Cheapskate

The mid-50’s man waiting for his car to be washed looked like three million bucks. A full head of salon-quality hair with flawless blonde highlights, expensive Italian loafers, crisp black slacks and a fitted light blue dress shirt open at the throat. He wore a platinum wedding band, and balanced an iPad on his knee. His skin was perfection, smooth and radiant, and he carried himself with the authority of a man who has his world on a string.

One of the games I play to pass the time when I take my car to Prestige Car Wash on Milpas Street is trying to match people with the cars coming off the wash line. I make mistakes now and again, like when I assume the pretty late 30’s blonde woman with the impressive diamond ring and recently manicured toenails must belong to a silver BMW, when in fact her ride is a hunter green Range Rover.

My three million dollar man belongs to a brand new black Jaguar, no question about it. There’s a BMW, a Benz and a Porsche in the queue, but I just know this put together gent is going to step forward and claim the Jag when the Mexican crew finishes polishing the wheels. And sure enough, when one of the workers standing near the Jag raises his hand and calls, “Ready,” the man slowly stands up and saunters over. He circles the car, looking for imperfections, and then folds himself into the driver’s seat and drops two quarters in the Mexican’s hand.

No lie. I was close enough to see and it was two quarters.

I also saw an incredulous look slide quickly across the Mexican’s face. This is a worker for whom tips are bread and butter -- and tortillas, beans, salsa, meat, chicken and eggs – and in his occupation rich cheapskates are an occupational hazard.

Tipping generously was one of the few lessons I learned from my father. Pete always said that if a working person like a bartender, waitress, cab driver, bellhop or doorman does you a service, show your respect for their effort and tip them well, because, like you, they’re just trying to make it.

After my Jaguar man drove off, I sat in the sunshine with my wife and daughter and thought about what my father said, and how the Jaguar man is emblematic of the sickness that afflicts contemporary America. Honest labor gets no respect from the rich.

I don’t agree with one of Mitt Romney’s cronies who penned a book extolling the virtues of extreme income inequality, nor can I wrap my brain around the mentality of the Republican Party – or the wealthy clientele they so assiduously serve – no matter how I try. It’s beyond my comprehension, beyond my frame of reference, and beyond my conception of what America should stand for.

Three and a half decades of the same twisted ideology. Cut taxes for the wealthy, cut taxes on investment income, dividends, capital gains; structure international trade agreements to encourage American companies to send jobs to low wage countries; relentlessly privatize public services and never miss an opportunity to attack unions, collective bargaining, and public employee pensions. This is good for America? How? In an economy that turns our consumption, on the buying of cars, houses, home appliances and furniture, why do the Republicans insist on making it nearly impossible for working people to consume?

Our Honda CRV is ready, shiny and clean. My daughter has two $1 bills in one hand and her little pink purse in the other. After handing the bills over, she digs in her purse and gives the car wash man all the change she has, a $1.38.

Good girl. Never forget where you come from.