I am a part-time tour guide here in Chicago. I started working as a step-on guide (as in “step on” a behemoth motor coach at a designated intersection, grab the mic and start talking) seven or eight years ago.

It seemed like the perfect way to make some money and give myself a very nice break from the computer and the telephone. I think it was also a perfect way to give myself some stage time. One might think vaudeville is dead, but it seems to be alive and rolling along quite nicely in tour buses all over the country, maybe the world. Guides, like me, seem to have their favorite routines, their favorite schtick. With a captive audience, most likely seniors who are easy to get a chuckle out of as long as you plan for enough bathroom breaks, it’s a great gig.

The other week, I was headlining for a busload of 51 seniors from Toronto. The group was some sort of art appreciation society. Most of them were pretty spry although a few were prone to dawdle.

I had done my homework. I checked the Cubs schedule to make sure we could drive by the Friendly Confines (Wrigley Field) without coming to a standstill, and I looked online for news about any parade that could force us to take detours through favorite downtown boulevards. I planned a route that would take us by some wonderful public art (since I was guiding a group of “art appreciators”). I made sure we could cruise by every statue and mosaic we could, eye candy for sure. I got a good reception with my traditional opening line about being a single girl who loved the job because I got to tell a man, i.e., the bus driver, where to go and he had no choice but to listen to me.

We drove by Holy Name Cathedral (where I got to point out the location of the bullet that hit the cornerstone during a 1920’s gangster shooting), stirred up some debate over whether the 2003 updating Soldier Field got looked nice or whether it looked like extraterrestrials in a shiny space tub of sorts landed in the middle of the Roman style coliseum, and we walked through Millennium Park. It must have been 90⁰ and everyone seemed to know their walking limits. No one passed out on me. In other words, I was having a good day.

Towards the end of my spiel, Peter, the tour organizer, took out a white plastic bag and announced to the bus that he was going to pass it around to collect tips for me, adding that it was a wonderful time to show their appreciation for what a great job I did.

Before leaving the bus at the end of my four hours, Peter took the contents of the white bag and stuffed the bills into my hand. I quickly pushed the wadded up currency into the front pockets of my khakis. It is improper guide etiquette to count your money in front of your group. When I got home, I emptied my pockets into an old baseball cap, as if we literally passed a hat at the end of my tour day. Fifty-six dollars for fifty-one paid customers. All in singles. I had to marvel at this.

Yes, it was a pretty good haul especially when you consider Peter paid me an agreed amount for guiding as well. But I really think part of my delight was about getting paid all in singles. In what other circumstance can you get such a concrete demonstration of doing a good job, of people liking you and appreciating your efforts? As 56 singles, it also felt like everyone contributed something, not like a couple people sponsored the group. I liked this too, the feeling that everyone on the bus was happy with their day in Chicago.

While I made a place for my slush pile in a night table drawer, ready for visits to farmers markets or other venues where singles are in demand, part of me doesn’t want to spend them. Being reminded that I am appreciated for my humor and conscientiousness is no small thing.