This American Life - 245: Allure of the Mean Friend

Episode Date: July 27, 2025

What is it about them, our mean friends? They treat us poorly, they don't call us back, they cancel plans at the last minute, and yet we keep coming back for more. Popular bullies exist in business, politics — everywhere. How do they stay so popular? Visit thisamericanlife.org/lifepartners to sign up for our premium subscription.Prologue: We hear kids recorded at Chicago's Navy Pier and at a public swimming pool discussing their mean friends. And Ira Glass interviews Lillie Allison, 15, about the pretty, popular girls who were her best friends—until they cast her out. (5 minutes)Act One: Jonathan Goldstein interrogates the girls, now grown up, who terrorized him and his classmates years ago in school—and finds they can be just as scary as ever. (18 minutes)Act Two: We conduct an experiment to test whether being nice actually pays by equipping two waitresses with hidden microphones to record their interactions. Each waitress is instructed to be super friendly with half of their tables while remaining aloof with the other half. We then compare the tips to see which approach was more profitable. (10 minutes)Act Three: A case study in every word from a friend meaning its opposite. (4 minutes)Act Four: An excerpt of Bernard Cooper's story about the bill he got from his own father, for the entire cost of his childhood. Actor Josh Hamilton reads. (19 minutes)Transcripts are available at thisamericanlife.orgThis American Life privacy policy.Learn more about sponsor message choices.

In a way, the story is always the same. There was this kid. She was mean. She was popular. It's such a fixture of childhood. You can just walk up to a kid on the sidewalk or at a public pool, and they'll tell you. The popularist is this girl. She's in my grade.

She's really mean. And she has a lot of friends. I wanted to play with her, and then she had no friends. So she said, yeah. The other day, I wanted to play with her again, and her friends were there. and she said, get lost. Sometimes she'd be in me to my sister, and I don't like that. She's always telling somebody what they can and can't do.

She acts like she's a boss of people. She's real bossy. She thinks she got the rhythm in a gear. I'm mostly the popular one in my class, but I have a lot of other popular friends. This boy in my class, he liked me, and every time he would come by me, I would tell him to get out of my way.

Everybody says that he's the, like, the nerdiest boy in our class. He'll start bothering me and me and my friends. I'll tell him to leave us alone. My friends even tell him, don't even look at her. I talked to a high school sophomore about all this, Lily Allison, 15, in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And she said in high school anyway, it's kind of like the laws of nature. Someone always will end up on top.

Because there's always going to be the girls who are the most popular and then that the guys look at the most and that get the friends because they're so pretty. There's always going to be those girls. And I think once people get the idea that they have that power, they're going to use it. And they know that they can be mean to people and still be loved by everyone. You have nothing to lose, so why don't you go ahead and be mean to everybody

that's not as good as you? In Lily's class, the girls like that, the popular ones, have been her best friends. When I became friends with them, it was in seventh grade, and there was none of that. It was before the superlatives and before there wasn't most attractive. Right. Like, I'll admit, I was one of those girls until the first time they kicked me out of their little group. And then I saw how it really is. That's what we were.

We were the four blondes. And what was it like to be one of those girls? It was fun, you know? I mean, the attention is kind of fun. Look at them looking at us. It's fun. It makes you feel powerful. I mean, like, part of being one of the four blondes is that everybody does the same thing. Shaves their legs every day.

It has a perfect matching outfit. You know what I mean? Yeah. Makeup always has to be perfect. Not too much, not too little. Suck up to the teachers. Like, I remember I went, like, two weeks without wearing a skirt. And one of them called me and was like, you have to wear a skirt tomorrow.

You've worn pants too many days in a row. And if you don't fit that, that's... and you get kicked out for a little while. Lily got kicked out at the beginning of this summer. She made a mistake. She didn't do what the other girls wanted at some party. So they called her up to kick her out. One of them is like she's the mean one.

It's kind of like the spice girls. We all have our own little identity. You know what I mean? Yeah. There was like the tough one, the cute one, the smart one, you know what I mean? And the mean one. Yeah. And so when we all got in this fight, they called me up

and they put the mean one on the phone. They'd tell her what to say. She'd say it to me, then put me on hold, figure out what else they wanted her to say, and then say it. Wait, they put you on hold? So you just sit there on hold waiting for them to come up with the next mean thing?

That's right. And they didn't even realize how mean it was. Of course, it doesn't always end in high school, and this isn't just about teenage girls. There are popular bullies and bullies in business and in politics, and very successful ones in politics. Our movies and TV shows are full of them. Today in our show, The Allure of the Mean Friend,

and what is so alluring about them in the first place? Explained. From WB.E.E.E.C. Chicago, it's This American Life. I am I at Glass. Our show today in four acts. Act one, returned to the scene of the crime. In that act, Jonathan Goldstein interrogates the girls, now grown up, and terrorized him and his classmates years ago in school,

and finds that they can be just as scary as ever. Act 2. Does niceness pay? In that act, we conduct a little scientific experiment on tape with hidden microphones about whether niceness can triumph and be rewarded in a normal business setting, a setting that will surely be familiar to you. Act 3. And what's going on with you? A case study in every word out of a friend's mouth, meaning it's exact opposite. Act 4. Keeping it in the family. In that act, Bernard Cooper's amazing story about the bill that bill that he got from his own father for, well, the entire cost of his childhood. Stay with us. This message comes from Wise, the app for doing things and other currencies. With Wise, you can send, spend, or receive money across borders, all at a fair exchange rate, no markups or hidden fees.

Join millions of customers and visit wise.com. T's and C's apply. This American Life, today's program is a rerun. Act one, return to the scene of the crime. It wasn't hard for Jonathan Goldstein to find the girl who terrorized him in high school. Up until a year ago, they were roommates. Sometimes, when I'm talking with my friend Jackie Cohen, I will suddenly stop and just look at her.

I look at her as though I've only just then realized who it is I am sitting there talking with. Jackie Cohen, I will say, shaking my head in disbelief. Jackie Cohen. For you see, Jackie Cohen was the meanest, most popular girl in our junior high, a shepherd among sheep. Nowadays, Jackie Cohen and I are friends, good friends. In fact, for two years we were roommates, during which time she was a very nurturing figure in my life,

cooking for me, taking care of the bills, and doing most, if not all, of the cleaning. My domestic role was confined to stuff like drinking Jim Beam and keeping her up past her bedtime with my impression of Robert De Niro and Edith Bunker doing the lobster scene from Annie Hall. Alvey, a lobster crawled into my poise. Just the same, sometimes when I feel like it,

I can see her through the eyes of my grade seven self. And when I do that, and say the words Jackie Cohen, it is as though it is no longer just a name of the woman before me, but a name for something famous. like a soft drink or a rock band. If I could go back in time and tell the young Jonathan Goldstein that one day he would be friends with the most popular girl at Western LaValle Jr. High,

that young Jonathan Goldstein, taking in the utter absurdity of such a proposition, would laugh convulsively until his nose produced mucus and his eyeglasses needed adjusting. Let me explain to you. the power that was Jackie Cohen's. So great was her authority that in grade seven, my best friend Robert Seolic wore a three-piece suit to school with the intention of asking her out for Suvlaki.

I'll never forget the exhilarated look on his face as he ran back to our locker bank to tell me that, while Jackie Cohen had turned him down, she did say that they could be high-by friends. This meant that when they saw each other in the halls, they could nod to each other, high and by. Robert loosened his necktie like a middle-aged ad exec who had just closed an important account. Another thing was that Jackie Cohen didn't like bad smells. She liked nice smells, like perfumed fancy erasers or freshly mimographed sheets of paper. So if someone's smell was not to her taste, she would leave a note on their desk. The note would read, You smell, use deodorant. Jackie Cohen would call it being honest.

Jackie Cohen was also the only 13-year-old girl in school who could actually pull off a successful withering look. There was a month where I sat behind her, and one time during a French dictation, I was seized with an uncontrollable attack of coughing. It would later be diagnosed as a whooping cough that would leave me in bed for a week with a fever of 103, but at that moment it was nothing more, nothing less, than a nuisance to

Jackie. She let me know this by whipping her head around, her straight brown hair lashing about like a thousand throwing stars, and witheringly looking me straight in the eye. Jackie turned back around and I grit my teeth, vowing not to allow a single cough to escape my mouth. My eyes tearing, I clenched my fists, and I trembled. I knew, objectively speaking, that Jackie Cohen's dictation was more important than my own health. I knew that. The teacher, finally seeing my condition, sent me out to get some water. At the fountain, just as I was about to drink, my knees buckled and I began to throw up. I wasn't the kind of kid who vomited much, and the experience felt very personal,

sort of like crying in your underwear. The special ed teacher in the room next to the bathroom came out and walked me back to my class. Jackie, who sat beside the door, as was the want and responsibility of the most popular, let me in. Seeing me, she gave me this look. Not the withering look I had grown accustomed to, but another look,

a look that until then I had only seen on the face of adults. It was a look of profound pity. I saw in that look a sorrow for everything she had ever put me through, and for years I held that look close to my heart. Jackie had really good hair. This is Mary Clode. She was Jackie's best friend all through school, and they're still best friends now.

Very good hair. Nicely layered, kind of feathered, and she had a special technique. Well, first of all, she always walked around with a comb in her back pocket that stuck out for all to see. And we'd go to the bathroom. A big part of the day, of course, was going to the bathroom, and she had a special technique

she'd bend her head over she'd count one, two, three and then take her two index fingers and say flip her hair back and then it would fall like the feathers would all fall beautifully in place What was Jackie Cohen's allure? Did people like her despite the fact that she was mean

or did they like her because she was so mean? I think it was a bit of bull, both. Because when you were with her, you felt really alive and she was so fun and she was so full of life. So it was great being with her. But then before you knew it, you were on the outs. She was looking for a certain quality and if you didn't have it, you got kicked out. You know, so it was also maybe like the, the fun excitement of never knowing when your turn was going to come to be on the outs, you know, and you were always trying to do your best to stay on the inside. So it's pretty exciting.

Did she ever, I mean, did my name ever come up in junior high? Did she ever mention my name? Oh, yeah. I remember a time you were new to school. You're the new kid. And I wanted to go over to talk to you. And Jackie said, no, don't go talk to him, Mary. Don't talk to him.

He looks dirty. She thought I looked dirty? Yeah, she did. That was how my name came up. Yeah, that you looked dirty. You were the dirty-looking new kid. Okay. First of all, the new kid.

The party Mary Claude is referring to is in grade six. I had been going to that school since grade three. I was in the same school as them, evidently, completely unnoticed, for three years. And second of all, dirty. Although my boyhood toilette was second to none, and although I was facially hairless, for some strange reason I gave off the distinct impression of having a five o'clock shadow all over my body. So I decided to confront these slanderous action.

accusations at their source. Ladies and gentlemen. Jackie Cohen. Jackie Cohen. Tom, please don't tell me the whole interview is going to be like this. I asked Jackie Cohen if she remembered calling me dirty and knew to Mary Claude, and she said she did. I then asked her to repeat the very line to me, right to my face. You know what I said.

Come on. Why don't you say it? All right, I will. All right, fine. You said, don't talk to him because he's dirty. Yeah. Well, maybe I was dirty. You were, and you still are.

Jackie Cohen and I spent a very combative hour talking, during which time she would not admit to any actual meanness. The furthest she would go in making any kind of concession was in acknowledging that back then, she, quote, took care of business. A whole lot of business. Listen, no one's on trial, okay? We're here just two friends chatting.

No, Jackie Cohen did not think she was mean in school. Take the whole story of Robert Seolic asking her out in junior high. You know, Mr. Highby, and she stood firmly behind her actions. Well, Jonathan, he was wearing a three-piece suit, and his voice was like several octaves too high. What am I going to say to the guy? Yes? And, and, not only did I tell him no, but I left him with his dignity. I actually had him thinking that we had a good thing going.

We were going to be high-by friends. So what you're saying is that you're defending it. you're saying it was actually, it's a nice thing that you did. It was very nice. Wasn't he very happy when he came into the room? He was happy, but, I mean, he didn't know any better. Exactly. You want me to go on a date with that guy? Feel the way that laugh shivers you down to your toes,

the way it taunts as it entices, that is the effect of a popular mean girl's laughter. The truth is that Jackie Cohen is not. longer a popular mean girl at all. She's actually a doctor who works with the homeless. She's a really good person. But I still can't help relating to her as though the old Jackie Cohen is still somewhere buried inside of her. Let me ask you this. What happens to the mean girl? Is the mean always there? John, these questions are boring, man.

No, you don't like that one. That's okay. Okay, let's say, okay, okay, let's do a little bit of role playing, shall we? Okay, now you're going to be the, you're going to be the grade eight Jackie Cohen, and I'm going to be the grade eight Jonathan Goldstein, okay? And I'm in the, you know, I'm in the Western LaValle Junior High Radio Club, and I'm sitting down to interview you. All right? Okay, here we go.

Okay, Jackie? Yeah. Can I have, can I have a bit of your time to interview? interview you? No. Why? I'm busy. But thank you. But you're just, but you're just leaning against the lock or you're not? But thank you, Jonathan. I'm really not interested. No, you see, you wouldn't even, you wouldn't even be that polite. You're right. Honestly, I would have laughed and walked away. You see, this was the Jackie Cohen that I never got to talk to anymore. She's never like this. I mean, sure, she's always eager to let me know when someone in the room smells better than me. And she's

quick to point out that my pasty white gut jiggles when I play air guitar, but it always feels like a mere taste of the greatness that once was. So we continued to parry and thrust our way along. Is this over yet? And eventually, the subject came around to Jackie's older sister, Maureen. Now, let me just explain to you, Maureen. As mean and popular as Jackie Cohen was, Maureen Cohen was more mean and more popular.

Well, my sister definitely taught me some of the tricks of the trade. by being very, very, very cruel with me, very bossy and very demanding. She would say that really she was doing me a big favor because without her, I would never have made it in this world. That I was just such a boring, nice little kid, and, you know, she had a lot of spice to my life. In the pursuit of my mean popular girl scholarship,

I knew I now had to talk with Maureen. I was not in the same city as her, so I asked my friend Joshua Carpatti if he would be good enough to go to her house and hold a mic to her while we talked on the phone. Josh has been scared of Maureen for years, and here he was, sitting with her in her living room while her seven-year-old played on the floor at their feet.

As Maureen provided a rare behind-the-scenes glimpse of her thoughts and actions, Josh sat just a few inches from her, a microphone gripped in his sweaty, nervous hand. And as I talked with her, Maureen acknowledged that she had been mean in high school. She made no bones about it. And to her, there was nothing to regret.

It was high school. And that's just how people acted. It's the way you had this image of me of being really mean all the time. But in an alluring way. You know what I mean? Like people crave it somehow. Like, obviously it works. Well, some people like to be abused.

And you just sort of like tap into it, you know? Right. And you satisfy that craving that they're not even entirely aware of. That's right. Well, how do you detect that? I don't know. You talk to someone and you just feel whether or not. you know, you can play with them or not.

Like, I think Josh loves the fact that I pay that kind of attention to him. Josh, the young man who's holding the microphone for you right now. Yeah, who's so scared he won't even look at me. At this point, I started to get worried for Joshua. He had been reluctant even to go to Maureen's house, so I knew that at that point, as Maureen spoke his name, he was a shaky, disoriented mess. Can you ask Josh if he's nervous with you right now?

Josh, are you nervous around me right now? He doesn't want to answer because I'm here. Can you just put him on the phone for one second so I can ask him? Yeah, here, hold on. He wants to ask you a question. Hello? Are you afraid to talk in front of her? You know, you're afraid.

Say yes if you're afraid. Yes. Okay. Has she got you on your guard? Yeah, sure, yeah. When I was finished speaking with Maureen, I called Josh up on his cell phone, and he talked with me from his car. It's so fucking hot in this car. I'm telling you, man, you know, you should be paying me extra. So what was it like in there?

I got to tell you, it was a little intimidating. There's a certain type of woman, you know, usually either Jackie or related to Jackie, that really, you know, they know what to put me in my place. So when she says that people, there are some people who crave to be abused, you would be one of those people. She was looking directly at me when she said that. She was looking directly at me and she was pointing at me with her index finger. You know, not a lot of mystery there. But why this allure? Why are we so drawn to these mean girls?

Because they know. They look at you and they know. Other women who are nice or who are too timid, they try to pretend that you're not who you are, which is garbage. But someone like Maureen and Jackie, they look right at you and say, I know you're garbage. You know your garbage. Why pretend? You know?

I'm never going with you. I'm marrying the dentist. I'm not even going to look at you. And you're going to come over to my house, which is the biggest house I've ever seen in my entire life. And you're going to say, you see this garbage? This is what a real man provides for me. You know, you come here and you tape me for your stupid friends radio show, And then you get the hell out.

Well, I pick up my children whom I got through having sex with my dentist husband in my big house. Now, get the fuck out, garbage. Out. Well, I mean, with you, she thinks of you as a harmless eccentric, you know? Like a 90-year-old English guy pottering about in his garden. Me, she sees like an unwelcome dog turd, you know, that somebody's trekked in from outside. And it hurts me. It really hurts me.

I mean, I think it would be too strong to say that I love Maureen, but I love Maureen. You know, I, I, yeah. Want equals fear. Wait, wait, is it the fear that, that, that, um, look, John, I'm not a sociologist. I, I don't know what's going on. I'm a piece of garbage to her, and it makes me want to just crawl up next to her, you know, like a, like a, like a flea on a tick on a tick on a dog. You know, I just want some of that, some of that.

like good, good blood, you know, even if it's my own blood. What about when Jackie said that, like, that, like, saying that you could be high by friends is actually a nice thing? What do you think of that, to that guy who asked her out? High by friends? You know, you know, you know what high by friends really means? It means that when that guy went home later that night and hanged himself. That's the sound the rope mate. my I

my my my my my that that was Jackie Cohen

Jackie Cohen Do you do you miss that person that was able to do those kinds of things No but I think you do I think you miss the mean Jackie Cohen.

I think you really do. You inquire about her a lot. I think you do. Is the sky that unleashes a bolt of lightning into the forehead of a friendly woodsman mean? Is it mean of the ravenous lion to devour the frightened zebra? As the first terrible bite sink into his legs and stomach, does the zebra look into the lion's eyes as though to say,

why are you doing this to me, friend, and why, by my very nature, have I demanded it? When I bring all this up with Jackie, I realize that only the zebra would do a story like this. The lion could care less. Jonathan Goldstein, his podcast, heavyweight, will be returning this fall for a ninth season. Now with Pushkin Industries,

there are already some new episodes in their feed. You can find it where we get your podcast. Act two. Does niceness pay? Okay, sure. Niceness might not get you the most friends in high school. Niceness might not help your career in the NFL or on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange or in any super competitive line of work.

But you would think that there might be a place for it somewhere. Like, for instance, Waitressing. The whole point of the job is to help somebody else. Well, consider this story. A waitress in Chicago named Troy Morris was working a Friday night shift with another waitress, Amy Rigali. Here's Troy. I work with her Friday night and she was almost in tears because the tips just for the last week have been horrible, horrible, horrible. Like she's getting less than 15%. And so she couldn't stop thinking about it and just every check she'd look at it and just,

be like, I can't believe it. And she's just like, I can't do this anymore. Look it. People hate me. This is Amy. Like, I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I'm trying so hard to do everything perfect. And all of these people are tipping me below.

It made no sense. She'd been there four years, longer than anybody. Do the menu better. Give very quick service. And on the niceness scale, here's the word Troy uses to describe Amy. Super helpful. She's the sweetest person. And smiles and just patient.

and caring. On Sunday, Amy worked again, and this time Amy says her attitude was different. I definitely went into it with this attitude of kind of giving up, just like, I washed my hands of this. I'm just going to serve them and walk away because I was so frustrated.

And what happened to your tips? They were great. They were a lot of them over 20%. It was wild. And I came in because we switched shifts, like she's getting off when I'm coming on, And she was just like, totally beaming, really happy. I made great tips.

She's like, I can't believe it. Now I know what to do. Now I know what to do, not be as nice? Yeah, just not care. We can actually quantify exactly how much niceness was costing, Amy. The difference between 15% tips and 20% tips works out to around $50 per shift. Is it possible that any waitress could make more money

by being less nice? We decided to do a little experiment to find out. We would wire two waitresses with hidden microphones and then have them be super nice to half their tables and cool, aloof with the other half. They'd give equally good service to both tables. We did it. our experiment in the restaurant where Troy and Amy work.

Lula Cafe in Chicago's Logan Square. It's the kind of place that everybody always wants to have in their neighborhood. Small, wonderful food. It's not expensive. Today's show is a rerun, but back in 2003, when we did this experiment, half the entrees cost six bucks or less. There was Moroccan cuscus. There was vegetarian sushi.

There were lots of carefully made sandwiches. Amy had no interest in being wired for sound, but Troy was game. Like most of the staff, she's young-looking. She wore a neon zebra skirt and calf. boots to work. Her arms were bare so you could see her tattoos. Okay, that's, that is really good. It's a little bit of a lighter, like, brighter flavor. Here she is with one of the tables that she's being nice to, table number four, wanting them off a glass of wine that she thinks won't go with her meal.

So just so you know, it's like a little bit on the sweet side. You want like something fuller? Is that what you're thinking? In two minutes, Troy has their whole story. They're visiting from out of town. They seem to be falling in love, and they found this very non-touristy, out-of-the-way place through careful research. She praises them on their homework. Good job, you guys. Nice is your usual style as a waitress. She recommends specials.

She chats. She's a sweetheart. Being aloof, a little more effort for her. So, table two that just sat down, normally I would have already talked to them, but I make him wait a little while. When she finally goes to Table 2, which has three serious-looking people in their 40s, she doesn't ask them how they are, or if they have any questions, about the menu. She doesn't recommend the sturgeon, which is her favorite, or anything else. These are her first and practically only words to table, too.

Hello. Have you guys decided? When they ask her to recommend a wine, she swallows and tells them. You know what? All those red wines will go good with what you're getting, quite honestly. And then there was the guy sitting at the bar alone. Noticably good-looking, reading the New York Times, Troy gave me the rundown. His regular guy that always sits there. He orders a lot, and he never tipped. great. He always tips like just exactly 15%. Perfect for the experiment.

Usually Troy liked talking with him. If she played it aloof, would her tip go up? She walked over and he asked her what she was up to these days. Oh, you know. Working. Did you change your hair, he said? Is it different? Maybe I washed it. And so, hours pass.

People finish their meals. And when Troy starts collecting their money, the early results all seem to point in one direction. Take table two. The table she barely spoke with. Troy handed me their check. How does it look? Okay, doing little math here.

Table 2, you're 17.6% is what they tipped. Oh, really? And I wasn't nice to them at all. And yet? They tipped over 15%, which is good. I can't wait to see what Table 5 tipped. Let me look. Table 5 was the hardest table by far, very demanding,

and she was very attentive. Check this out. Okay, Table 5 you were sucking up to Like, I've never... I was so nice to them. I've never seen crazy. I got him to go food. I picked out their wine.

I helped them figure out what food they wanted. And look, it was $84 and I got $13 tip and I was so nice to them. So that's just a little over 15. And they were the most demanding and I spent the most time with them than anybody. But the biggest revelation of the night came when Troy retrieved the check and that guy who was sitting at the bar. I can't believe this. Look at this. Okay, remember the guy who I said,

I'm always nice to him, but he always tips, like, the minimal, most men. He tipped 20% I was mean to him for the first time. Look at, can you believe that? Wow. He tips five, five bucks. Over 20% never, that's never happened. And it totally, I can't believe it, that's hilarious. But that's really disturbing.

I have to be mean to him now anymore. By the end of the first night, it seemed pretty clear. Aloofness Paze. But then, when I came back a second night, and hooked up a second waitress with a hidden wireless microphone. I got very different results. The second waitress, Callie Roach, is 23 with super short hair. She laughs at a local restaurant reviewer

referred to her in the paper as a waitress. And on her night, everyone tipped 20%, or even in touch more. That was true of the regulars who she was aloof to. It was true of the man who Callie doted on, who was taking his grown daughter out to dinner. It was true of the couple who Callie joked around with about their difficult to open bottle of wine.

After the struggle. Yeah, I got like little hand hickies. Even the other waitress working on Wednesday, Natalie, who does not have an aloof bone in her body, was getting 20% and more from every table. And the more I talked to Callie, and Troy and Amy and the rest of the staff, the more everyone agreed.

The majority of their customers are just set in their way. They'll give whatever they always give, in any restaurant like this, to any server. Sure, you get a handful of customers like the guy Troy waited on at the bar, who you can nudge this way or that through force of personality, but it's just a few tables every shift. And that's all Troy and I were seeing that first night. This is Natalie. 50% of the people will tip exactly the same, whether they get great service,

or, you know, they might tip a little less for a lousy service, but most people, they tip what they're going to tip. Or, you know, I've noticed a lot of people just look at the first two numbers on the check and double it or round down, you know, there's a pattern and people tip the same. I think generally, you're not chatty and overly nice to still get the same tip. Here's Calic. You can just tell that people are going to tip you at 18% because they got their food when they wanted it. And it doesn't matter how much you're, you know, giggling and inquisitive.

Like Sundays, Sundays, I usually get tipped $4 or $5 every table. It doesn't matter what I do. Because of this, she says, she has a policy. And she's only half joking as she says this. that she tries to limit the number of times that she smiles at customers or shows her approval to exactly two times. Two times. First time, when they place their order,

she always tells them what a very fine choice they made, and then she smiles. And then, at the end of the meal, she drops off the check, and she smiles a second time, as if to say, you see, I do like you. Because done wrong, she says, friendliness not only will not pay, friendliness can cost you.

Because if you're nice and enjoying yourself, They don't need to make you feel any better. They already think you're having a good time. That's what my theory is. They already think you're having a good time. Why, they're going to tip you for having fun, you know? If you're, like, you know, if you're doing it just to get through it, you know, they know that you're working.

Troy and Amy have also decided that niceness has its limits. For the first time in their years of waitressing, because of these discussions in the last two weeks, they have both stopped knocking themselves out, running around for their most demanding tables. They're efficient, they're pleasant, But that's it. This is what they've learned.

It's not that aloofness pays. It's a niceness, doesn't pay. Thanks to the owners of the Lula Cafe, who want to assure you that this is a rerun you're hearing and that they no longer let radio shows conduct experiments on their customers. In fact, in 2024, they won a James Beard Award specifically for outstanding hospitality. There's waitresses Amy, Troy, and Callie are no longer at Lula. Troy and one of the owners of the cafe, Leah Child's,

we're in a Chicago band called Tallulah. This song is from the band's album, Step Into the Stars. She knows where she's going. She's on time. She's in time. Coming up, if you seem so nice, why do I feel so bad? And more. That's in a minute from Chicago Public Radio,

when our program continues. It's his American Life in Myra Glass. Each look at our program, of course, we choose some theme, bring you a variety of different kinds of stories on that theme. Today's program, The O'Gur of the Mean Friend. What is it about? We arrived at Act 3 of our show, Act 3, and what's going on with you?

We have this from Mike Albo. You're here early. Oh my God, do you have my scarf? Did you bring it? No, that's okay. No, it's just that I got into India when I was there, and it's just this really beautiful thing, and I really treasure it. It's just really important to me. It's not like the cheaply made Barney's co-op stuff that you buy. I don't mean you buy. I mean you buy.

Oh, I wish you would have remembered. Now, that's okay. You're so flaky. Are you sick? You look sort of tired. Is there something wrong? Oh, you went out drinking last night? it's so great how you can still do that. You're so crazy. Did you throw up? Oh, no, I just don't throw up for a second.

Okay, so I didn't want you to hear this from someone else, but I just made $2 million. Yeah, so I'm pretty happy about it. My agent's pretty happy about it. It's just really lucky because, you know, like with the recession, it's like I made my money before the apocalypse and I'll be able to live comfortably. It's just sort of locked in.

And I can tell you about the details of the deal, but if you could just do me a huge, huge favor and just don't mention it to anyone. I know you have sort of a problem being discreet. Oh, order something? Oh, no, no, I'm not drinking anymore. Oh, no, go ahead, have fun. I'm just not drinking anymore.

I just realize there's a little bit more to life. But go ahead, have fun. You're so crazy. So what's up with you? Oh, my God, when was the last time I saw you? I am totally hanging out with Toby McGuire and Reese and Ryan and David Blaine. We jokingly called The Millionaire's Club. Oh, you know that children's book I wrote really fast for No?

No reason. It's a funny, sunny day. Well, I just found out it's selling like crazy and can barely stay on the shelves. And I got another voiceover gig. It's weird. They just like my voice. I don't even have to leave home. I just call it in. I don't know. I just sort of fell into it. You should try it. But it's really hard to get into it. You should try it. You're looking for a place? Good luck. God. It's so hard to find a good place right now. This guy called me and begged me to take his beautiful 4,000 square foot loft space. It's $300, but he's actually paying me to live there forever. So what's going on with you?

I think your body looks good. It's normal. It's a normal body. Really? Well, that's too bad. Well, I just feel like you need a little bit more confidence in yourself. You know, like I feel like I'm a direct person. I say what I feel. You're more... You're more...

I don't know what you are. But I have to say, I don't know how you do it. I'm so glad I'm not single. It looks so hard. Oh, yeah. Yeah, I just ran into Carl. No. He looks good. He's good. He's good. Yeah, he says he hasn't talked to you. No. He seems like he's moving forward. I mean, you guys broke up, and he's just sort of moving on with his life. He's in this really good relationship right now, and they just bought this huge, beautiful place upstate, and they're fixing it up together. We just had a really good time talking. And you know what? He's been working out.

His body looks amazing. You know, when you and Carl were going out, I never really understood why you liked him, but now I totally do. So nothing's going on with you? No, I'm sorry, I'm just remembering a funny joke that Carl told me. What? No, I'm listening.

An excerpt from Mike Albo's short story, The Underminer, which he co-wrote with Virginia Heffernan. Mike is also the author of the young adult novel, Another dimension of us. Act four, keeping it in the family. Of course you can evade a mean friend. I mean relative, however, is forever. This next story is an excerpt from a much longer work by Bernard Cooper.

This story follows Cooper's father as he eventually goes to a psychiatric hospital. But what happens in this part of the story takes place a while before that. The actor Josh Hamilton read it for us. When I was 28 years old, my father said, sent me a bill for his paternal services. Typed on his law firm's Onion Skin Stationery, the bill itemized the money he'd spent on me over my lifetime. Since he hadn't kept tabs on the exact amounts he doled out over the years,

expenditures were rounded off to the nearest dollar and labeled food, clothing, tuition, and incidentals. Beneath the tally, in the firm but detached language common to his profession, he demanded that I pay him back. The total was somewhere in the neighborhood of $2 million, and especially hefty sum in 1978. I remember being impressed by the amount. What an expensive life I'd lived.

I was shocked and insulted, too, of course, not only because my father had made such a calculation, but because my life could be added up or reduced to a single figure. To see your existence in the form of a bill gives all your loves and fears and struggles the cumulative tumult of being human about as much poignancy as a check for a cup of coffee it read

your obligations to your father the party of the first part are considerable and the only way to impress upon you the party of the second part the necessity of compensating him for the fiscal burdens he bore on your behalf is to make his sacrifices evident in the form of the following

recorded herein as a legal and binding document should you fail to make payment in full this matter will result in actions for which I advise you to hire counsel I double-checked his signature it was his all right the letters rich with loops and convolutions go ahead I thought let him done me see if I pay no parent in his right mind asks his child to reimburse him for that child's life I didn't ask to be born I thought melodramatically Besides, that I'd known I'd be charged for my boyhood, I might have eaten fewer snacks,

been easier on my shoes, more frugal with my allowance. I couldn't help but dream up a doozy of a counterclaim. Its itemizations even more preposterous than my father's. Chronic insecurity, $90,000. Narcissistic wound, $75,000. Edipal Complex, $7,000. Since, of course, these damages were psychological in nature, it was both difficult and whimsical to assign them a monetary value.

But the punitive spirit of this counterclaim was gratifying, for a while at least. Then the whole petty endeavor depressed me, and I thought, is this what we are to each other? A flurry of demands that can't be met? Harts for which there's no restitution? During the restless days and nights that followed, I couldn't settle on a convincing or comprehensible reason to explain why my father had sent me the bill.

Though I suspected the catalyst might have had something to do with his offer a few months earlier to buy me a new car. He'd made the offer on a day I'd come to visit him at his Spanish house in Hollywood, the house in which I'd grown up. As I pulled into the driveway, he was busy watering birds of paradise in his front yard, sturdy orange flowers that he'd cultivated to his constant astonishment from a bed of drab gravel.

Back then, I drove a fiat, whose paint had oxidized to the overall color and texture of rust. The car sputtered as I shifted into park and the sagging tailpipe, which I'd had to bind to the car's undercarriage with electrical tape, coughed a cloud of noxious exhaust. Just a year after I purchased the car with money from a small inheritance left me by my mother, it fell apart with an almost vengeful rapidity. The vinyl upholstery of the bucket seats began to rub off on passengers' hands and thighs in sticky black patches. Soon the seats were nothing but lumps of raw foam, and even those were crumbling like sponge cake. One of the rear windows no longer rolled up, the pain trapped within the door. On cold nights, a stray dog made the back seat its home, leaving behind a legion of fleas to feast on my ankles as I drove around town. It was humiliating to be seen inside the car, especially in Los Angeles.

When idling at a stoplight beside a purring sports car with rear stabilizers, anodized hubcaps, and a leather interior, I had to force myself to remember that an automobile does not a man make, and then I was a writer who placed a higher value on words than on material possessions, which is to say that I cultivated a hollow sense of superiority around new cars. My father sauntered toward the fiat as I got out, peeking through the perpetually open window, despite my attempt to block his view. Stocky and balding, in a state of continual agitation, my father was also capable of a tenderness

that seemed to light him from within, and that stirred me like daybreak stirs a bird. Hey, he said, looks like you could use a new set of wheels. I can't afford a new car, I told him. I distinctly recall facing my father, his gardening clothes stained with grass and darkened by perspiration and shaping my tone so that I sounded neither pitiful, I'm too poor, or petulant. I'll never be able to buy a new car. Before I knew it, my father and I were ensconced in his white El Dorado, gliding with a frictionless speed of a dream toward a Toyota dealership in West Covina, whose ads he'd seen on TV. He pointed a stubby finger at his chest,

Let me handle this, he said. I've bought plenty of cars in my life, and I know how to deal with these bastards. You watch, I'll beat them at their own game. They won't know what hit them. On one hand, Dad's braggadocio made me feel invincible, as though I were in the company of a seasoned pro. On the other hand, it relegated me to the role of admiring onlooker

and suggested that I was too incompetent and naive to buy my own car, which was entirely true. I floundered when it came to the treacherous etiquette of negotiating a major sale. A feat which required, it seemed to me, a keen mistrust of one's fellow men, coupled with a barely sublimated bloodlust. I'd watch my father often enough to know that such transactions excited him into what can only be described as a rapture of antagonism. He didn't mind yelling threats and pounding desks and generally hurling himself bodily into the arena of commerce. Still, if a new car required me to be embarrassed by his aggression, bring on the blushing. And so I let myself relax into the plush bucket seat,

cradled and safe as the caddy whizzed past slower traffic, huge and unassailable, as regal as a motorized mansion. As we walked across the asphalt lot of the Toyota dealership, triangular plastic pendants rippled and snapped in the breeze. I thanked Dad in advance and told him that I didn't need white walls, an air conditioner, or a radio, basic transportation would be just fine. He nodded and forged ahead, his stride marshal,

his shoulders squared. Secretly, I hoped my modest expectations might endear me to him even more. Maybe he'd close the deal that very day. Before his mood changed, before I said something that would inadvertently set him off, before he said crap or bastard to the dealer. My excitement was indistinguishable from panic. I wanted a beautiful new Toyota more desperately with every single. step. I wanted an end to the self-consciousness I felt on the road, an end to the shameful sense that the thunderous rumbling and rank exhaust were coming from my person rather than my car. The showroom felt bracingly cool after the heat of West Covina. Highlights glittered in the flawless paint jobs of the display models. In the center of the room, a sleek new convertible turned

around and around on an enormous platform, as if swooning the Muzek. The second we entered, salespeople, sensing prey, rose from their desks and converged. It occurred to me that we would be the prize for the fastest walker, the one whose handshaker Hale greeting reached us first. The victor was a skinny man whose snug black suit lent him an eel-like iridescence. Or perhaps I was just seeing him as my father might, slippery, unctuous, not to be trusted. Dad shifted his weight to meet the man's gaze, posture erect. He kicked a tire as if to gauge through his knowing toes the vehicle's overall quality. He squinted at the sticker price. John, said my father, reading the salesman's name tag. Firstly, I'm an attorney. Secondly, when it comes to cars, I'm not some idiot off the street.

A cousin of mine is fleet manager of a Cadillac dealership in San Bernardino, a complete fabrication as far as I knew. If we cut through the crap, you just might make yourself a sale. My son, here. I'm buying the boy a car. Doesn't need any bells or whistles. I'm Bernard, I said to the salesman. He shook my hand without taking his eyes off my father. Well, Mr. Cooper, Edward, attorney at law. I got to hand it to you, Mr. Cooper. It's nice to meet a customer who knows what he wants and comes prepared to do business. Makes my job a whole lot easier. My father shot me a sideline glance as if to say, watch and learn. I'm going to make this painless, said the salesman.

He spun on his heel and walked toward the glass door that led to the lot. We followed him outside to a veritable poppy field of new corollas till we reached a red two door that John claimed was the least expensive automobile on the lot. This is the cheapest, asked my father. Though it pains me to do so, I must add that my father's gold star of David had loosed itself from the mid-interior of a shirt to glint conspicuously in the afternoon light, the sight of which, given my father's unabashed haggling, caused a cord of shame to vibrate inside me. I felt compelled to explain to the salesman how my father had worked hard for everything he owned. He was a hoarder, a scrimper, a seeker of bargains who could never take his solvency for granted. And in this respect, he was like thousands of people who'd grown up poor, endured the depression, Jewish or not. But that was a lot to explain to a salesman, especially on the cusp of a deal that would change my life.

And, to put it bluntly, if my father was conforming to the cliché of the cheap Jew, I was that cliché as beneficiary. I peered at the car, feigning disinterest, quite a performance considering how I coveted that little red corolla. Mr. Cooper, said the salesman, I know a shrewd man when I see one, and I'm going to do something that could put my job on the line,

But before I tell you what it is, Mr. Cooper, I want you to promise that you won't say a word to my boss. I'd once heard that repeating a person's name is a way to make them feel important, to win them over, and John, it seemed, had heard the same. Mr. Cooper, I'm going to let you drive out of here for a mere $200 over the factory price. I'm going to scratch my commission on this. Frankly, I need the sales points more than I need the money, and if we can lock up this deal pronto, it'll be worth my while, and of course, worth yours. Here, metabolism obscure his memory. My heart was running on all cylinders. My mouth went dry.

You've got to be sh-h-me, John, said my father. I know you can give it to me under factory. I'm not paying a penny more than factory, period. As I said, Mr. Cooper, I don't mind giving up my commission, but I can't lose money on the deal. I'm giving you the best price you're going to find in L.A. County, in the state of California. Other customers were milling uncomfortably close to my corolla,

trying out driver's seats, adjusting rearview mirrors. I wanted to turn to my father and blurt, why would he lie? I'm not buying it, my father said sternly. It took me a second to realize he meant the dealer's story, not the car itself. I know how this game is played, and I'll play along up to a point, but we've reached that point, so let's see what kind of deal you can give me. Shop around if you don't believe me, Mr. Cooper. then come on back. The offer still stands. Better act quickly, though, because this baby isn't

going to stay in a lot much longer. I guess you didn't hear me, said my father. Look at me, Mr. Cooper. I have no reason to lead you on. My father gave John the once over, then turned to me. Let's go, he said. We're taking our business elsewhere. Before we took a step, the salesman curtly thanked my father and walked away. The two of us waited a moment with the tacit understanding that his retreat might have been a strategy to provoke my father into giving chase. Sun beat down from a cloudless sky, asphalt softening beneath our feet. I think he's basically an honest man, I mumbled. Honest, my ass.

My father looked at me with something like pity. I'd never catch on. Would forever remain a sucker, a rube. Musak faintly wafted from the showroom as the salesman swung the door open and walked inside. Well, Dad announced, show's over, and we trudged across the lot toward his caddy. The drive back to Los Angeles took a good 40 minutes. My father still fumed from the encounter with the salesman. His ears and neck flushed with blood.

Dad insisted that the deal was far from over. the guy's playing hardball but you watch the phone will be ringing when we get back to the house it'll be him and he'll say my father launched into an imitation of john cooing mr cooper this and mr cooper that my father promised that when the call finally came john would apologize for being too hasty and lower the price i'd have my car before i knew it one day passed two three each day i called my father on various transparent pretexts and attempted to find out whether it heard anything from the salesman. On the fourth day, I steeled myself and asked him outright. Keep your pants on, grumbled my father. I said he'd called, didn't I? By the end of the week, however, my pants were sagging. The car had probably been sold.

In the meantime, I'd researched the prices at other Toyota dealerships around town and discovered that John's offer was the best of the bunch. and so I called my father in a last-ditch effort to own the car. Dad, I said, I've done some comparative pricing. So? I think we should go for the corolla before it sold. And if it's a matter of not wanting to pay more than the factory price, and who can blame you,

I'd be happy to contribute the extra $200 myself. The proposal had about it the pleasing hue of teamwork, and I wished I'd thought of it days ago. It's not about the $200, said my father. It's a waiting game. He's holding out, so I'll come running back and throw my money at him. If you can't sit tight for a while,

if you have to have everything you want right when you want it, you might as well forget the whole damn thing. Before he hung up, he said, and don't pester me anymore. I'll call you when the car is ready. The bill arrived after a month of silence. By then I'd given up on the car, resigned to drive the fiat until it broke down completely

or until I could afford to make payments on a new car, whichever came first. I suspected my father might brood about our day at the dealership, but I wasn't prepared for the extremity of his reaction, if in fact the bill was a reaction. Whenever I tried to make a connection, the machinery of cause and effect began to break down. Perhaps in the intervening month, my father had become more offended by my offer to supplement the cost of the car,

thinking I'd implied he couldn't afford it, couldn't pull off the deal on his own. Who was I, he must have wondered, to offer him money. And yet, even taking into account the full force of my father's volatility, it seemed unlikely that my offer of $200 would result in him suing me for $2 million. As the days wore on, my longing for the car grew dimmer, while my father's no doubt deepened. My plan should have worked. That car should be ours. thrusting him back to the deprivation he knew as a boy.

The salesman's refusal to call must have undermined his notion of how the world worked, how bargains were struck by men like himself, men possessed of wile and nerve. What had happened, or failed to happen, defined his every paternal assurance, his promise that the phone would ring, the salesman buckle, the car become mine. How humiliated he must have been to know that I awaited his call, that he'd asked me to wait must have made it worse. worse. My father's refusal to be in the wrong meant that I'd have to wait forever. Twenty years have passed since I opened that bill, and for most of those years, I'd taken it for

granted that at some point during our afternoon in West Covina, my father had given the dealer a telephone number. But I've sifted through that trip a dozen times, squinting against the glare of new cars, breathing the icy air of the showroom, and I can't recall my father handing over one of his business cards or filling out a form of any sort. Even if my father had been right, after all, the salesman wouldn't have known where to reach him. What number to call? Josh Hamilton, reading an excerpt from a story by Bernard Cooper, which first appeared in the L.A. weekly and is now part of the book the bill from my father. Allison, our website, thisamericanlife.org.

This American Life is delivered to public radio stations by PRX, the public radio exchange. Thanks, as always, to our program's co-founder, Mr. Torrey Malatia. You know, whenever I send anybody over to record him, he says, you know, you come here and you tape me for your stupid friends radio show and then you get the hell out. I'm Eric Glass back next week with more stories of This American Life. But when I got to deny But when I got home I cried, cried, cry

Yes, I cry Oh yeah I try not to cry I try not to cry