I had just handed my waiter our bill and $150 in cash. When he asked if I needed change, I said “no,” but what I got in return was not the appreciation I expected. His jaw went a little slack and his eyes bulged wide — the way a person looks when they’re stunned or appalled.
Had I done something terribly wrong?
Had my math been off and I’d insulted him with a poor tip? I reviewed the tab. I left a $27 tip on a $123 meal. That was 18 percent. Was it the fact that I paid with a stack of $5 bills? Paying for things in cash was common for me then, because I earned all my money as a street performer. Donations that came into my hat were later passed on to grocery cashiers, my landlord, and waiters.
My peak earning year grossed $102,000.00 in donations as a street entertainer—just by performing comedic, visual stories. The best comedy is always a story. Even if it’s a ten-second joke in a stand-up routine.
I went to a fancy french restaurant called “Deja Vu.” The headwaiter said, “Don’t I know you?” — Steven Wright
My street show was a series of physical comedy stories. Attempting to complete impossible balancing tricks, back flips, and juggling routines with the help of volunteers from the crowd. The finale of my show was riding a unicycle that was 12-feet tall. I’d get a volunteer from the audience to hold up the massive unicycle in the middle of the performance area and back up like I was going to run up and jump on top of it.
My street show was one hour long. I’d spend about 20 minutes of that hour comedically preparing to get on the unicycle, because the anticipation of the challenge created tension that the audience was curious to see it resolved. No one got bored or walked away during the build up. On the contrary, my crowd got larger by the minute. How was this going to end? With me being scraped off the ground into an ambulance, or walking away in triumph?
The tension in my waiter’s face after I handed him the cash in this restaurant had a similar effect. It captivated me and my date. What was wrong? What would happen next?
We’d been satisfied in all ways with the meal — the lasagna, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Italian décor — and so I happily paid the check. But now our waiter was clearly upset. Why?
After a long awkward pause, our server walked off — in a stunned sort of way — with my money. Had I just passed along counterfeit bills, perhaps? Did I match some circulating mugshot of a wanted criminal? We huddled together in whispered conversation about what the problem could be when the waiter suddenly returned. He had a big smile on his face and an enormous parfait glass layered with Tiramisu. Placing it in front of us on the white-laced tablecloth he said . . .
“Thank you SO much. This is on the house. I hope you have a wonderful evening!”
Then he departed.
What? Now I was totally perplexed. He hadn’t been appalled after all, he’d been speechless with gratitude. But how?
I remembered being confused by the layout of the check. I looked at my copy of the receipt. That’s when I saw what had happened. An odd way of displaying a separate subtotal for the wine had made a $77 meal look like a $123 bill.
I had just tipped my waiter an extra $78 for our $77 dollar dinner.
Now it all made sense. What stopped my waiter in his tracks was a feeling of being deeply honored — not offended. I had just used the power of money to highlight the value of his service.
I never told the waiter that my tip was unintentional. The experience it created for him was too profound to retract. But that was the best Tiramisu I’ve ever had.
My accidental tip put our dessert center stage in a story that elevated our enjoyment of it. The taste of our dessert was enhanced by the story of how it reached us. Stories are a form of currency, capable of highlighting the value of simple moments and human experiences.
This summer I passed a lone guitarist down at the beach who was strumming and singing on a park bench. I remembered that I had a $100 bill in my wallet from a purchase refund that I’d been carrying for weeks. I dropped it into his guitar case, remembering the impact I’d had on that waiter years ago. The musician stopped strumming, looked up at me and softly said, “I’m going to remember this day for a long time. Thank you.”
Good storytellers are like generous tippers, using the resources they have to highlight ordinary moments that matter.
Those who become master storytellers earn the last job title they will ever need, because there is nothing you can’t have or create when you develop mastery of story.
Whether you’re a leader, manager, start-up founder, CEO, public presenter, writer, entrepreneur, mom, dad, hairdresser, therapist, or coach, you can use the value of stories to create benefits for the people, ideas, or vision you serve.
Try it.
Take any interaction, circumstance or snapshot from your life—as mundane, ordinary, or random as it might seem—and write it down.
Once you’ve recorded your story, explore the nuances of the experience, what you might have been feeling at the time, what was happening for those around you, and what corners of the experience might hold value for others. Interrogate the details—problem, people, place, and perspective—to find the heart of the story.
It's often the case that an aspiring storyteller tries to back up and look at the bigger picture to make some kind of conceptual point, but it's getting closer to the detail that unlocks the deepest meaning.
It’s a profound experience to feel that our stories themselves have a communication they wish to make, and that we can be the midwives of their meaning by letting the story speak its truth through its color, texture, weight, and characters.
You can’t be human without having stories worth telling. Learning to recognize them and share them in a valuable and authentic way enriches everyone.
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Many thanks to
for her review of this essay and observation about how stories convey their meaning through the details.
You're writing and support of so many others (like me) as we pour our hearts and ideas out onto the page creates the same feeling as the $100 tip you left the guitar player. And having seen video of your own comedic waiter routine and your 12 ft. unicycle stunts, you were creating stories with a whole room of unwitting collaborators. Brillinatly done on all counts!
I love hearing the impact of the large tips you left. I can imagine those men shared that experience with others many times.
It’s now striking me as odd how I never understood the power of story a long time ago and why it’s not common knowledge, though in some households or cultures, no doubt it is. Did you grow up hearing and telling stories? Have you written about your first realizations of how powerful storytelling it is?
Better late than never.
I genuinely love this:
Those who become master storytellers earn the last job title they will ever need, because there is nothing you can’t have or create when you develop mastery of story.