I was out driving a bit tonight and got a split order – food from two restaurants going to the same address.

How’s that for a solution to the age old relationship struggle of agreeing on what to have for dinner?

I don’t usually take orders that involve more than 10 miles of travel or fall too far beneath my $10/order earnings expectation, but I’ve been in a bit of a Yes Game mood lately and couldn’t help myself. I don’t know what it is about the start of a new year that makes me want to affirm and confirm. So, there I was, picking up food and hauling ass across town for $14.

I pick up the first order and drive a block or two to the next place – pizza. I notice that I’m not particularly affected by my usual feelings about this place, either. They usually piss me off, so I don’t go there anymore – it’s good for my grumpy old man heart to stay away – but this is their food, not mine and I don’t really care.

“Yeah, that’s got about 10-15 minutes left in the oven.”

“Seriously, how long does it take to cook a fuc” – nope, never mind. Not my food.

I shoot the customer a message to let them know and get a “No worries” reply, then sit down to play my Words With Friends while I wait. Once it’s done, approximately one millennia later, I hop back in the car and anon my ass up to NoPo.

The order had booze with it – a six-pack of beer and a bottle of bubbles, someone knows how to Sunday a holiday weekend! – so the customer had to sign for it when I arrived.

I knock.

A small face appears behind the sheer blinds on the door a little less than 2 feet up from the floor and disappears. Moments later, a second face appears a little higher up and then pulls the same vanishing act.

I debate knocking again when a dog pokes its head through, stares at me a moment and runs away. That’s really not good for one’s self esteem, getting dissed by dogs.

Finally, a full sized human appears at the door, opens it and announces, “Epic fail!”

“Yeah, that pizza joint is always a bit of a shit show”, I catch myself just before my adjectification of the pizza place and drop my voice to a whisper to avoid accidentally teaching the diminutive humans any blue language.

The customer explains that he wasn’t worried about the food, announces that he should get me some extra cash for my wait time while walking away from the door and then careens back to his point. He has been trying to teach his kids about stranger dangers and had heard from the big one that the little one had been trying to unlock and open the door when he found him.

“Well, I hadn’t noticed”, I tell him as I trade my phone for a few unnecessary folded bills.

He signs my screen with his finger and shakes my hand after he hands my phone back.

I had noticed the denomination of the top bill when he’d handed it to me and laid it out while waiting for my salad to arrive at dinner for a lil pic for you, my abhorring public.

Like the title says – if you know, you know.

If you’re not a native of or current resident in the city with the highest number of strip clubs per capita in America, let me spell it out for you.

Stripper money.

With one exception, every strip club I’ve been to in Portland gives cash customers an inordinate number of $2 bills as change. The intent is to drive up tip income for the performers, which I’m all for. One particularly raucous (in a good way) club even has the emcee occasionally seed the crowd vis-a-vis a toy gun that shoots $2 bills into the crowd.

It’s kind of fun to watch, but I’m not much for the strip bars these days. Occasionally I’ll stop off at the lesser of the two gay strip clubs since it’s on my way home from another one of my local watering holes and open two hours later.

Shit beer, though, so I’ve got to be in a mood in order to drop in when I leave the other place.

Anyway, I have always thought that spending these $2 bills outside a strip club was indicative of one of two flexes:

A) it’s a particularly empowered performer making a declaration; or

B) it’s a client who is throwing those $2s around like au unhumble brag.

I like both options.

What I’m not as crazy about are the bills that have clearly been in circulation a while. You’ll notice my handful was fairly crisp. The alternative is – what’s an alternative to a “handful” of “fairly crisp” bills? – a crotchful of nearly dry bills?

Oh, and best part?

The customer’s wife must’ve edited the tip while he was talking to me. The order from the first restaurant was only base rate + peak pay, which came to $5 – believe me when I say that the money you make in this work comes from the tips! – so this $14 deliver ended up being $30.64 from the app and another $10 in cash.

I love when the Yes Game rewards my efforts to bust out of my grumpapotamus shell.