his hipster beard – mandatory accessory for this gentrified borough of Pittsburgh – leads him back and forth from the kitchen to the tables he serves more tables than he should I wait too long for my overpriced salad as he drops a plate of greasy wings in front of a table of oblivious professionals who judge him find him wanting without ever looking up from their phones a small bead of sweat accompanies him when he drops off my check I pay with a twenty and he brings me back a ragged five and a one-dollar bill. I know what he did. Fuck. god damned hipster server trying to fleece me playing on social pressure betting on pocketing that faded fiver that he did not earn from me. I force him to break that Lincoln I tip three bucks because I damned well won’t let him get the best of me. my indignation is an all-American righteousness so much so that I forget – forget I paid four times what the salad was worth forget he doesn’t see a penny of that profit forget that he makes less than three bucks an hour forget that without tips he won’t make rent I forget all of this in my pride at catching a huckster who just wants to keep the lights on one more day
