Get Satisfaction

I met a friend for lunch. When the bill came, I plunked down some cash and airily told the waitress to keep the change. 

Three hours later and halfway across the city I froze. I had underpaid.

Oh, shoot. 

In my defense, I cannot add. When scientific calculators were granted to us in high school I was weeping with joy; I aced my algebra exams but basic math functions is still beyond me.

It was a broiling summer day, and the idea of plunging into the hellish abyss of the subway was daunting. So I began to tell myself that I was imagining things. That I skimped the bill by only less than $3. That, c'mon, you know you can't add, so how can you know for sure if you underpaid?

But  I was raised in a rather moral household, and an invisible hand had clenched my innards; I knew I would have no peace unless I rectified the matter.

I took the three trains back to the restaurant. 

I entered the establishment slick with sweat, miserable in my own skin (I loathe summer), and explained the situation to the manager and waiters. Three employees gazed at me in shock. "And you came back?"

I once heard it said, "Whatever you do, you do for yourself." When we do things in life, we can tell ourselves that we are being selfless. But resulting feeling of satisfaction proves that it does more for us than for others. 

The manager followed me out the door, saying the clientele should only be like me. I floated back to the sadistic subway, buoyed by the joy that I had done a kiddush Hashem.

"Grosseh naar," my father said. 

"Idiot," my mother said. 

I slept the sleep of the just.