Togo Boy was leaning on the counter and relaxing.  Togo Boy didn’t notice me until his co-worker nudged him and motioned silently in my direction.  Togo Boy looked about 18, with tats running up his arm and cropped, dyed hair.  Togo Boy made me a Togo’s sandwich and said “Now how about my tip?  Just kidding!”

I looked down at the little empty brown basket on the counter in front of me.  I said, “Is that what these things are for?  But you must not be doing a very good job, because it’s empty.”

“No way, man, I just started here.  But yeah, I have no idea why they use little baskets. People don’t know what to do with them.”

“Let me give you a hint.” I took a dollar out of my wallet placed it in the basket.  “Put one or two of these in the basket at the start of each shift.  That way, people know it’s for tips--and they also think you’ve been kicking ass and therefore deserve tips.”

He looked at me and appeared to be wondering if I was going to take the dollar back now that I had finished my demonstration.  I could see the gerbils running away in his little short-cropped brain: That could be a downpayment on a new tat.  Let’s humor the strange man.

He said, “Huh...really?” His tone of voice was exactly the same as if a science teacher had just asked him, “Togo Boy, do you realize that light has both wave and particle properties?”

I started to use the words capitalism and entrepreneurialism, but realized it would probably make more sense to try to teach a raccoon to lambada.

I smiled and left, thinking that maybe, at some point in the future, Togo Boy would think back on my advice and realize that he’d make a lot more tips my way--as opposed to the deft, sophisticated methodology that Togo People all over the globe know as the “Now how about my tip?  Just kidding!” Stratagem.  I could wait until that day for him to see the light.  I could wait until that day to receive his sincere gratitude.  I could wait until that day for him to realize that I had taught him to think outside the basket.