The Giving Book

"Order up!" Chef screamed while working over the stove. 

Usually this urgent cry from the kitchen would have me scrambling to get to the expediter window quickly, but since the pandemic our small restaurant had been moving much slower. Too slow in fact, only 30 of our 120 seats were available to customers to sit at, and even those were rarely filled. What had once been a bustling dining scene now featured a few brave souls who had ventured out to get a taste of life as it used to be along with one of the best burgers around.

As I walked toward the kitchen the heel of my shoe caught on the floor. It had broken a couple weeks ago and the superglue I had so carefully squeezed between the cracks had faded away. Just another situation to repair in a time where there was no money or energy to fix anything. 

Still, I was lucky. Most of our restaurant's waitstaff had been let go, there just wasn't enough work. Tonight my eight measly tables hosted a young woman and her child, who was too busy with the five coloring books surrounding them to notice the gooey grilled cheese and fries cooling nearby. There was an older couple, maybe in their 50s, looking longingly in each others' eyes and holding hands over a plate of gravy cheese tots. Sam came in with K.T. for their usual shared shake, Austin brought the teenagers for burgers, and there were also a handful of tables with solo diners, nibbling away while glued to screens, books and magazines. It wasn't a night to remember, or at least I thought so at the time. 

"Molina, can you come here for a second?" Chef, who owned the small eatery, called to me.

I gingerly walked over, nervous the news of closure was just a few words away. "Hi Chef, what's up?"

"Do you know which table J.W. Marks sat at?" 

"Hum, honestly, I didn't pay attention to the names on the credit cards. There were some solo diners, but no one I knew. Is there a problem?"

Chef just blinked, took off the floppy chefs' hat and handed me a long white slip of paper. It took me a minute to register what it was I was supposed to look at. It was a credit card sheet with numbers, numbers, a burger, numbers...then it became clear.

"Is this a joke?" I asked, rubbing my eyes to make sure I was seeing straight. 

"I, I don't know. It looks legit to me. I guess we'll just have to see if the money goes through."

I stared at the receipt again. J.W Marks, whoever that was, had left me a $20,000 tip. The bill had been for a burger, fries and a soda, the most popular order we tended to get, and one that I served to at least four or five tables that night. I could only picture three of the tables that had that order, two single diners and a father who shared the plate with his toddler. I handed the piece of paper back to Chef. 

"Well, let me know how it turns out," I said and went back to cleaning up the dining area. 

My mind was racing. It couldn't be real, could it? What would I do with $20,000? Well, really, what wouldn't I do. Thoughts of all the unpaid bills that had piled up during the pandemic just being washed away with one night of work had me giddy. I started thinking of all the things I could finally afford: A new computer, a down payment on a better car, gifts for my younger siblings, paying off some student loan debt, a new stove for my mom. The possibilities were endless. 

While lost in the fantasy world of not being broke, I absentmindedly swept up the littered straw wrappers, lost fries and crumpled napkins from under the tables. Of course, I thought, I would have to give back to other restaurants by dropping $100, $200, $300 tips at some of my favorite joints that I no longer could afford to go to, and buying gift cards galore to help support these places. I was so distracted by what the $20,000 could do for me and my life that I almost missed it, that little black book.

A sudden thud as a I pushed debris into my dustpan startled me out of the daydream. What was that, I thought as I peered into the canister. Inside the chrome chamber among the bits of food and trash was a weathered black book a little smaller than the size of my hand. I reached in to retrieve the lost item, brushing away a sticky mass of gum to get to it. It was smooth, the cover made with buttery black leather synonymous with Moleskin notebooks. I wiped off a dollop of ketchup with my apron and contemplated opening it.

After all, I thought as I started to thumb through the crisp pages, how could I find the owner if I didn't look at the contents. The delicate lines were filled with names of restaurants I mostly recognized, some in our area and others the next city over. Next to the names were numbers and dates written in black ink. Many of the numbers had a familiar ring to them, $20,000 at Olivia on June 23, $20,000 at Ace on July 1, $20,000 at American Elm on September 14. There were over a dozen entries. At the bottom of the list was our restaurant with $20,000 sketched in and today's date. 

This was it, the mystery person’s ledger of good deeds and large tips, my heart started to beat faster. Just then, Chef came onto the floor and confirmed what I had dreamed of, the money was real, the money was mine. My world had just changed.

I smiled at Chef, a sleepy, stupid smile as if I had just drunk a bottle of wine. 

"Molina, what will you do with all that money?"

I knew then I couldn't keep it to myself. If it wasn’t for my job and the luck I had being kept on to work I never would have received the tip. I glanced over at Chef, who looked as dumbfounded as I felt.

"You keep $5,000 Chef, the restaurant needs it," I said.

"What, no, Molina, it's your money," Chef replied in almost a whisper. We both knew how much that bump would help Chef's little dream stay afloat. 

"It's not up for discussion, it's yours," I insisted, knowing in my gut it was the right thing. 

I looked back at the Moleskin still clutched in my hand. After our restaurant there was a list of other names, but no money or date written in next to them. There was something else I knew I needed to do. While I couldn't gift these places the same way I had been, I could at least go and eat there and leave a portion of the joy I had just received. 

As I wrapped up cleaning and started to put everything away, Chef came onto the floor and handed me a check for $15,000.

"Obviously I didn't have the cash lying around," Chef said with a sheepish smile. "Thank you again, and take tomorrow off to figure out how you are going to spend all the money!"

I smiled and took the rectangle of paper, which was worth more than anything I owned. I stuffed it into the pocket that also contained the found notebook. As my fingers brushed against the soft leather I thought of the generous soul who was giving out money to restaurant workers. If I could, I would find him or her to return this treasured list and let them know just how they changed my life. But to start with I needed more details and to make some calls. "I will start tomorrow," I committed to myself, knowing I would need to use the clues tucked away in that little black book in order to make good on the promise.