A fun activity at restaurants for me is to look around and see if there’s anyone I can convince to pay my bill—just to see if they will. You might be surprised how often this works.
I’ll confess… I don’t do it nearly as often as I used to. Part of that is maturity. Most of it is that feeding a family at restaurants is expensive, and my odds aren’t what they once were.
If you went to high school in Guymon, you probably remember my early crowdfunding efforts.
From 1996–2000, a school lunch at Guymon High School cost $2.00. I can’t complain about the food. It was edible, and I usually ate it. I do remember being sent to the back of the line a lot for being mouthy to the lunch ladies. They took things very personally.
We had open campus for three of my four years, but my parents only paid for cafeteria lunch. Anything beyond that was on me. It wasn’t that I didn’t have money—I’d pretty much had a job since I was 13. Paperboy was my first real gig. I had money. I just didn’t like spending it. (Still don’t.)
When I first started high school, my mom would give me $10 on Monday, and it had to last all week. I could blow it on day one or spend $2 at a time in the cafeteria. After the first nine weeks, she realized this plan was flawed.
I would spend the money at the snack bar or McDonald’s, then go through the lunch line and charge my meal once I was broke. All I had to do was give them my number. Mine was 0003. I had a fairly impressive negative balance. Mary Jane—the very kind lunch money lady—would regularly ask if I planned to pay it off. I assured her it would be handled.
Nine weeks later, report cards came out. My parents cared about my grades, but before they could see them, the lunch balance had to be paid. Let’s just say my grades being decent probably saved my life. The lunch balance… not so much.
I should note here that I owed less than my dad did. He was an Algebra teacher at the school. We attended the same building, but I ruled it. I never asked what he did with his lunch money.
After that, the rules changed. My mom made sure my lunch account always stayed positive. Anything beyond that? My problem.
I wasn’t a fan of that arrangement—mainly because it required me to spend my own money. That’s when I learned the art of building relationships.
The snack bar was wildly popular: Frito pie, burritos, pizza, fries, corn dogs, sodas, candy bars. A solid (unhealthy) meal for under $4. I could do it cheaper because I drank the iced tea by the teacher’s table. I never asked who it was for. I just assumed permission.
Here’s where the magic happened. As students went through the snack line, they often got change back. I started asking for it. Not bills—never bills—but dimes and quarters. Some days were better than others. Fridays were slower, so saving was key. If things went south, I always had the cafeteria line as backup—unless it was enchiladas, chili, or turkey and noodles. Those days I gladly paid the $2.
If I waited until the end of the snack line, I usually ended up with $3–$4 in change. Occasionally I had to make special requests at tables. A few girls required me to sing for my money. In my mind, that’s how flirting worked. It didn’t bother me to be last in line. The lunch ladies and I had already accepted that as my assigned place.
Some might call this pathetic. Others might say ridiculous. I call it pure genius.
I went four years without paying for lunch and accidentally learned a skill that’s been useful ever since. These days, I usually pay for my own meals—but sometimes I’m still asking people for money. The amounts are just a little bigger than spare change.
Turns out, asking your village for help—whether you call it crowdfunding or begging—can be great training for the work I do today.
Well done, Guymon High School.
Well done, Mom and Dad.
I KNOW MIKE WILLIAMS 