The Tip

“You wanna do something fun?” Tanner asks, stretching and yawning in a way that says, Can we be done fighting now?

We’re on day two of our cross-country spring break road trip, and I’ve been giving Tanner the silent treatment for going on an hour now—ever since we left the Cat’s Cradle Café back in Welcome, Minnesota. Despite the chill seeping through the windows, the van reeks of B.O. and stale Doritos and pine scent air freshener. I’m driving, and I’ve turned off the radio three times now—driver controls the radio, that’s the rule—leaving us with no soundtrack for our dispute other than the wind whining in the windows and the semis blowing by in the passing lane. Through the frosty windows, fields and pastures flow by in snow-covered sameness, broken here and there by the ragged stubble of dead stalks.

I don’t answer him—not out loud, anyway. Silence is the best weapon in my limited arsenal, because I know from long experience that if he gets me talking, he’ll have me laughing within three minutes, and everyone knows laughter is fatal to a good fight, so I keep my mouth shut and my eyes on the road and my hands on the steering wheel. In my head, though, I’m thinking: That’s what you said about this trip: Wouldn’t it be fun to take a trip across the country for spring break, leave the crowded beaches of Padre Island and Santa Monica and Cancun to the Barbarians of Booze? Because obviously nothing is more fun than driving across the wastes of the frozen north in your dad’s ten-year-old Dodge Caravan.

Why’d I even agree to this trip anyway?

That’s what I’m wondering now, and the answer comes easy: Because that’s the way it’s always been, from forever and ever; he leads, I follow. He’d call up on a Saturday morning or some cicada-spangled summer afternoon and ask did I want to come over and—fill in the blank: put on a circus, bike to the mall, build model rockets, camp out in his tree fort, go sledding down Seventh Street. And nine times out of ten, I said yes. And why not? He got me out of my backyard and into the wide world, places I’d never dare go on my own. When we got older, we’d bike out to the airport and lay in the grass outside the perimeter fence, watching planes the size of small dragons rise into the sky above us, the roar of their engines hammering our bodies until every bone rang. Or we’d pack lunches and bike two hours out to the fire tower; he’d race to the top, and I’d follow ten minutes later, clutching the skeletal railing the entire way, and then we would sit at the top, our legs dangling out over the trees, and eat squashed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and snack cakes and talk about everything.

You’re closer to Tanner than his shadow, is the way my mom described it. She didn’t disapprove; everyone loved Tanner. Adults sometimes called him a charmer, and they were right. With fine orange hair that kept drifting into his blue eyes, a splash of freckles, and an easy smile, he was like the sun breaking through an overcast sky: he made everyone look up. All the boys wanted him on their team, even if he was a mediocre player; the girls teased him relentlessly, then invited him to their birthday parties. Teachers said he was “a delight to have in the classroom.”

Even you—you’re warming right up to him, aren’t you? I’m the one telling this story, but he’s already sitting on the protagonist’s perch.

It’s all right.

You’re probably wondering how we got to be friends, me being more of a Cameron Frye to his Ferris Bueller. It was a pretty simple three-step process. One: Our moms were in the PTA together and got to be friends. Two: Whenever they got together, they brought us along. Three: Forced into one another’s company, we adapted, and pretty soon, we’d developed a symbiotic relationship. Or maybe that’s not quite how it went. Maybe it’s more like a newly hatched duckling that imprints on a puppy, and pretty soon people are wondering why this duck is riding everywhere on the dog’s back. Anyway, the vines of our late-teen entanglement were planted back when we were too young to know what we were signing up for.

Which brings us back to the week before spring break. Tanner says, You know what would be fun? We should drive to Seattle. Just to be clear, this would be fun for Tanner because his girlfriend is going to art school in Seattle, and they haven’t seen one another since August 12th. Even as he spoke, it was way less obvious to me how five days of hard driving would be fun, but my objections were only pro forma and ultimately drowned in the deluge of fun places that Tanner said we’d see along the way. The Rock in the House in Fountain City, Wisconsin. The Spam Museum in Austin, Minnesota. The Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota. The Lake of Death in Butte, Montana. Etc., etc. All places he lifted from a beat-up copy of Roadside America. He says, This will be a spring break to remember. An expedition into the real America!

What he doesn’t say is that these places are separated by hundreds of miles of snow-covered cornfields so empty, even the AM radio stations are scarce. What he also doesn’t say but what I figure out pretty soon after we’ve left is that to make it to Seattle and back in time, he needs me to help drive, and even so, it’s going to be squeaky, which means there’s not really time to stop at the Mummified Mermaid in Wallace, Idaho, or anywhere else in “real America,” for that matter.

All of which sets the stage for the events that took place this morning in the Cat’s Cradle Café.

The café looks like it used to be someone’s house, which makes it feel weird just walking in the front door without knocking or anything. Inside, the place is cat-themed: Puss in Boots adorns the decorative plates hanging on the wall; tiny cat pawprints are painted on the floor and tables; a porcelain Skippyjon Jones regards us mischievously from atop the hostess stand. The place is nearly empty, other than a table of old men in baseball caps nursing coffees at a round table in the back.

Overall, the place is making me skeptical of our supposed mission to discover the real America, and I’m about to suggest we backtrack to the McDonald’s by the interstate, but then our waitress makes her appearance, and I shut my mouth.

Persephone (she’s wearing a nametag) greets us like she’s been waiting for us all morning and is glad we’re finally here. She looks into our faces with smiling eyes, then beckons us to follow her to a booth. Handing us well-worn laminated menu cards, she asks what she can get us to drink. Tanner orders coffee, but I have suddenly lost my voice because she’s looking at me with a smile like the spring sun, and all I can think is how well her name suits her. Tanner loosens my tongue with a swift kick under the table.

“Um, I’m just trying to decide between water or tea,” I manage to say, covering for my silence.

“I always have a hard time deciding, too,” she says and she casts her eyes skyward in self-deprecating exasperation.

“I guess I’ll have the tea.”

“Okay,” she says, marking that down in her order pad. “Do you want me to put some honey in that? I always add honey.”

“Sure.”

She dots the order pad, flashes a smile. “I’ll be right back with those.”

When she’s gone, Tanner peeks over the top of his menu. “‘Do you want some honey with that?’” he mimics. “Someone’s working hard for her tip.”

“Or maybe she’s just being nice.”

“Yuh-huh, I know that look on your face,” Tanner says from behind his menu.

“What?”

He peeks over his menu again, smiling benignly. “What what? You know what I’m talking about.”

I shake my head. Tanner snorts.

Persephone comes back with our drinks. “Coffee for you,” she says, carefully setting the cup before Tanner, “and tea for you—with honey, of course!”

Tanner’s eyes flicker at me.

I order the blueberry pancakes with a side of scrambled eggs, and Tanner orders the Farmer’s Omelet with a side of bacon and a blueberry muffin.

“Mmm,” she says, smiling faintly as she jots down the order. Then she looks up, and she looks at me with a curious smile, and it seems like she’s maybe going to ask something, but then she says, “All right, I’ll have these out to you in a jiffy!”

I watch her walk away.

Tanner is doing that thing he does when he’s impatient: jiggling his leg up and down under the table so fast the utensils rattle.

“Stop!” I say, and I press my hands down on the table.

He stops. “I think we can make Missoula by tonight,” he says.

That’s a stretch. I give him a skeptical look but don’t object out loud. “What’s the itinerary?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says, looking around absently. “You think that cat’s real?” He points to a cat curled up in the sunny front window.

“I’m not sneezing, so it must be a stuffed animal or something.”

“Or it’s dead,” Tanner says, smirking. “Paging Dr. Schrödinger.”

I don’t follow up on his little inside joke because I’m listening to Persephone chatting with the short order cook back in the kitchen. I can’t tell what they’re saying, but her tone is light and friendly. She comes out to check on the table across the room, and all the men stop talking and brighten up. Their faces mirror hers, no doubt.

Tanner’s eyes follow mine. “Jasper, seriously.” He rubs his face with both hands. “This is why we need to find you a girlfriend.”

I lean across the table. “Who says I need a girlfriend?”

“What about that girl from your chemistry lab—Celine, or—”

“I don’t need a girlfriend,” I say again.

“You’re only saying that because you don’t have a girlfriend, which is fine, but—”

“It is fine,” I say, “because if I needed a romantic partner, what would that say about me?”

He looks at me blankly, then spreads out his hands. “I give up, what?”

I tip my head, trying to think how to explain this. “If I say I need someone, aren’t I saying there’s something missing in me? Or that I can’t be a functioning human being without that person? There’s something—I don’t know, mechanical about putting it that way.”

“Uh huh.” He’s smirking. “Okay.”

He looks out the window and we’re silent for a moment, except I’m still arguing with him in my head, and the main thing I’m thinking is: Look at you, using your best friend to get you halfway across the country for a two-day visit with your girlfriend. Is that what it means to need someone?

Persephone comes with our plates. “And pancakes and eggs for you,” she says, meeting my eyes. I smile back and thank her.

When she’s gone, Tanner takes up the argument again. “Everyone needs someone, Jasper. We wouldn’t be human without one another.” He takes a bite of his omelet, chews thoughtfully. “But you’re misreading her.” He gestured in her direction with his fork. “She’s an experienced server who knows what she needs to do for a tip. Period. I saw it all the time at Perkins.” He’d bussed tables there for a couple years in high school.

I put my fork down and just stare at him. “Or maybe she’s just nice. Maybe she’s just good.”

He nods and twirls his fork. “Yeah, she’s a regular Mother Theresa.”

“If half the world were that decent—hell, if I could be half as nice as her, then….”

“Then what?”

I open my mouth, but I’ve lost the thread. What am I looking for, here? I felt like I was onto something, but suddenly, I’m on shaky ground. Maybe it’s all that simple: she’s just after a bigger tip.

Tanner sees me floundering and takes pity on me. “Aw, don’t worry about it. Let’s talk about something else.”

We steer the conversation to safer things—politics, classes, what to do in Seattle. The news from Tanner’s girlfriend.

“How was the food?” Persephone asks as we’re finishing up, and I give her two thumbs up. “Good! Well, can I get you anything else?”

Tanner gives me a sly look. “Jasper here might want to ask you out,” he says, calm as you please. “I think he’s kind of sweet on you.”

Her mouth drops open a little, and then her hands fly up to her mouth as she laughs. “Oh,” she says, and laughs again. “Well, I’m sure he already has a girlfriend. They must be lined up around the block!”

“Not exactly,” I say, a smile frozen to my face. “And we need to hit the road. We’re trying to make Seattle by Wednesday. Tanner’s got a girlfriend there.”

“Oh, isn’t that sweet!” Persephone exclaims. “That’s so romantic. You’re lucky to have a friend to keep you company on the way out there.”

She leaves to get the check and I cast murderous eyes in Tanner’s direction. “You little—”

“What?” he laughs. “I’m just trying to help you out, buddy. And she didn’t say no.”

He excuses himself to go to the restroom. While he’s gone, Persephone swings by with the check.

“Hey, I like your t-shirt,” she says.

I look down and die a little when I realize I’m wearing my mildly geeky Doctor Who t-shirt.

“Which Doctor is your favorite?” she asks.

“Um….”

“New series, I’m a Tennant girl. Old series, I waffle between Pertwee and Davison,” she says. Her eyes are twinkling.

“Really?” I say, genuinely amazed—that she’d skip over Jodie Whittaker, for starters…but also that she’s doing this thing…which I’m not one hundred percent sure what she’s doing, exactly, but I think this might be her way of smoothing things over for me—making sure I know everything’s cool.

We’re still talking when Tanner comes back from the restroom, and we’re still talking and laughing five minutes later, despite Tanner’s not-so-subtle hints that he’s antsy to hit the road. I ignore him, and he skulks out to wait in the car.

A minute later, the door opens, and Persephone excuses herself to greet the new customers. I take out my wallet and lay down a twenty-dollar tip. I think I’m going to sneak out without her noticing, but as I’m pushing out the door, I hear her call from across the room. All she says is “bye,” but the way she inflects the word I hear: It was very good to meet you today; I wish we could’ve talked longer.

Out in the parking lot, I start the engine without saying a word.

“Did that make you happy?” Tanner asks.

When I don’t answer, he turns on the radio, but I turn it off. “No radio,” I say. “I need to think.”

“Come on,” he says, and turns the radio back on.

I reach over and turn it off.

“Just to let you know,” he says darkly, “if you want to be half as nice as that girl, you’re not even close to the mark.”

I’ve been backing out of the parking spot, but now I brake and just look at him. He bugs his eyes out at me, trying to get me to laugh, but when I don’t, he sighs sulkily, slouching down against the door to wait me out.

And for two hours, all is quiet, except for the semis and the wind whistling in the windows. I know he thinks I’m thinking about Persephone, but I’m not. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly I’m thinking about us—Tanner and me. I’m thinking about how we’ve been friends for more than half our lives, and I’m wondering whether it’s exactly right to call it a friendship if you never really chose it.

And here’s another thought I’m having for the first time: Is it really a friendship if only one of you needs the other? Is it really a friendship if one of you is nothing more than the other’s shadow?

“Wanna do something fun?” Tanner asks again. He’s looking at a beat-up copy of Roadside America.

I look over at him like I’m seeing him for the first time. As if we were newly introduced strangers, trying to decide which way this thing might break. And I’m wondering who I would be right now if it weren’t for all those years of being Tanner’s shadow.

Someone who wouldn’t launch rockets, or go rafting down a flooded highway, or steal a tank of helium to throw an impromptu party for the neighborhood kids, I think. Probably not someone who’d be able to talk to a strange girl, either.

And then a corner of my mouth tugs up. Where’d that come from? I wonder, but Tanner looks relieved.

“Because if you’re done—” he starts to say, then catches himself. “Um, coming up in about an hour, we have a choice between peering into a Minuteman II nuclear missile silo, or we can see a six-ton concrete prairie dog that marks the site of a real prairie dog town.” He raises his eyebrows as if to say, The world’s a stranger place than I imagined.

I look back at him and smile—for real, this time. “Neither. Let’s swing down through Badlands National Park.”

He looks at me curiously, then nods. “Okay.”

“Okay.”