Recreational Drug Use

A few months back Skrillex came to town.  This probably means nothing to a lot of you.  Let me explain, Skrillex is a band of the dubstep variety.  Now if this continues to mean nothing to you I’ll just say it’s the type of music that pretty much requires glow sticks, neon and designer club drugs with the price of a ticket; it’s for the cool kids.  Allow me to enlighten you!

Yup, that’s Skrillex.  If you didn’t have the urge to ingest something illegal, you probably had the urge to pierce your ears with something sharp.  Dubstep is somewhat of an acquired taste.

Anyhooters, the night of the Skrillex concert, Hooters was infiltrated by brightly adorned groups of concertgoers.  After all, nothing is a better precursor to a hazed concert experience than fried foods and orange shorts.  It screams America.

A particularly large group of teenage dubsteppers ended up in Ariel’s section.  The girls wore face paint, flashy neon tutus and enough glitter to make a fairy ill – it all screamed wannabes.  They looked more like “lets go clubin’ Barbie” than serious sceners.  Ah to be a teenager again hopelessly trying to fit in to any group you can.

Ariel, being a Portlander and appreciator of all things outside the mainstream, handled the table with ease.  She knows her dubstep and showed those kids a thing or two or twelve.  They were in awe of her awesome musical knowledge.  Ariel is good like that.

As the meal ended, the girls at the table deemed it necessary to photograph their pre-concert meal.  First were pictures with Ariel.  Then pictures of couples.  And finally Ariel offered to take a picture of the whole, boisterous table.  Ariel situated herself at the head of the table and began directing the group into the perfect pose – no faces obscured, hair looking its best.  She snapped the perfect picture and went to hand the camera back.

But something went wrong.  You know how it is when you’re using an unfamiliar piece of camera equipment.  You hit a wrong button and suddenly you end up in some strange menu or turn the flash off or just generally eff things up somehow.  Well Ariel hit something.  Only she didn’t end up changing settings, she ended up scrolling through the camera’s contents only to land on a picture of one of the young girls in front of her snorting what appeared to be a white substance commonly known as cocaine.  Or as Ariel put it, “dude I just saw a photo of one of those girls doing the fattiest fatty line of coke.”

At this point Ariel froze, locking eyes with the sixteen year-old, tutu clad, drug experimenter in question.  It was one of those awkward “I know, that you know, that I know” moments.  She almost threw the camera back as she continued to look at the degeneration of our nation’s youth.

“Well go ahead and add that to the top of the list of ‘awkward Hooters moments,” quipped Ariel.  “I mean I have nothing against that stuff if you’re into it, but she was twelve and her mom probably wouldn’t be too flattered that her allowance is being spent on sweet nose candy.”

I miss you, Ariel.

To the Girl at Table 22

Every once and awhile I'll have a table with a sullen teenage girl.  She'll be the type of girl who looks generally unhappy to be sitting in a booth at Hooters.  Looking at her you realize how very uncomfortable she seems in her own skin.  She's probably not the popular one at school.  She gets by; covering her face in makeup she doesn't know how to wear because every one else is doing it.  She tries to fit in, but never quite feels comfortable in the mold she's told is normal.  Hooters is the last place she wants to be.  Here she is at Hooters surrounded by beautiful, confident women that she thinks she'll never compare to.  She feels unsure of herself and Hooters only amplifies her insecurities.

Saturday, one of these teenage girls sat with her parents in my section.  She hardly spoke, speaking up only to refuse to order anything.  I knew she was uncomfortable as she fidgeted in the booth and picked at the chicken strips her mom ordered for her.  She appeared to have a general disdain for me, for Hooters and for everything both me and Hooters stood for.  She probably wanted to be anywhere but here.

I tried so hard to be nice to her.  I tried to carter to her and make her feel comfortable.  It wasn't so much that I just wanted to make her feel more comfortable, but that I saw myself in that girl.  I too was a super shy, awkward teenager.  I was never popular.  I never fit in.  I was too skinny and too tall.  I didn't have boobs or hips or any of the things I thought pretty girls where supposed to have.  I felt anything but pretty because I was told so often that I wasn't.  Not that I was told this overtly, I just assumed it because of what I read in magazines and saw on TV.  And all I did was try to fit into those images that bombarded me constantly.  Try as I might it never seemed to happen.

As I brought her a water she never asked for, all I wanted to do was tell that girl that I understood.  I wanted to tell her that believe it or not one day she might be me because there was a day when I was she.  Now I'm not saying that every awkward teenage girl will become a Hooters girl.  I'm just saying that confidence can grow and bodies change.  I'm saying even the most uncomfortable girl can learn to be comfortable in her own skin.  It's not always an easy process, but it's an important one.

So to the girl at table 22, I understand.  Believe it or not I was such an awkward, clumsy teenager that my coworkers - who I've known for nearly two years - couldn't even pick me out in old picture of me and my friends.  Seriously.  They had no clue.  I didn't always have boobs and curves.  Eventually my body changed.  It just happened later than all those popular girls.  But most importantly I learned how to be confident in myself and while the boobs certainly helped that process, time and knowledge had a lot more to do with it.  So don't worry, things will be fine.  You might never be asked to a high school dance (me) or not me kissed until you're seventeen (me) or be the shyest girl in the word (also me).  But guess what, one day none of that will matter.  One day you'll realize that all of those things that seemed so very important aren't so very important after all.  And maybe you'll work at Hooters and maybe you won't, but you'll certainly have the confidence to do so.

I Remember My First Debit Card

While I was out on my epic Montana adventure, this happened back at Hooters:

If you are unsure what is going on here, let me enlighten you.  This is a "Merchant Copy" credit card slip.  You know, that thing you're meant to sign and leave for your server.  That thing that is really effing easy to figure out.  It has a couple of pretty clearly marked lines that you're meant to fill out.  It's simple.  Very, very simple.  For most.

Backstory.  Twin Tower was serving a table of six high school boys.  You know how I feel about high school diners at Hooters.  I'm sure they ordered water.  After asking how much it costs.  Anyway, at the end of the meal, Twin Tower split and delivered the tickets to the table.  One, Mr. Johnston, opted to pay by debit.

Twin Tower:  "Go ahead and sign that top copy and keep the bottom copy for yourself!"

This is pretty typical.  We've all heard it.  We know what to do.  Mr. Johnston it seems did not.  Let us ignore for a moment the fact that he left no tip.  Let's instead focus on the fact that he ignored the obvious "Signature" line and instead felt compelled to sign the very top of the credit receipt.  What the?!

Mr Johnston, let me give you the benefit of the doubt and assume this is your first debit card.  Let me further postulate that this is the first time you have used said first debit card.  I am giving you every possible out here and yet I can still not fathom what led you to sign your receipt in that way.  You make no sense.  You make negative sense.  Yes, I said negative sense.  

Fine, I'll assume Twin Tower's long legs and general hotness got in the way of you doing a simple everyday task.  That's the only explanation.

I STILL Hate Teenagers

Today started out as a typical Monday, steady but overall pretty slow.  It was the sort of day when having three girls one the floor was painful and eventually even having two of us became unbearable; one girl could easily handle the floor with the bartender taking tables if need be.  So at slightly passed 2:30 p.m. the floor was cut and I was the sole waitress in the restaurant. 

At first things were fine, at my busiest I had three or four tables - very manageable.  Then it happened, looking out the window I saw the bus turn the corner.  Not a school bus, not a city busy, but one of those big tour buses that screams hungry people.  It didn't turn at IHOP.  I crossed my fingers it would turn at Johnny Carino's , but it just kept coming.  Finally it disappeared from view and I cautiously walked to check the back parking lot through the patio garage doors.  There it was, the bus.  I could vaguely make out figures moving toward the front of the bus through the tinted windows.   Then I saw them.  Teenagers.  Lots and lots of teenagers.  My worst nightmare.

Now, I've written about teenagers before and how they generally tip like shit.  This hasn't changed, teenagers still tip like shit.  What do twenty-four teenagers tip like?  Yes, I said twenty-four teenagers on a tour bus.  Of course as they entered the restaurant led by their fearless chaperone the first thing I heard was "split tickets."  Why does one go to a restaurant with twenty-four effing people and think that they will get separate tickets?  Believe it or not this a lot of extra work.  But that's another story.

In addition to having separate tickets, I am informed that no one wants to sit at one table.  Try as I might they don't want to wait for me to push some tables together to accommodate them.  They want to sit at seven different tables.  Apparently, there were cliques in the group.  Now I am quite annoyed.  I now have seven separate tables, wanting individual tickets in addition to the three tables I already had.  Fabulous!

Even though things are a little stressful I manage to get everyone their food in a timely matter and get everyone on their very own ticket.  Each and every teenager seems to be having a good time.  They like their food.  They like to hula-hoop.  They joke with me.  I have tip hope as I carefully print twenty-four individual tickets.  I apologize to the Earth.

I deliver the tickets.  If I get a dollar on each ticket I'll be happy, I tell myself.  Tickets are paid, most with cash (remind me why you need separate tickets when most pay with cash?) and souvenirs are sold.  These kids had enough cash to buy over $200 in shirts, shot glasses (underage) and lanyards.  The whole time I am curious what I'll find on the tables.

What do I find?  I find fourteen effing dollars.  $14?!  Had each tipped me a dollar, this would mean that ten of them left nothing.  Of course some teenagers understand the world and those ones left me more than a dollar.  That means even more than ten of them didn't tip me a dime.  WTF.  At least you'll have a nice t-shirt to remember your cheapness by!

Dear High School Students,

I realize that you have no job and your parents support you.  Hell, your parents may even give you an allowance still.   I understand that they may throw money at you to go to the mall or to a movie or even to eat at Hooters.  I get that money is just paper to you and that mommy and daddy have lots and lots of it in their wallets.  Rent, car payments and bills are a world unknown to you.

One day, however, this will all change.  One day you too will have to find yourself a job, cut the financial ties and handle your own shit.  That's right oh young ones, one day your parents will no longer pay for your sorry ass.  On that day you will find a job.  It probably won't be glamorous and probably won't leave you with scores of discretionary income.  Most likely, you will find some job that pays the bills, but leaves little left over for much else.  You will bust your ass in retail or you may even become a server.

Yes, you may become a server just like me.  You will work your ass off waiting on people hand and foot.  You will clean up messes like the ones you left for me.  You will have days that you hate your job, but you will still go to work everyday because you have bills to pay.  Of course your bills won't be paid by the less than mediocre hourly wage you receive but by the tips your guests leave you.  Some will tip twenty percent, some fifteen and some will tip like you do.  Yes, some will leave you a super awesome nine cent tip.  You will wait on them hand and food and split their tickets and teach them the bar stool rodeo.  Yes, the six of them could easily all leave you just one dollar apiece - but they won't.  Instead they will leave you nine fucking cents.  You will resent the shit of them.

So perhaps - as a simple suggestion - you could at least leave your server a measly ten percent because I'm sure one day you'd really appreciate the same consideration.

Sincerely,
Your POed Server