The Time I Broke the Tip Jar

another day, another embarrassment

At the end of September, I met with my writing group. As we stated our writing goals for the next month, I told them that I’d like to write an essay or two, but I didn’t currently have any material.

“For that, I’d have to leave the house,” I admitted.

This is funny, you see, because I mostly write about embarrassing myself in public.

The next day we were put under a storm warning. Then Hurricane Helene hit, and I didn’t leave my house for days.

Even if I wanted to, downed trees and power lines meant there was no way off the mountain.

For days, I drifted through my dark, silent cabin, waiting for the power to come back on or the roads to open—whichever came first.

Slowly, I consumed the perishables. Kept the candles lit and the LED lights charged.

Estimated how much gas was left in the generator.

Writing was the last thing on my mind.

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My first morning off the mountain, the line to our smalltown coffee shop was out the door, across the patio, down a flight of wooden steps, and into the parking lot.

We were all fine with it.

Most of us still had no power, no hot water, no fresh food left.

We’d just spent days on end holed up in dark houses with no power during the storm and its aftermath.

We were just glad some place was open—any place.

Besides, what’s a little line among storm survivors?

And inside was hot coffee.

The delicious aroma wafted on the cool morning breeze.

I alternately checked messages on my phone—since I hadn’t had steady cell service in days—and chatted with those around me in line. We discussed fallen trees, flooded basements, generators, and other storms we’d weathered, both here and in other places we’d lived.

Our clothes were rumpled and day-old, but the vibes were immaculate.

As an extrovert, I was in my element. Bonding with strangers over coffee and storytelling? Say no more.

Nothing could bring me down.

Finally, it was my turn at the register.

As a regular, I knew my role. I quickly blurted my order, intent on being one of those brilliant, non-problem customers who knows how to order and doesn’t hold up the line.

The girl behind the counter rung me up cheerily and told me that I’d have to swipe because the tap-to-pay feature wasn’t working.

“No problem,” I said, swiping my card enthusiastically.

A bit too enthusiastically, as it turned out.

Mid super-swipe, the back of my hand hit the glass tip jar, which fell to the floor and shattered.

Money and glass shards shot everywhere.

The cashier was wearing sandals.

There was a collective gasp, followed by a hush as the heads of every person in earshot swiveled, curious to witness exactly who had done what.

It’s me—I was the who.

As for what I’d done, I’d embarrassed myself.

Again.

The first time I ventured out in public after the storm.

At this point, none of us should be surprised.

Including me.

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The next day, I was back for more hot coffee.

My power was out—I had no choice.

So I took a deep breath. Pulled open the glass door, carrying with me all the equanimity of someone practiced in the art of recovering from social blunders.

The best way out is through.

So I smile, greet the manager and staff, tell them I’m back to break more of their things.

“Welcome back,” they greet me, laughing.

At the register, I see they’ve set out a replacement tip jar.

This time, it’s plastic.

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