Did I imply that waitressing is a fun gig? Once I took a ballet class from a woman who told us to imagine that we had a $100 bill stuck between our ass cheeks. After that all she had to do was yell "Hold your money, girls!" and we would all meercat up, spines straight, heads held high, ass cheeks clenched. Lately, I have not been holding my money. Business is slow, tips are bad. The bathrooms are especially nasty. The trays are especially heavy. The weather is like the inside of a mouth.
There is one man, a regular, who comes in everyday and says inappropriate things. One day, as I was presetting for his desert he asked me for a napkin of a different color. Okay, fine. Then he wants a smaller spoon. Alright, here you go. I put his trio of peach sorbet balls before him and asked "Okay Mr. __? Is there anything else I can do for you?" "Will you eat my sorbet balls and let me watch?" he replied. "No Mr. __, I am afraid you are going to have to eat your own balls." I said, and swept regally from the dining room to go scrub my skin with a metal scrubber and throw up.
The thing is, this restaurant is of a higher class than any other place I've worked. It doesn't matter, rich people are rude. Rich people feel that they have a right to be rude. Poor people look into my eyes and see a human being. Rich people look at my tits and see tits. Tits they will leave a 10% tip to.
At least I'm employed. That's what I said to myself today as a fellow server broke a glass and spattered me with cappuccino. At least we're employed, we whispered to each other as our hostess' voice rang out requesting us to clean the patio. As we watch our anorexic boss get skinnier. As we scrub gum off table legs. As we are spit on (yes, SPIT ON) by children.
Someday, I will spit back. Until then, I need my job. I'll just take a deep breath, hold my money, and try not to have to eat any one's balls.
4 comments:
Oh my God. There is no excuse for that. You want your dads to have a talk with that slimeball? That could happen. Or how about your brother, Billy, AND your dads? They could educate him in how to talk to a lady. Or they could hand him his balls. Yeah. That would do it.
Have you talked to your boss about this? Because you should. That is not cool. That is not acceptable. By LAW you are guaranteed a sexual-harassment free workplace.
Oh Mama, really. The law has no place in a restaurant. Everyone just thinks that it's funny, and it is in a way. Besides, I know that if they pay me it's not love. The spitting children bother me more than the lecherous old men. That's a lovely picture of you, by the way.
The law and restaurant work have no common ground.
Ach, May, it sucks, huh? Next time, send Taylor out to his table with a big knife to say something like, "I hear you needed help with your balls."
I like that one!
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