T. Scott Gross

The happening place in Bandera, TX is the 11th street bar. I’m assuming it’s on 11th street but for the life of me I can’t imagine there being eleven streets in Bandera. Maybe if you count in both directions.

The big night is Wednesday, steak night.  Five or six tall iron caldrons are filled with fresh charcoal and by six o’clock the fires are hot and the crowd has claimed their spot in the huge outdoor dance hall.  On steak night you bring your own steak, cook it just the way you can’t blame someone else, and flop the sizzling results onto a paper plate filled with salad and twice-baked potato served by the lovely ladies in the cook shack.  Four dollars, please!

The music is mostly country western and always on the mellow side to allow the families and friends gathered beneath the ancient oaks to enjoy a quiet conversation between bites and head-tilting swigs from a longneck.

In the tradition of small music venues everywhere there is a tip jar at the edge of the stage.  The jar is always seeded with a few single bills no doubt from the wallets of the musicians and then just in case the audience is blind or stupid or just plain cheap there is a two by two paper patch taped to the side of the jar and in whatever color marker could be found, labeled ‘TIPS!”

One Wednesday evening three teen-aged girls from Galveston arrived with their parents.  The girls were pretty and they knew it in the way that only teen-age girls could possibly understand.  The girls, there being strength in numbers and the anonymity of being from out of town, found multiple reasons not to be at the family table.  They paraded around giggling at the cowboys, stopping occasionally to dance in a tight all-girl circle on the broad concrete dance floor.  They were, their grandma told me, hot stuff.

When the band stopped for a break the tall female lead singer sought out the girls and asked if they would be kind enough to pass around the tip jar.

“Peeps!  What do we do?” they asked their grandma.  The girls had somehow been promoted to “roadies,” a job for which they were totally unprepared.

“Just take the jar to each table, hold it out, and say, “If you’ve enjoyed the music, this is for the band!”

They did just that.  In a matter of minutes the jar was filled to overflow a condition pretty unlikely had the jar been left to languish at the edge of the stage.

What were the dynamics at work that filled the jar?

As always, we look for the hook, the deal, and the close.

The hook… the attention arresting event… was obvious: three giggling girls wiggling their way to your table.  Nobody says no to a naturally beautiful young woman.

The deal was a little more complicated.  “If you’ve enjoyed the music, this is for the band.”  What you can’t see but you can imagine is this being presented by three smiling, anxious faces.

If you don’t put buckos in the jarro you either a.) didn’t like the music or b.) are a cheap SOB.  Try to explain that to the girls who would no doubt take the rebuff personally.  Really, would you risk sending three delicate flowers crying to the ladies room for a couple of lousy bucks?  Pony up, cowboy!

As the jar begins to fill another dynamic comes into play:  social proof.  In college we called this “bandwagon.”  Once the tip jar begins to fill prospective tippers see that the infamous “everyone else” has contributed and therefore, they should too.

Here’s a quick quiz: What do you think would be the overall impact on total dollars collected if the girls had decided to empty the jar after every two or three tables?

What do you think would be the results had the girls decided to each carry a tip jar and gone to the tables separately/

What do you think if the girls had each carried a tip jar but approached the tables together?

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