$20

 Here's a little tale, one that happened over several days but a tale that I'm going to combine into one day because it makes for a better story while painting an even more positive story about me, Little Stevie Seaweed.  I think I've dabbled these incidents out in drips and drabs already but they made such a big, positive impact on me, Little Stevie Seaweed, that I'm going to repeat them.  Plus, I have nothing new on which to pontificate.

In my Quiet Time I have a written and spoken Gratitude List.  One of the things that I'm extremely grateful for is that I'm no longer living on the edge financially.  When I got sober I had approximately no money, a 20 year old Plymouth Belvedere station wagon my granddad had given me, and I was living in my parent's house, rent free, sleeping in my childhood bedroom.  Today this is not the case.  I ask my higher power to help me be a good financial steward of the resources I have, being neither stingy or extravaganza, both conditions detailed in The Big Book as typical alcoholic behavior.

So a few weeks ago I stuffed some bills in my wallet with the intent of handing them out.  One of the consequences of the pandemic is that there are tons of hard-working, honest citizens who are struggling financially through no fault of their own.  As I often say when being generous with money . . . ummm, trying to be generous with money . . . is that the value of the bills was less than I could comfortably afford but more than I wanted to part with.  (OK, OK, $20 bills.  Happy?) 

My first stop was to drop off SuperK's car to get the oil changed.  (Ed. Note: This makes me a saint.  I should point out she spent the morning doing laundry.  Of course no advantage accrues for her contribution, in my opinion.  If I do something nice it's a big deal but if you do something nice you're simply fulfilling an obligation to me, Little Stevie Seaweed.  Funny how that works, especially since all I did was drop off the car and walk to a coffee shop for a face-to-face meeting (socially distanced and outside, of course) with a sponsee.    

On the way to get coffee I swung by my donut shop (you know you eat too many donuts when you have a donut shop).  The immigrant owner of the shop always says good morning and then loads a sack with my regular order (you know you eat way too many donuts when the owner of your regular donut shop has your order memorized).

(Ed. Note: A really weird digression: I looked up "donut" to check the correct spelling and a Google search informed me that a donut emoji can stand in for a butthole and indicts a possible interest in anal sex.  I am not making that up - it was pretty high up on the search algorithm, too.  I am also unhappy I looked up donut.)

The cost of the donuts is $2.20.  I always give her $3 and often $5 but today I said "Merry Christmas, "handed her one of the $20's and stepped into the doorway.  I believe she thought this was a general "Merry Christmas" and not a "you're getting a pretty big tip Merry Christmas" because she opened the cash register and got $17.80 of change out of the till.  She turned around, saw me in the door with a big smile on my face and another "Merry Christmas" on my lips, watched me head on down the road.  She looked surprised.  I don't think she said anything.

Then, at the coffee shop, where Everyone Knows My Name and where Everyone Knows My Order (you know you drink too much coffee when the baristas at your regular coffee shop just ring up your order without asking what you want), I slapped down another $20 and said: "That's good."  "Really?  Are you sure?" the young woman asked.  "Thank you.  Thanks from all of us."

At this point I'm flying high, feeling pretty good about myself, not yet regretting that I just paid $40 for $6 worth of products, only slightly miffed that the barista wasn't quite as effusive in her praise as she could have been thereby discounting my incredible generous tip, strolling back into the auto repair shop like I'm the second coming of King Shit.  I really like this small, individually owned mechanic.  The people are great.  In my opinion a good, honest auto mechanic is more important than a cardiologist.  I think I could catch a lying cardiologist in a lie but a lying auto mechanic has me by the balls.

As I pay for the work I ask if I can speak to the mechanic.  Sure.  They bring this kid out who looks like he's about 14 - one of the ways you can tell that you're getting old is that everyone under 35 looks like they're in middle school.  I hand him a bill.  He breaks into a big smile.  "You thought you were in trouble, didn't you?" I ask.  "Usually the case when the client asks to see me," he replied.  I slip into the restroom before I leave and when I walk back into the reception area the three service techs and the owner are all standing there.  They wanted to show me that the kid who worked on my car had been featured in the last flyer they mailed out.  Everyone was noticeably pleased.  There was just this great electricity, this great energy in the room.  

For $20.  Whew.