A few weeks back, a card slid under the door of my apartment, wishing me Happy Holidays, and listing out the twenty-seven people who work in my building. That’s right, twenty-seven. Six doormen, eight porters, seven handy-men, etc., etc.

The message was clear, and it wasn’t that those twenty-seven people were sincerely hoping I was enjoying my December.

In any other area of my life, I pride myself on being a big tipper. It costs relatively little in the grand scheme of things, and I feel happily magnanimous any time I give a cab driver an extra two dollars, tip a waiter beyond twenty percent.

But in this situation, I felt a bit odd. I knew five or six of the folks on that list, and had never even seen, much less interacted with, most of the rest. Did I therefore just assume that those unnoticed people – say, security guards I’d never found about at even the darkest hours of the night – were still providing some secret yet equally valuable, tip-worthy service? Did I consequently dump my holiday tip wad into one undifferentiated pool? Or did I fork over the bills more strategically, rewarding those I knew, those who had actually improved my life in some way over the past year, and – more selfishly – those who might remember the tip as having come from me, and treat me accordingly through the year ahead?

On top of that, I wondered, how much was I talking about here? Scouring the web, I found building staff tip recommendations ranging from $50-100 a head. Most, however, seemed to refer to places with four- or five-person staffs, rather than for a giant apartment coterie such as mine, where such tipping could total nearly three grand.

In the end, and after much angsting, I split the difference: I tipped very well he five guys I knew, tipped more modestly the super and the rest, and overall still probably spent enough to rent an apartment for much of the year in any less ridiculously priced part of the country. Even so, alongside the smiles I’m receiving from those happily tipped folks, I’m also bracing myself for whatever quiet retribution their more cheaply rewarded brethren might devise.

Mainly, however, I’m just jealous of the old, crazy guy down the hall. Sure, he might be totally batshit. But I suspect he pleased the staff immensely with tips of buttons and sticks of chewing gum. And, at this time of year, that’s peace of mind no amount of sanity can buy.