Twenty-five cents, please

Sometimes I meet the most interesting people. I did Sunday at Souper Salad in Santa Fe. Let me explain.

One can usually identify me as the man who, when holding open a door for someone at a restaurant, will ask for a tip.

True, the denotation of “Twenty-five cents, please” means, of course, “Hand over the cash.” The connotation — and to me that’s what communication is mostly about — is “I’m just joking, trying to be friendly.”

When the denotation (what the expression is supposed to mean) and the connotation (what we make of the words) collide, there’s often friction.

But let’s return to Las Vegas:

Charlie’s Restaurant, a popular hangout, might benefit from an automatic door, there being so much traffic. It’s seldom that I enter without pausing to hold the door for someone else; and many hold the door open for me. It’s a way of communicating, being friendly, of saying, “Even though I don’t know your name, I know you.”

So forget what I wrote about automatic doors. Yet others simply walk past, without acknowledgement, as they usher their family and the entire Seventh Fleet through the door I’m holding.

Invariably, when I hold the door for someone, I get a thank-you. And only for those who seem appreciative (or who at least go through the motions of muttering thanks), I’ll say, “Twenty-five cents, please.”

Now that’s in line with big-city hotels of old, when the restrooms used to be staffed with gentlemen (and ladies, I guess) who would hand us a cloth towel, straighten our collar, brush the snow off our topcoat and hand us a small cloth to shine our shoes.

Even back in the ‘60s, when I had my first sampling of a porter-in-waiting at the Pick-Congress Hotel in Chicago, I was amazed that people often tipped a whole dollar. In those days, it would take me an hour to earn a dollar at the newspaper where I worked. My tip then was a quarter, the only coin I had at the time. The men’s room attendant didn’t exactly gush with gratitude when I crossed his palm with the coin.

So, my request at the door of Las Vegas establishments isn’t a payback for the “spare-change” plea most of us get before we enter; it’s just a way of being courteous (my mommy told me always to hold the door for people, even the able-bodied) and friendly. Usually my request leads to a chuckle. Some will say, “Put it on my tab”; others, “Well, I held the door for you yesterday, so we’re even.”

Only once in a lifetime of asking for a tip did I receive one. Almost as if we had rehearsed the routine, a woman, obviously already holding the quarter in her hand, transferred it to mine. That blew me away.

“I can’t accept it. I was joking,” I said, half-chokingly. I finally persuaded her to keep the money. But that taught me that in most cases, the tone of voice says more than the content. Most people for whom I’ve performed this small courtesy naturally infer my meaning. I wonder how much money I could pocket in a day if I were to station myself at that restaurant and ask — in a serious tone — for a quarter.

I’ll answer my own question: Very little change; most people would surmise I’m teasing.

So what did the interesting man suspect when I posed as the “quarter man” at Souper Salad? The man, Hispanic, around my age, was entering while I held the door. I waited until he came in before asking for recompense for my magnanimous service.

Was I in for a surprise! “You think you’re gonna get money out of me?”

I wanted to say, “Sir, I was just joking — that’s me” (or, as my English teacher would say, “That’s I.”) Was the man — loaded for bear — perhaps resentful over having been dragged to a restaurant? Was there nothing in his cranial storage system that would indicate that here’s a man, generally cheerful and friendly, who’s simply teasing? Had I reacted the way he did, there might have been a fracas.

Imagine the next day’s coverage in the Optic: “Elderly Optic employee arrested in public affray.” Whether I groveled sufficiently to convince the man that I wasn’t trying to hustle him, I don’t know. I didn’t stay in his company long enough to find out. But yet, as we just happened to end up sitting at adjoining tables in the restaurant, I was aware of sporadic post-disturbance mumblings about “the nerve of total strangers asking for money.”

He may have had a point. And I’ve hit on this point many times before: It’s difficult when going to restaurants to avoid people who ask for cash. Did I come across that way to the gentleman who took umbrage?

I’d like to think my jesting was unrelated to the man’s reaction. It would be comforting, not to mention conscience-soothing to assume the man was ticked off in the first place. And, having had success most of the time in eliciting more smiles than quarters, I think I’ll continue to be up to my old tricks.

And in turn, feel free to ask me for a quarter when you’re holding the door.