Change in the Tip Jar
A short story
She dropped a handful of loose change into the tip jar.
Simon, barely out of high school, couldn’t have known
how that often overlooked, nearly useless change
would someday save his life.
The retired woman was always smiling, always kind,
handing out compliments to the café staff with her morning coffee.
She praised the drinks they poured — easy to make, easy to learn.
She knew they were all underpaid, all underappreciated.
And somehow, everyone loved her for it.
Even if those tips wouldn’t cover much at day’s end,
they all liked that nice woman by the window, her presence
a reminder that someone noticed them.
On this particular morning, Simon was working alone,
juggling orders, mixing drinks, handling payments.
The retired lady ordered her usual: a medium cappuccino, extra foam.
“Morning, Simon!” she greeted him, her voice light as a breeze,
and despite himself, he smiled.
She was a bright spot in a dim, worn café,
a moment of warmth in a world of overcast skies.
He went back to work, focusing, keeping pace.
As always, she’d claimed her favorite spot by the window.
She stayed all morning this time, till the end of his shift,
leaving a little pile of change in the tip jar —
all his, since no one else showed up.
“Thanks for today, Simon,” she called as she left.
“See you next time!” he called back,
then realized he didn’t even know her name.
A pang of guilt struck him.
After all these years, her loyalty, her kindness —
and still, he hadn’t bothered to ask.
As he closed out, he scooped the coins and dollar bills
from the jar without counting. He never counted;
it was always small change, loose coins, wrinkled dollar bills.
On his walk home, he cut through his usual alley.
He didn’t notice the shadow trailing behind him,
not until it was too late.
A knife glinted in the dim alley light.
“Give me everything you have,” the voice hissed,
the man’s hand trembling, his face hidden under a hood.
“NOW!” the man yelled. “And I want to hear none of that
‘I just have a credit card’ bullsh*t.”
Simon froze. He didn’t have much — no phone,
nothing worth taking. Then he remembered the tip jar.
“All I have is my tips. Just loose change,” he stammered,
offering up the wrinkled bills.
The mugger’s eyes locked onto a crumpled fifty
Simon hadn’t noticed before.
Fifty dollars. Enough for the man to vanish into the night,
enough to buy something to quiet his demons.
As the man ran off, Simon slumped against the wall,
shaken, his hands trembling.
The retired lady’s face flashed in his mind —
her small, quiet acts of kindness.
Without her, he’d be lying here, another nameless boy,
blood on the pavement.
Her change, her generosity had bought him another day.
And he promised himself that, next time,
he’d learn her name.
Written during our Monthly Writers’ Meeting with Susan Sagarin and Mark Sagarin. Edited & revised with the help of Grammarly and ChaptGPT.
