The ettiquette of tipping.

Here's something that happened a while ago but I never actually wrote down.

I was taking a cab from the Las Vegas airport to the Hilton one Friday afternoon. I hadn't slept at all. The entire trip there had been a bit of a disaster. I'd mixed up the "to" and "from" when I booked the flight on Southwest. It had me leaving Las Vegas on Friday to Seattle, and then returning on Saturday. I needed Seattle to Las Vegas, returning Sunday. I should not have booked the tickets while half-asleep. This meant $80 out of pocket to rebook the tickets; not a very lucky start, really.

I wasn't paying too much attention to where the cab was going. I knew Vegas well enough to know that he wasn't taking me for a ride. I was people watching. He grabbed his cell phone, and made a call. This is not unusual for cab drivers. The cab driver looked as you might imagine a cab driver to look; middle eastern, mid forties, a bit of a paunch, greying hair, stubble. Maybe he was Turkish? Or Algerian?

I watched him talk on his phone. I thought about how more judgmental people would have ordered him to put down the phone. I wasn't going to do that. I was above that. I had respect for the man, and knew that he was an expert of navigating the roads of Vegas. He knew what he was doing.

Then he plowed into the Acura in front of us which had stopped before making a right turn at an intersection.

The impact wasn't that bad. The fender and bumper were heavily dented on the Acura, but it was drivable. It had that sound that car crashes make in real life, but never do in movies: a cushioned thump combined with the sound of an aluminum can being crushed. The two business-suited men and the one business-skirt-and-shirt wearing woman stepped out of their car.

"Oh, fuck," I said. The impact wasn't that bad. I was wearing a seat belt, and so was the driver.

"I am going to lose my job for this," the cab driver said, still talking on his cellular phone. The three occupants of the Acura stood between the cab and their car, surveying the damage. The cab driver kept talking on his phone for another thirty seconds or so, in a language I didn't understand, before hanging up.

"I am going to have to call this in," he said. "I am going to lose my job for this."

"I'm sorry," I said. He repeated that statement over and over again. His tone was sad, defeated. I saw the big Hilton sign at the end of the very, very long block, past the Vegas Convention Center.

"If you hit a car, they fire you, right away," he said. I said I was sorry again. The three from the other vehicle stood, staring.

He called the dispatch, and I only heard his side of the conversation. "Yes, I hit the rear of the car. Yes, I have a passenger." At this point he half-turned to me. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"He's fine. They will send another cab."

I look out at the Hilton again. "It's okay, man, I can just walk."

"It will be $18.50," he said. I gave him a twenty. For some reason, I tipped him the extra dollar fifty.

I regret this now.