The Phone Number

This morning I was wondering why my posts had been receiving no comments lately.  It seems somehow my shit wasn't actually posting.  Apparently the Internet was mad at me.  Sorry for the absence and be expecting some posts and double posts.  We have some effing catching up to do.

Pimps.  CREDIT.

There comes a time in the life a young man when girls suddenly aren’t icky anymore.   Fear of cooties is replaced by a curiosity for kissing and holding hands.  Generally this happens between the ages of ten and thirteen.  Before ten girls are to be avoided and after thirteen girls are the subject of fantasies that involve a lot less innocence and a lot more nudity.  But during that golden period in between, girls are a mystery that are loved and feared all at once.

Boys of this age come into Hooters and spend most of their meal staring into their root beers and boneless wings.  While they have a curiosity that makes them eager to experience Hooters, they also have enough embarrassment that any and all young bravado stays in the car.

Recently a table of boys came in between the ages of ten and thirteen – the golden age.  Cheeks burned red as the table was addressed and whispered giggles echoed in the background as Hooters Girls hurried past with arms full of wings.  It was all standard procedure.

Meanwhile, I was tending bar serving beers to Talladega who happened to know the party of boys and their chaperone.  Next to Talladega sat Ariel.  And in case you forgot, Ariel is a complete and total badass

As the boys’ meal came to an end, Talladega, jokingly said that we should give our numbers to one of the boys.  While I was already shaking the idea off with a laugh, Ariel had that look in her eye.  It was a version of the look that makes me drink vodka on a Tuesday.

With little to no further prompting, I grabbed a napkin and scrawled Hooters’ number across it in green permanent marker.  I added a heart for good measure.  No sooner had I capped my marker and Ariel was out the door dropping off the folded napkin on her way.

I looked over just in time to catch the boy opening the napkin and his eyes lighting up.  He’d achieved the unachievable and all his friends were noticeably envious.  He was the coolest ten-year-old ever.

Flash-forward a few hours and the phone rang.  I picked it up with my usual greeting and an apprehensive voice muttered, “Um, you left a number for me to call?”

I knew immediately who it was.

Sauce:  “Oh, actually Ariel left her number for you, but unfortunately she left a bit a go.  But I’d love to take a message for her.  How does that sound?”

Boy:  “Yeah, that sounds pretty good.”

Then there was a long pause.

Sauce:  “Well what would you like me to tell her for you?”

Boy:  “Well tell her I say hi and that’s she really pretty.”

After some background whispering and another pause.

Boy:  “And thank you for leaving the number.”

Sauce:  “Ok, I’ll let her know all of that and I took down your number too, just in case!”

Boy:  “Thanks.  Oh and you’re pretty too.”

And with that, I’d had the most wonderful phone conversation I’d ever had at Hooters.  As much as we’d made his day, he’d made mine too.  Sometimes it’s the little things I guess.

FOLLOWUP:  Ariel invited the boy back anytime for a milkshake on the house.  We’ve yet to see him, but I’m pretty sure his whole school knows by now.  I also assume he recently began dating between three and five girlfriends.

I Love My Regulars

My Regulars are way cooler than these guys.  CREDIT.
Side note: why is that man pouring his own beer?
Naughty Hooters Girl!

One of the many things I love about my job are the many regulars I get to deal with on a daily basis.  There is almost nothing better than seeing one of those familiar faces walk through the door and plop down in their favorite stool at your bar.  You know what they drink, their favorite wing sauce, that their dog is at the vet and that their sister is expecting.  And they in turn know about you.   With that all that familiarity it doesn’t take long before regulars are considered friends and not people who just happen to frequent the restaurant more often than most.

Now I don’t think this is a Hooters specific phenomenon, what I do think is that the conversational and relaxed atmosphere promoted at Hooters lends itself to creating a regular crowd.  It of course doesn’t mean the regulars have to be totally awesome.  Sucky regulars exist too.  That’s just luck of the draw.  And trust me, at my Hooters we’re very lucky.

We have the fun couple from out of town that adores mango margaritas.  The trivia fanatics haven’t missed trivia night in well over nine months.  There’s the preteen daughter who follows us as a “Hooters Girl in training” as her mom happily talks your ear off.  There are the Pepsi distributors who kindly bring us cases of Rockstar lemonades – the favorite beverage of the Hooters Girls.  We have candy bringers, beer drinkers, families and bikers who all come us see us regularly.

Then there are people like Talladega.  Though we may not have started off on the right foot, Talladega is probably my favorite regular.  He’s the guy that I hope and pray walks through the door when I’m having a shitty day.  One glance his way while helping a particular annoying customer will result in a reassuring smile that says, “I know that dude is being a total asshat.”  And that I love and appreciate.

Before Miami, I was faced with daunting task of moving.  It’s no secret that – even if it’s just across town – moving is a huge pain in the ass.  It’s even more of a pain in the ass when you own a’97 Subaru Legacy.  Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining about my car, it’s just not built for heavy moving.  Believe it or not you can’t fit a bed or a couch in a Subaru.  Who knew?

Naturally, at work I was relaying my moving woes one day at the bar when without hesitation Talladega offered not only his truck but also his services as a mover.  Before I knew it he was singlehandedly hoisting my couch above his head so Dreamy could pull it over the railing into the new apartment.  All of that with a bad back that he’d recently aggravated.  I yelled at him to be careful the whole time.  I doubt he was really listening.

The help was much appreciated and unexpected.  Yes, Talladega and I are friends, but how often do you think restaurant patrons help their servers move?  I have a feeling it’s not too common.  And that was what impressed me.  And continued to impress me when but a week later Ariel fell into an awful situation.

One morning, ready to head to work, Ariel found that her Jeep wouldn’t move.  Well it moved, but not very well.  Something wasn’t right and upon inspection she found that three of her tires had been slashed overnight.  Let me digress for a moment to interject that men can be effing crazy.  And creepy.  And stalkerish.  Anyhooters, it was apparent Ariel wouldn’t be getting to work anytime soon on that Sunday morning.

Working her bar shift as she tried to remedy her most unfortunate situation, I relayed Ariel’s story to Talladega and he immediately began making calls.  Talladega is a car man that knows people.  He was going to figure it out – awkward tire size and all.

Once again, I was warmed by Talladega’s generosity and noted it to another bar Bud Light drinking regular a bit later.  This was followed by, “Well I have a spare set of Jeep tires from that model year.  She can have them and the rims too.”

“Well I’ll help you put them on,” added Talladega.

I went from warmed to utterly flabbergasted.  A regular had just offered Ariel a free set of tires with free installation courtesy of himself and Talladega.  Now that doesn’t happen everyday.

Half an hour later Ariel’s Jeep was sitting on a brand new set of non-slashed tires.  I thought she might cry as she hugged them both and thanked them profusely.  They had saved her time, energy and hundreds of dollars and expected nothing in return (they got cards, cupcakes and beer anyway).

This is why I love my regulars.  Not because I make lots of money off them or because they’re good connections, but because they are generally good people.  They are the type of people who brighten your day not because they want something, but because it’s what they do.  They are the type of people that make you feel that there’s hope for the world.  It’s just nice to feel that sometimes.

Here’s to all my Hooters regulars.  One day I hope to repay you.  For now, thank you.

NASCAR Almost Got Me Fired

Once upon a time in the infancy of my Hooters career, I actually thought I was going to get fired.  Yes, the amazing Sauce left her job one fatefully day nearly crapping her pants that her next shift would bring nothing more than a pink slip of doom.  I really was that scared that I'd messed up.  I think I even might have cried.

Did I drop a plate of nachos on someone?  Did I scream at a guest?  Did I just all around suck at my job?  No, I did something much worse.  Something nearly unthinkable in its awfulness.  I changed the channel off NASCAR.  Yeah, you read that right.  I thought I was going to be fired for changing NASCAR to some other sporting event I can't even recall.  That's probably a cardinal sin.

After seating a family at a round high table, they nicely asked for me to change the channel.  It might have been to football or basketball or curling, but they definitely wanted anything other than the NASCAR on the screen above them.  I cordially said I would, running to grab the remote after I noted that no one seemed to be watching the current channel.

No sooner had the TV flickered from one channel to another than I heard a grumbling behind me.  It didn't take long for that low grumble to grow into full-fledged yelling from a table of men a few feet away.  I nearly immediately registered that all the screaming had to do with me changing the channel.  So, as I figured the dude yelling at me laid claim to the TV first, I kindly explained to the family that I'd have to change the channel back.

Of course this wasn't good enough.  The twenty or so seconds the TV had been off NASCAR were apparently the end of the world and even though the cars were once again zipping around the track the yelling didn't stop.  And then I heard it.

"I can't WAIT to tell (owner's name) about how awful it's been at Hooters today."

I whipped around quickly and the yeller immediately registered the pang of worry strike my face.

"That's right, I know (owner's name) really well and he'll be hearing all about this.  I'm sure he won't be happy."

I was almost instantly afraid.  While getting fired over something so ridiculous seemed insane, I was new.  And no one really cares that much about a new girl.  As the rant continued to grow more angry and more specific, my fear turned into shear panic.  I was sure I was going to be fired right then and there.  It suddenly seemed a certainty.

But of course I wasn't fired.  Or even talked to.  Turns out it didn't matter at all.  And my guitar probably saved me from - at least - a write up.  Yes, I'd brought my guitar that day and, even though I was upset and worried, I had promised to play.  So I played and that's right about when the crazy yeller fell in love.  Seriously.  In.  Love.

So not only did my guitar save my ass, it created my biggest Hooters fan.  Yes, it's time to be introduced to a new character.  He shall be called Talladega and though we didn't start well AT ALL I totally love him.  Funny how that happens.

Talladega is now one of my favorite regulars.  He's fun, nice, down to earth and head over heels in love with his wife in the cutest way ever.  He's the only customer who has a CD of my music and I hear he's worn it out.  He's more than forgiven me for changing the channel.  I'm good like that.