could not accept it. It was fair game.
During my pensive interlude a balding man had come along and looked at a copy of the band's CD. He put it down and walked away and came back. He picked up the CD and looked at the song listings on the back. He put it back on the CD stand. He walked away and this time I really watched him... he was looking at that five bucks. My five bucks. I'd get it, and him too.
He came and leaned on the money's table as he read the CD, again; he was making his move. He took a couple quick glances around to make sure nobody was watching him... I was, out the corner of my eye, he didn't notice. I looked at his hand as it slowly slid to the middle of the tabletop. He glanced out again, it was disgusting to watch, it reminded me of when I used to steal quarters when I was five. He had no skill but thought that he was so slick... he thought he was stealing. Slick.
His index finger was half-an-inch from tapping the corner of the bill so that he could flick it under his hand and palm it into his pocket. I put a cigarette in my mouth. I rose from my seat. I pushed my chair in. I took four steps and said, 'Hi,' to the balding guy, picked up the cash and walked outside. I traded the five dollars with the lighter in my pocket and smoked myself to death.
Allex Spires lives in Columbus, Ohio and has been writing since he was seventeen. His short stories have appeared in The Lampshade and The fifth essence. He is coauthor of the serial "The Legend of Joseph Waldenhaus" for The Culture Star Reader and has worked as an editor and ghostwriter for Adarro Minton's upcoming short story collection, Gay Black Crippled Fat and as an Editor for horrorlibrary.net's The Horror Library Volume 1. When not writing, Allex Spires spends time in the company of friends and family and sleeps infrequently.
Copyright 2006, Alexander Spires