Hans is MIA

Where is Hans?  If you've been reading for a while you probably remember Hans, the 63 year-old guest, lovingly named after the skate shop owner from the Mighty Ducks, who was my biggest fan.  He even wanted to buy me a couch once.  No joke.  Hans was a pretty regular fixture around Hooters, gracing table 83 with his presence every week or two.  Then Hans went missing.

Hans - absent for months - finally appeared in April only to tell me had experienced a heart attack.  Needless to say, I was worried, but slowly he began to get better.  He'd made the move from water to soda, but Miller Lite bottles were still out of the question.  Even without the beer he seemed to be doing well.

Then Hans disappeared again and suddenly I realize I haven't seen him since June or July.  Being a caring person, I was immediately worried.  Thoughts of hospital beds and defibrillators flashed through my mind.  I assumed the worst.

Yes, I assumed that Hans was - sadly - dead.  I wrote that just as bluntly as I thought it.  I skipped right past illness, extended vacations and moving.  I went right to death.

So I did what any good nerd would do and I Googled the shit out of Hans.  I searched numerous permutations of his name and residence.  I even searched the local paper just in case Google was sucking and missed some relevant piece of information.  My search was thorough and still I came up with nothing of importance regarding Han's current state of being.  I'm not sure if this made me more or less worried.

If you're out there, Hans, please come and say hi.  Or send a smoke signal.  I'm worried.

Hans Travels the World

Hans has a way of turning up right when you start to wonder where he's been.  It never fails, as soon as you question why he hasn't been in he appears as if he knows he entered your mind.  It must be a magical German thing.  This happened recently.  I got to work and I wondered about Hans.  Honestly, since his heart attack and collapsed lung I actually get nervous when he hasn't been in in awhile.  After all, Hans lives alone.  How could I not be concerned?

So there I was wondering about Hans when I came to jump start one morning and was handed a postcard.  It was from Hans.  He'd preformed his German magic again.  Only this time it was international.  He's that good.  Apparently, Hans has been in Germany.  He was kind enough to drop my a line while he's there.

It seems his journeys brought him to Aschau Im Chiemgau.  Now I'm not exactly sure where Aschau is, but apparently it's in Chiemgau.  Thank goodness those two years of German in high school taught me what 'im' means.  Go, public education!

Now, what did Hans have to say?  Well, this is what Hans had to say:

In case you can't read it, it says:  All the best from the old grumpie German.  Thank Good I m still alive.  Munich and the Alps were great.  See you later.  Still not a beer.

Yes, Hans is alive and loving life in the Motherland.  I love the postcard.  What I love the most though is that it says "To the 'Hot Sauce Crew.'"  I mean it had my actual name on there too, but it was addressed as if Hooters of Missoula is MY Hooters.  Yes, according to Hans this crew is mine.  Epic.  I also love that there was no address on the card.  It said the cross street (not the actually street name Hooters is on even) but had no actual address.  And it has the wrong zip code.  But it still got here because everyone knows Hooters.  Hooters doesn't need no stinking address.  It's that cool.

It seems Hans may return soon.  Sill not a beer.  Until then I'll have his postcard on my fridge.  I'm just so international.

Hans and the Bikini

Hooters can give one a little bit of notoriety.  Not so much in the way that you're actually important, but more in the way that you might get noticed in awkward non-Hooters sorts of places - like the grocery store.  That's fun.  But it's also cool because you sometimes get your picture up on the wall of Hooters.  And by cool I actually mean it can be a little weird to serve some dude wings under a picture of you in a bikini.  Here's your wings and oh hey check out my nearly naked body as you get wing sauce all over your face.  Yes, I realize I work at Hooters.  It comes with the territory.  That realization doesn't make it any less weird. 

But this story isn't about the picture; it's about the content of the picture.  It's about me and more specifically it's about the bikini (and no, that's not my bikini, the photo just fits the story).  And it's about Hans.  You see one day recently, Hans came in on one of my days off.  Naturally, Hans was disappointed and to appease him his Hooters Girl showed him the picture of me newly added to the wall.  It seems Hans was impressed because I was soon informed that Hans wanted to pay for my bikini.

A week later, I had all but forgotten Hans desire to pay for the bathing suit I'd purchased over two months ago.  In came Hans and he made his way to his usual table.  Still unable to drink beer after his recently heart attack, Hans ordered a water that I promptly delivered and sat down to talk to him.  Before I even had a chanced to get two words out, Hans stopped me.

"First we attend to business," he said as he reached for his wallet and removed three crisp twenties and a ten.  He'd done his research on the cost of my bikini it seemed.

Graciously I attempted to decline.  After all, I'd already purchased the bikini months ago.  Plus it didn't seem right for me to accept the money.  But Hans wouldn't let me say no.

So he drank his water, we talked as always and Hans left me $70 to pay for my bikini.  Hey, at least it's not a couch.

Where is Hans?

Hans appeared today after an absence of several weeks.  This is very unlike Hans; he is a man of consistency.  Normally, I can gauge my days by the appearance of Hans.  If he shows up close to noon it's a Tuesday, closer to two it's a Thursday.  Given this reliability, Hans' extended absence had me a little worried.  Then today, not a Tuesday or a Thursday mind you, Hans appeared.  The fact that it was a Monday was only the first irregularity.

As the door opened, I didn't initially realize it was Hans from across the restaurant.  First of all, another older gentleman accompanied him, holding the door as Hans gingerly entered.  This was also unlike Hans.  Though he is older, Hans hardly has trouble getting around.  Today, however, walking appeared a chore as he slowly moved toward his usual table.  Moving closer, I watched a smile appear across his face as I noted how red and swollen his lower jaw was.  It was suddenly very apparent that something had happened to Hans. 

Carefully sitting down, I went to get his usual Miller Lite bottle.  Slowly, Hans raised his hand as if to wave off the idea and requested a water with lemon.  Something was wrong indeed.  Setting down his water and sitting down next to him I was unable to hide my look of concern.  He noticed.

Hans:  "Oh, I am fine.  Life has given me a test.  I have passed."

From there he went on to tell me about his heart attack.  Hans had suffered a massive heart attack that left him unconscious.  After being out for a number of minutes, Hans came to and managed to call the ambulance for himself.  On the way to the hospital, miles from his semi-rural lake house, Hans' lung collapsed further complicating his situation.  Luckily, he was stabilized and released after an extended stay in the hospital. 

Hans:  "Now I am strong.  Therapy maybe, but only if I have a pretty one!"

Even now, Hans still has his sense of humor - even if his heart decided to slow him down a little.

Hans and the Couch

Hans has continued his tireless campaign to be my sugar daddy.  Recently, over his usual Miller Lite it came up that I am now living in a sort of one bedroom, sort of studio apartment.  A sort of one bedroom, sort of sudio apartment without a couch.  Hans apparently saw this as his in.

"You need couch?  I would like to buy you this.  It will be for you a gift."

I didn't know what to say.  Noticing my hesitation Hans continued to explain himself.

"I ask for nothing.  I just wish to help.  You know, like a sugar daddy but no sex deal.  I am an old man.  I do not love you, but I very much like you a lot.  A couch is a small thing for such a like."

No sex deal?!  Dear Lord, what do I say now?  Conveniently, kitchen yells my name and I quickly escape to run food to a large party across the restaurant.  This table is needy and I spend more time than usual opening ranches, refilling drinks and generally sucking up to them and their $200 tab.  I notice Hans leave as I run another round of drinks to the tables.  He smiles and waves, pointing to the table as he shuffles out the door.

Making my way to the table I can see the hundred-dollar bill well before I am close enough to grab the one empty Miller Lite - the only thing he ordered.  His email is scrawled carefully across one edge of the bill accompanied by a note:

The couch you shall have.  Too pretty to sit on floor.  You email after shopping and I buy for you with no questions.

I still don't have a couch.

Introducing Hans

Today I introduce you to Hans.  Hans is yet another Hooters regular.  Correction, Hans is MY Hooters Regular.  You see Hans is picky.  Hans likes consistency.  He is even picky about his consistency.  Sixty-three years old, Hans hails from Germany.  He still exhibits a strong German accent and the deliberate way of speaking that suggests he's searching for words.  He's not a citizen; he's a resident by marriage.  He's also an ex-NHL player (hence the name Hans taken from the sweet skate shop guy from "Might Ducks" who is pictured to the right).  He has money and three houses and is unashamed to flaunt either.  And Hans loves me.

Hans doesn't like blondes.  The first time he came in our blonde bartender rolled her eyes before giving me that "you HAVE to take him look."  So I took the table.  Hans looked at me expectantly and very politely ordered a Miller Lite bottle.  He drank the bottle slowly, smiling as I spoke to him.  He listened as if he was genuinely interested in my life.  He didn't want to talk about him.  He drank one bottle, then two, then got up to leave.  As he made his way to the door he gently brushed my arm.

"You have the best butt of all Hooter Girls.  You must have a sugar daddy," he nodded.

I grinned and laughed it off gently as I said goodbye, flattered and shocked simultaneously.  Hans left my mind soon after, but a week later he returned.  This time he told me quite bluntly about hi dislike for blondes and his affinity for dark eyed women.  He told me about his life.  He told me once again that I must have a sugar daddy.  I noted that he left me a hundred dollar tip.

Now Hans comes every week or two.  If I am not in the restaurant he asks were I am.  Apparently he is also rude.  It seems that Hans literally only has eyes for me.  And he's not afraid to admit it.  So it seems that I have my first ever sugar daddy candidate.  A 63-year-old, German, hockey playing sugar daddy.  Don't worry; I am not one to take advantage of a senior citizen.  Unless of course you count putting this story on the Internet, then I'm guilty as charged.