by Mark Patterson
- We love a certain Italian chain-restaurant that has shuttered many of its locations over the last several years. Blame my not so profligate spouse. On a visit to their Robinson Twp franchise several years ago, we enjoyed huge, sumptuous bowls of freshly prepared pasta, a big salad with everything, and some sort of “family” seafood platter that could sustain the Pittsburgh Steelers through half of training camp. Not satisfied then to just settle the tab and scale our next day’s dinner at home down to human dimensions, we ordered up the “party” tray of rigatoni (my death-row meal, for sure) and several generous slices of “triple chocolate” cake, all to go.
- Leaving “JB” to settle the check, I retrieved the car (it was January, as I recall, with temps in the teens) and braced myself for the embarrassing update I knew would preclude me from again showing my face there at Bucca di Beppo’s.
- “How much was it?” Two hundred and fourteen. “How much did you leave the girl? I liked her, she was great.” I wanted to cover my ears. And hum. Three dollars. My wife, giving new meaning to the term “1 percenter.” I half expected that decadent dessert to be spiced with arsenic. Or maybe something less lethal, but equally repugnant (if you get my inference).
- In flinging nickels around like manhole covers, the mother of my child stands in affluent company. I read of a billionaire who lit his mansion with a single bulb, unscrewed and moved to whatever room he occupied at the time. And then there was the gal-apparently unconcerned with emulating the Kardashians-who clothed herself by scanning the obituaries, contacting the deceased’s family, and requesting the duds be handed over. She was a millionaire, by the way. Doesn’t there have to be a horror-flick in there somewhere? Tim Burtonesque, with those pitiable stick-figures, I think.
- Tightwads of lesser means go-perhaps of necessity, in all fairness-straight for the grub. Some scoop leftovers from the plates of departing diners, while others do a classic dumpster dive. Did you know that Sparkle Markets throw away still perfectly good (if a bit stale) , securely- packaged perishables (i.e. Cookies, chips, etc.) when expiration date arrives? I have a friend who cases the Chester store to time the disposal of Chips Ahoy and Ruffles. (Hey, at seven bucks per bag, maybe he’s on to something.)
- Sadly, that same pal must purchase his cat’s food on the square. But he does offset some of that cost by making “Thomasina” share-with him, that is. Presumably, human and feline do possess separate bowls. Since he’s not a tall, robust fellow (the owner, I mean, not the pet), I call him “Little Friskies.” Oblivious to the implications of ingesting insect-parts with your tuna, he interprets that nickname as a compliment to his “energy” with the ladies. For real.
- Cheapness only rises to an artform, however, when paired with true ingenuity. Leading the “Mensa Money-Savers” club are certain inspired individuals who spare the voltage-eating microwave by steaming veggies in the dishwasher. I’ll have that asparagus with a spritz of Dawn Power Spray, please. (It must be an acquired taste.) Other “resourceful” cooks, having weighed the cost of gasoline against that of firing the stove up, prepare eggs on the hood of their revving vehicles. So THAT’S what those grease monkeys noise polluting my neighborhood are up to. Anyway, what an endorsement for car wax: “Guaranteed to bead water-and your omelets won’t stick!” Taking the cake, though (let’s make that triple-chocolate) has got to be the proud father-in-waiting who assembled for the future mom a breast-pump from parts scrounged in a junk yard. Can you imagine the after-birth pillow talk?: “Go easy, honey. And grab an oil can. I’m kind of rusty at foreplay.”
- If all this sounds like mockery, that’s intentional. I despise misers. In fact, I suggest this as a new holy commandment: “Thou shalt not arrive at the golf-course calculatedly late in hopes that thine playing partner has paideth thouist’s greens fees.” (That was a satisfying shot at a member of our regular foursome.)
- That same guy, when once gifted a large carton of nearly new golf balls, asked the giver to keep them until they had each driven home from the course (about an hour), so that he (the recipient) could save the extra drops of unleaded that the added weight would drain from his tank. Now THAT, my friends, sets an Olympian bar for cheapness-and ingratitude, two unenviable traits that grow bold in each other’s presence.
- Embezzling at work? Not my business. Leading a double life with two families? Dude, whatever. Go full-Hannibal Lecter, and I’m probably cool with it. But start fiddling with your phone just when the lunch tab arrives- and, Houston, we’ve got a problem.
- Worst of all are the cheapskates who want it both ways-to sponge money AND brag about their fat savings accounts. “I left my wallet at home,” is the standard justification, with “I couldn’t get to the bank” a close second on that Family Feud survey. Bitter experience has taught me that either is a lie.
- As I’ve repeatedly stated to my too generous (a euphemism for gullible) son: the reasons friends give when soliciting YOUR currency are never NOT fabricated. Unrequited love for other people’s mammon does not lend itself to truthfulness.
- But being cheap can carry its own ironic penalty, wasted funds. My lady of the (almost) 2% tip can’t help but conflate lower prices with greater value. But what good are paper towels that don’t absorb? Or bathroom tissue so thin you can see through it? Or generic corn chips that taste like a new car? Folks who buy that stuff might as well put torch to their legal tender. Better yet, Dollar General should give SHOPPERS the buck just to take it away.
- Urban legend holds that a certain Hancock resident, late 60’s, still working, and no doubt with a hefty net worth, likes to eat rather, er um, modestly. Unmarried, childless, and alone, the man opens then savors his dinner. A single can of off-brand vegetables, consumed straight from the container to save the cost of a bowl, and at room temperature to avoid using his stove. He will someday-hopefully far in the future-depart this existence flush and financially secure.
- I’ll probably die broke. Better that than unheated Kroger corn. Besides, I can’t find any 4X guys in the obits.
