Run Tell the Children

     Wow. It's been about a year. My how time flies. I've had a few adventures during that time. You probably have, too. If anybody read about mine, I might post more often. If three people hit me up, on email, Twitter or whatever, I'll tell about what's going on, OK?
    Meanwhile, do you have a college radio station or a non-profit community radio station where you are? If so, I recommend checking it out if you haven't already. A lot of them stream online, so there's that, too. My local one played this excellent record by a new (or at least new to me) band called The Untamed recently. I can't seem to find out much about them, but their two songs I've heard are awesome. Especially this one. You're welcome.

Fun fact (that I just made up): The money to record this great track came to the band when one of them finished as runner-up in an Izzy Stradlin lookalike contest!
   

Chinga La Migra Hot Wings ©2019 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     I've got this friend, Jakey G. He's signed up for two— maybe three—of those ride-sharing/chow-delivery apps. He's been with them for about three years. One of the services he's with doesn't operate in the small city where he lives and business isn't exactly stellar up there for the others so he mostly comes down here to work.
     Jakey G's a late-night kind of guy. He gets to town about 7:30 or 8:00.  Depending on weather and how he's feeling or whatever, he works about six nights a week. Sometimes, when I'm likely to be home from work but still awake, Jakey G will find himself in this neighborhood. And then he's liable to knock on my door. Jakey G usually hangs out here for 15 or 20 minutes and then gets back to driving for a few more hours. But there's been three or four times when he's invited me to ride along.
     Of course, if I were to ride along, it would be delivery only; he'd nix the "Accepting Passengers" setting or turn on an app that was delivery only. Even then, I was reluctant to go, though intrigued. Jakey G's none too bright. I was concerned that my riding along could cause him a problem with his employer that neither of us could foresee. The first time he invited me, I declined, citing that reason. A few weeks later, he asked again That time, I was like "fuck it" and tagged along.
     Jakey turned on the app. It pinged him in a few minutes and sent us to Chinga La Migra Hot Wings™. Jakey G stopped near the strip mall that was our destination. "Ok. Jump out here and wait for me to get this order and I'll be back in a minute." I didn't like that shit and said so but didn't argue and did as I was bade. I wanted to get this done and go home. I'm a grown-ass man and I don't have to sneak around.
     My concerns about riding along had not been with picking up and delivering the chow, they'd been about the company that runs the app, Jakey didn't tell me before we began our adventure that he didn't want me seen. If he had, I wouldn't have gone. Does the fry cook or anyone else at Chinga La Migra Hot Wings give a rat's ass if the driver picking up an order has a passenger, in the unlikely event they notice? Hell no. Is the half-drunk stoner playing Fortnite­­® on his big screen, rabidly jonesing for chicken to slake his munchies, concerned about how many people were in the vehicle that brought him his fix? Not bloody likely. But when we got about a block from the half-drunk stoner's crib, I was asked to dip out and wait again.
     On the way back to my pad, I told Jakey G that it was kind of fun except the part about getting out of his car and hiding. I laughed and told him he's a 'tard for stressing about what the restaurateurs and clients think about him having a passenger, on the off-chance they might even be aware of such. Our convo wasn't contentious or anything. I basically said it was a bad idea for him to have a ride-along when he was working and to not invite me again. And he didn't. For about a year.




     Oh yea. I almost forgot to mention. If you like a website that uses cookies, BINGO!

The Jersey Mike's Way ©2018 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Hurtie G's not a bad guy. He just did a bad thing. A shitty, inconsiderate, discourteous, sorry-ass, impolite, rude, thoughtless, bitch-ass, ungracious, tactless, Johnson-skulled, unkind, imprestigious, boorish, pompous, haughty, supercilious, douchebaggy, motherfucking bad thing.
     Hurtie G is friends with my friend Shaquille. And we all have some other mutual acquaintances. That's how I met Hurtie G. It turns out Hurtie G lives just a couple of blocks down the road. Easy walking distance for me but not for Hurtie. He's often mentioned that he's got some bad feet. Living so close, Hurtie G and I have hung out a couple of times. Hurtie G didn't have a car or a driving license for the longest time. He scored both of those things last month and good for him.
     A week or so before Christmas, Hurtie called and asked if I might spare an hour or two one afternoon upcoming to run him by his bank and to take him to Snippy's™ to get a haircut. We were crazy busy at Chez Swanky™ in December and I was usually working six nights a week so I told him I couldn't promise. But when the schedule came out a couple of days later, I saw that I was off on Tuesday. I called Hurtie G and told him I could help him out that day.
     It actually worked out pretty well for me. Across the street from the large strip center where Hurtie wanted to get his haircut is a big liquor store. I parked close to The Hair Port™ so Hurtie wouldn't have to walk far—he's got some fucked up feet—and I strolled over to get a couple of liquid Christmas presents. I told Hurtie to either wait at Great Clits™ or by the car if he was done before I was.
     I got back to the hoopty just in time to see Hurtie G emerge into the parking lot with his shiny new haircut (I didn't see any difference in his conservative-looking, middle-aged white man 'do but I didn't tell him that) and said, "Cool. Let's go."
     Hurtie asked if it was OK if he went next door to Jersey Mike's® Sub Sandwiches  and got something to go. This may have been discussed and agreed to earlier. I didn't have a problem with that. I went in with him. Even though I like Jersey Mike's and have been several times I wasn't trying to get anything there that day. Hurtie G planned to get a really big sandwich and make several meals out of it. He generously offered to buy me something or give me some of his sub, but I declined.
     You know how Jersey Mike's works even if you've never been to Jersey Mike's. There's a menu board and a cold well full of ingredients and condiments. You can get whatever, but you're encouraged to get it "Mike's Way," which is a suggested combination of the ingredients and condiments. Hurtie G ordered his big sandwich from the young man running the store. The guy did a good job; he was courteous, efficient and professional. He tried to sell Hurtie some chips and a cookie.
     Then he rang Hurtie up. Hurtie paid for his big sub, which looked to cost him about 15 bucks or so. They thanked each other and we prepared to leave. I'd been eying the tip jar located next to the cash register, hoping Hurtie would put something in it. Hurtie G just then noticed it. That's when he announced—in a rather loud voice —to the Jersey Mike's guy, "Your salary's just going to have to be sufficient for you today. I can't contribute anything right now."

The Failed Doctrine of Trickle-Down Economics ©2016 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

The other night at my job, Chez Swanky™, it was just two of us on the floor, my good work-friend Mikey B and me. Things were pretty slow. Mikey B loves the biz and he's pretty knowledgeable. With little to keep us busy except ogling the tumbleweeds roll through the dining rooms and watching the hostess stand (Chez Swanky usually doesn't have an official door whore on weeknights), Mikey B and I commenced to chatting. The subject was tip-outs.
     We often don't have to tip out anyone but a bartender. They get 1½ %. We also have to kick back 1% of our credit card (not cash) tips. I don't like the latter but it's pretty much standard policy at a lot of your higher end eateries like Chez Swanky. I have no problem whatsoever tipping out the bar and 1½ %'s pretty reasonable. If more than one bartender's on, they still just get 1½ % and divvy it. But here's the thing: Chez Swanky being a small, independently owned fine-dining restaurant, it's not that unusual for owner Donny J to be the evening's booze-slinger. He still gets the tip-out.
     I mentioned to Mikey B that I didn't think that was right and it might even be illegal. Mikey B disagreed, although he conceded that I had a pretty good argument.
     It's not that big a deal to me, though. I make pretty good money at Chez Swanky and for the most part respect Donny J. I know he's not getting rich and it won't surprise me any if Chez Swanky closes down sometime in 2016 when the lease is up (although I think it's more likely that a new lease will be signed and we'll keep rocking). I don't at all begrudge him the tips he gets from patrons who actually sit at the bar. If I owned a bar (which I have no ambition toward), I could easily see myself picking up a little extra cheese (but not from my employees) behind the taps occasionally.
     Anyway, not a big deal to me and I'd probably never mention it to Donny J▬or anyone else unless I was asked▬except that a day or two after my convo with Mikey B, Donny J brought it up himself.
     He didn't actually ask me about how I felt about him getting tip-outs, of course. He asked me how I felt about having more bus help more often, which would naturally lead to me tipping out more. I'm all for it! He told me about a couple of ways it might be done and then asked me for my input. I shared it and, while we were on the subject and he'd kind of brought it up, told him that I was wondering if his being the owner and receiving tip-outs from the waitstaff might be borderline unethical and maybe illegal.
     Donny J stammered something about our tip-outs being pretty reasonable for that type of restaurant by industry norms (true) and a weak defense of his little bit of extra income that sounded a lot like the failed doctrine of trickle-down economics. Then he changed the subject and shortly after, our discussion ended, without rancor.

A Diet Coke® Decision ©2015 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     So working a lot of lunches at one place and dinners at another. I try to have all checks at the AM job ready as soon as everything is rung in. We're supposed to present all checks in check presenters at both jobs, but I don't. So when my customers are ready to go after eating lunch, I'm ready to turn and burn.
     The other night at the PM job, a nice, 30-ish couple and their toddler came in and sat at table Eleven. It's a two-top but pretty big so the two-and-a-half diners fit in OK. Like we're supposed to, I pimped some beverages to start off. The guy contemplated a beer—I could tell he really wanted one—but opted instead for some tea. The lady acted like she really wanted a Diet Coke®, but just ordered a glass of water. The kid got something in one of our kids' cups.
     Ms Lady had a Rose Parade grilled chicken sandwich and dude had an Alabama Football burger, the child had chicken tenders and fries. I rang in their order, printed their check and stashed it in my server book, just like I would have done on a lunch shift.
     Someone else ran their food. I did a call-back—within two bites or two minutes!—and they said everything was fine and  seemed to be enjoying their chow. I noticed the guy's tea glass was getting low, so I cruised over with a pitcher to silently refill it. The lady looked at me with a smile. "Can I get  that Diet Coke now?" she queried. She'd mulled, then eschewed, the low-calorie treat when it was first offered. You know how sometimes your guests will ask you to "bring it when the food comes?" She hadn't done that and didn't act like she had and it'd been my fuck-up. She was just asking for something she'd earlier declined. "Sure thing," I said and went and got her refreshment.
     Like I'm pretty sure it is at your job, we're supposed to ring in any beverages before they're made, much less served. And like you'd do, I went and got her drink and delivered it before I rang it up. Then something distracted me for just a second and I didn't ring in the D C.
     Soon, the family was through eating. They considered, then declined, my suggestion that they share a dessert, even after I told her how good chocolate goes with diet cola (and it really does). The guy just asked for the bill and I pulled the already-printed check from my apron and presented it immediately, with the Diet Coke not rung in.
     The ticket was dropped face-down and not perused. A piece of plastic from Capital One® was put on the table. I picked up the check with the credit card and went to settle things. No one at the table had looked at the ticket. When I got to the Squirrel® cash register, I remembered the unrung Diet Coke. With tax, our non-alcoholic bevs are just under three bucks. I though about saying "fuck it" and running the check as I'd presented it. They were nice and she hadn't needed  a refill. But we're supposed to ring up drinks, and fountain bevs are a big part of the company's bottom line. So I rang in her drink, ran the plastic and gave them the voucher. They left me a good tip.

     From the management and staff here at These American Servers™ (me), a Happy New Year is wished to each and every one of you who were kind enough to stop by for a minute and read this and, what the hey, to pretty much everybody else. Let's have 2015 be the best year yet for all of us!

                                  RIP Sandra 1945-2014

All to No Avail ©2014 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     I've been keeping notes, usually on order pads here lately. I've been scribbling little ideas for episodes of These American Servers™. And I was just about ready to try and put all that together into a coherent blog post. But then I lucked into a story I like better, so I'm appropriating it for my humble internet column. Enjoy!

     We close at 10:00 (11:00 on weekends), but our shifts are too long. So I usually bring a snack I can enjoy at some point during the evening, to keep the hunger pangs at bay. The snack is almost always an apple. If a co-worker named Jasmine is there, I usually offer her a slice of my Granny Smith product. Tonight we slid back to the dry storage room to get our munch on. My work-friend Josh C was back there already, getting some napkins or whatever. He overheard our convo and told us that it reminded him of something that  happened to him back in high school. Josh C is only in his very early 20's, so his incident isn't but a few years old.
     Josh had a crush on a cute fellow student named Stacy. From what I've heard, she's extremely attractive. Josh wanted her in ways that went beyond friendship, but friendship was as far as Stacy was willing to go with Josh C so that's what he settled for, hoping to bide his time and look for the chance to maybe take things to another level.
     Josh C and Stacy hung out pretty regularly. They'd go out to eat a lot. Josh always paid. One time they were at the food court at the mall. Stacy got up to use the bathroom. She left her phone at the table with Josh C. For lack of anything better to do, Josh picked up her phone and started looking at it. He decided to look himself up in her phonebook. His name wasn't there. He kept checking, nicknames, his last name, abbreviations, anything he could think of, all to no avail. When he and Stacy talked on the phone, it was usually him calling her, but she called him occasionally. She had to have his number in there. So he took his own phone and called Stacy's phone. He looked to see what popped up on her caller ID. It said "Free Food."

     Ouch! Poor Josh C. I hate that happened to him and I'm glad he's able to laugh about it now. I told him that even though it hella sucks to go through something like that, it's a really great story. I even said that since the story was so good, I wanted to steal it. He told me to go ahead. I said I couldn't claim the story since no one had cell phones when I was in high school. But I can tell the story on These American Servers, and so I have. I asked Josh if he and Stacy had lots of mutual acquaintances and he said they did. I told him he should have gotten ahold of the phones of every one of those people and changed Stacy's name in them from "Stacy" to something like "Disease-Infested Whore."

I Didn't Have to Work Sunday Morning ©2014 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Kelly D wants to open up her own catering company. Bucco Jr is attempting to get it together to own and operate a food truck. Alyssa P is trying to become a professional photographer. Skullcrusher L quit waiting tables and is now a Correctional Officer (which is a politically correct term for Prison Guard). Two of the Joshes are angling to get into the music business and another one would like to give up being a waiter in favor of becoming a writer. Amy A is about to get her teacheing credential. Joe'd like to luck into a job where he makes at least ten bucks an hour and works weekdays and gets paid holidays off and the opportunity for some (non-mandatory) overtime. I'd love to be able to work a couple of wait- or bar-shifts a week somewhere too.
     See, most of the co-workers that want to do something else besides restaurant work have an idea of what they want to do. I just feel like I wouldn't mind getting into something else but I don't have much of an idea what. If I had money, I'd go and learn something like welding or avionics or whatever. But I'd have to have enough finances to not have to work (or at least not work much) while I was learning. I know some really good servers who both attend school and work fulltime and seem to do OK with it but I know myself well enough to feel like I'd struggle too much with that. Plus, when the going got tough and I had to let up on one of my endeavors, I know which one would suffer: school. It's real important to me that I feel like I'm doing a good job at work but I seemed to have no such personal scruples about education, back in those long-ago days when I was a kid in school.
     Getting out of the restaurant business (or at least merely dialing my participation back a lot because I kind of love it and would miss it if I made a clean break) is just something I've been thinking about here lately. I don't see it happening any time soon, but ya never know. If you have any ideas or suggestions for me, I'd love it if you'd share them.


     Assistant Manager in Charge of the Waitstaff at my Night Job Barrie T is on a well-deserved vacation this week. He's the one who makes our schedule. Before he left, he asked me if I worked Sundays at my day job. I don't but I guess it's theoretically possible I might so it wasn't a total lie when I stammered "sometimes," having no idea why he was asking that but thinking it wasn't for any reason I'd like. Although we'd never met there, Barrie T used to work at the company that's my current day job. He's well aware that their Sunday Brunch starts an hour early. "I have you first out Saturday Night the next two schedules so that early Brunch shift won't kill ya," he told me.
     "Hey, thanks," I said,  sincerely because even though I didn't have to work Sunday morning, I love getting cut early regardless. So I was a little surprised Saturday when I arrived for my dinner shift and saw that I was not only not in an early cut station, I was closing. It's not Barrie T's fault; he's on vacation, remember? But that early-out status was put in the computer and was ignored by one of that shift's managers. What if I'd requested that early-cutness for some really important-to-me reason? It just kind of pissed me off a little, although I didn't say anything. We got pretty busy and didn't anybody get cut all that early. I wound up making some real good money too, so o well.

     I hope that stuff in the first part of today's episode doesn't read too much like self-pity or whining (I'm good if the second part does). I'm doing OK and consider myself blessed in a lot of ways, not the least of which is employment. I'm thinking about quitting the day job and just working some lunches at my current night gig. Of course, if I did that, I'd have no good excuse I could tell them for why I couldn't work weekend lunches like I've got now. Plus, since AM job fired GM Lupo W, they've promoted Assistant Manager Zweetie B to ACTING General Manager and I really like her a lot (not in the same way I used to like a similarly-named former co-worker who might be remembered by long-time readers of These American Servers™). In fact, if Zweetie gets the GM title there on a more permanent basis, that'd make me more likely to stick around. But if I do, I think I'll try and work there only four weekday lunches a week instead of the current five. That might free me up a little to go and look for some employment that's not restaurant-related. But even if I wind up only slinging chow (which isn't the end of the world), I'm kind of tired of working Sunday Nights and want to find a way out of doing that, or at least cutting way back on it.


RCW 1925-2014 RIP
    
 

What Scottish Inns was Charging ©2014 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Wups! I forgot that new episodes of These American Servers™ don't just magically show up every so often on their own (but oh, how I wish they did!); I've gotta get off my ass and make them happen. And I haven't been doing much of that lately. I guess there's a remote possibility that some people might like to read new episodes of this if any appear. If indeed such individuals exist and you're one of them, today's episode is dedicated to YOU!

     I worked at this one restaurant for over nine years. After September 20th of last year, I didn't work there any more. So I went and got another job at a place I'd worked at previously. I think I was unemployed for, like, three days. I'd been gone from there for about ten months and, although a lot of familiar faces remained, there'd been some turnover among the employees. One of the people that I hadn't met before was a  waiter named Skullcrusher L.
     Skullcrusher L was the oldest employee they had, beating even me by at least a decade ( I'm in the top ten oldest there for sure and maybe the top five). Skullcrusher L worked every night. If he wasn't scheduled (he usually was), he'd come in wearing the clown suit and pick up. Skullcrusher L never clocked in until he got a table and ran a report and clocked out immediately when his last table paid—regardless of how much sidework he had left—therefore officially only working about 40 or so hours a week, although actually more like 60. The restaurant does a lot of business and I make OK money there. But the dinner shift usually starts out slow. Skullcrusher and I had some time to converse and get acquainted.
     He was living in a motel. He wasn't living alone. Shacked up with Skullcrusher was the love of his life, his dog, Scruffles. It costs a lot to stay in a motel when you have a pure-bred, 14-year-old Ukrainian Weaselmutt living with you. Skullcrusher had been living in the motel for several months. He'd been paying by the week and then gotten in some financial trouble and started paying by the day, which, if you've ever lived in a motel, you know is a lot more expensive. Skullcrusher's a good dude. It entered my mind to ask if he'd like to rent out one of my couches for a LOT less than what Scottish Inns™ was charging. Not forever, maybe just for a couple of weeks or so to get him caught up to where he could at least go back to paying the motel's weekly rate again. And I'd get a little cash out of the deal too.
     I probably would of discussed this with Skullcrusher if it wasn't for Scruffles. Even though my sweet little Sugardog lived with me in that apartment until 2010 and it was great ,we're not supposed to have dogs there. And if we do, they're supposed to weigh less than 35 pounds. Scruffles weighs in at a whopping 55 pounds and looks bigger than that. Dogs can bring fleas and tear shit up. They can get you in trouble with the landlords. I decided to keep the them-staying-at-my-apartment idea to myself. Then Skullcrusher brought it up.
     I told him I'd think about it. My main concern was the dog. Skullcrusher said he'd bring the dog over and let me see what I thought. OK, that's fair. One evening after work, he brought Scruffles to my tiny apartment. Scrufffles is a nice, (usually) quiet dog and house-trained. He's pretty old but in GREAT shape. Skullcrusher takes awesome care of him. I thought I was a pretty good pet owner when I had a dog? I guess I was all right but Skullcrusher makes me feel like a major slack-ass in that department. It was obvious that Scruffles didn't have any fleas or anything like that. I told Skullcrusher to let me think about it for a couple of days, which I did. I thought of a few concerns and told them to him. He had a good answer for all of them. So I said it'd be OK for TWO WEEKS. After that we'd see where we were at and if everything was cool, he and Scruff could stay for about two months.
     Skullcrusher and his dog moved in back a little before Christmas. The plan at the time was for them to be out by the end of February. A lot of stuff's happened, including Skullcrusher changing jobs, and now the deadline's been moved to the end of March.

     I just found out about a restaurant-related game called TIPS! In the game's official logo, the exclamation point is a spoon and I thought that was pretty clever. Its website is www.stonesilent.com and you might want to check it out. Maybe hit me back and tell me what you think about it, OK?

Blurred Lines ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     I guess mostly 'cause manager Garry S likes to make the schedule on a Xerox® machine and through no fault of my own, I lucked into the night off on Thanksgiving Eve. I like to go visit friends and relatives in my hometown on the fourth Thursday in November and some years I do. I'd always be off on Black Friday at The American El Chico, where I worked for nine years until I got fired back on September 20th and was scheduled lunch on the day after Thanksgiving at the new AM gig. So I stayed here and enjoyed a rare off-all-day Thursday. So that Wednesday night I started composing this here episode of These American Servers™, even though it took over two weeks before you got to see it. Hey, I do what I can.

     I was working at a fairly upscale, independent restaurant, the best job I've had yet, come to think of it. Anyway, one night an acquaintance of mine, Applehell™ waitress Shannon, along with her husband and well-behaved little girl, came in for dinner. I don't remember if they asked for me or not but they wound up in my station. Right about the time they were fixing to leave, Shannon said something that's stuck with me: "You put a lot more into your job than I put into mine." Not that I was good at it necessarily or that she wasn't, just that I put a lot in. And I've got to admit, I try pretty hard to see that people who sit in my station have a good experience. Plus when things don't go well at work I tend to really suffer and since I hate to suffer, I strive to see that I don't have to do much suffering.
      I was reminded of Shannon's long-ago statement today. I'm pretty new at my current AM job but was assigned a trainee. Dude's name is Seamus and he's real eager to get out of training and onto the floor on his own. Today's the day he's supposed to wait on people while I silently stand nearby and observe and supervise. He had a good suggestion; that we'd say he was the trainer and I the newby watching to see how it's done. If any questions were asked that he couldn't handle, we'd act like my answering them was part of my learning experience, a contingency which never transpired.
     Seamus did a very good job. I thought his greet was just a little too enthusiastic and told him so but that's a minor point—it wasn't bad or anything—and I mostly was really impressed. I think Seamus is a great waiter and he's kind of inspired me to try and step up my game a little. He did something very accommodating for one of our guests—nothing too major, I guess, otherwise I'd remember what it was—and I conveyed my approval. "I know how to make money," Seamus replied.

     Well, it's a fortnight later and Seamus has been on his own in full stations for over a week now. There haven't been any problems as far as I know and I believe he's doing a good job. But from that one training day follow, I thought he was going to be, like, amazingly super-awesome and he hasn't been, he's merely been somewhat above average. For at least that one day he was a super-awesome trainee though.

     I'll be the first to admit it isn't the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show 2013. It's not the Denver Broncos or the Denver Broncos schedule. It's not even the Lakers. I can't take all of y'all to Krispy Kreme in Uruguay (and big ups to Uruguay for their new cannabis policies BTW!) or anything like that and even if I could I'm not sure if I could get Gisele Bundchen, Michelle Jenneke, Demi Lovato or Idina Menzel to accompany us like it was an American Hustle. But it might interest some of ya to know that even though I'm not currently fucking with Instagram Direct I've still got Twitter and it's @JoeSixtop. Hit me up if you want to follow or compliment me on my SEO or whatever. And I'm wishing a MMMerry Christmas to EVERYBODY!
                                  Cheers, __________-Joe

Comfortably Dumb ©2012, 2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

       Well, it's about that time again and damn, I got bupkus. So I checked the archives here at These American Servers™ and came up with this here episode I kind of like from last year that's gonna be reposted. If you haven't read it (and you probably haven't), it's new to you, right? Enjoy!



     I was already at work the other night when my work-friend Melanie showed up for her shift. She headed my way. "Hiya!" I said.
     She looked up at me with her big pretty brown eyes and grinned. "I am so stoned!" she whispered.
     I used to come to work with a bad hangover on at least a third of my shifts. I kind of regret how much alcohol I used to consume but oh well. And to this day if there's a can of whipped cream in the kitchen, empty of product but still charged with nitrous oxide, lemme at it! If you woof that shit down, it'll actually get you pretty fucked up but only for less than five minutes. If marijuana made me feel like N²O from food-service brand dessert topping does, I'd be hittin' the bong right now instead of composing the drivel you're currently perusing  (and thanks, btw).
     So other than those two exceptions—one really, since I've dialed back the boozing considerably—I don't consume anything intoxicating before or during my waitshifts. High (ha ha) on the list of fun substances for me to not be on while I'm slinging chow is cannabis and I've never worked a restaurant shift under its influence. Except for the one time I did.
     My friend Reilly and I were waiters at the same independent restaurant. One Tuesday afternoon he showed up at my door a couple of hours before our mutual clock-in time of 5:00. "Can I ride in with you today?" he asked. That was no problem but we still had a good chunk of time to kill before we had to leave. Reilly reached into his ever-present duffel and pulled out a big bag of dank, sticky buds. "Dude!" he exclaimed, "This is like, the best weed I've ever had in my life!" which was an impressive endorsement, coming from an inveterate stoner like Reilly.
     I declined Reilly's offer to partake—remember,I had a shift that night—but my girlfriend didn't. I sat there while they put a nice dent in Reilly's stash. A couple of neighbors showed up, bringing their own badass ganja. I watched as joints and bong hits were enjoyed like it was a 1978 prom night in La Jolla. American Beauty, or maybe it was something by Pink Floyd, played in the background as sweet, funky smoke permeated the tiny apartment.
     When it was time to go, Reilly asked if he could spark up another doobie in my car on the way. America's evil laws being what they are, that's something I never let anyone do ever. But I was in a strange yet pleasant mood, so I told him it was OK, "just this once." When we arrived and I strolled across the parking lot, I realized something: I was pretty fucking high! I'd actually gotten a contact high, which I'd never previously thought was possible. Uh-oh! I knew how to deal if I'd been hung over but this was something new (at work, not in my personal life) that I wasn't ready for at all. I was very apprehensive as I approached the 'staurant but I'm a big grown-up. I'd deal with it and try my best.
     I shouldn't have worried. Even though we were pretty busy and  went on a wait there for awhile, I had one of my three or four best waitshifts ever! All my clients were real nice. I was mellow and chill, yet remarkably efficient. I did almost no fucking up and what little I did I recovered from nicely. It was like playing a video game called Waiting Tables® and kicking its ass! Everyone involved was happy and I made great tips.
     I volunteered to close that night and my contact high was pretty much gone by the time I finally left work. And I've never been high at work since. How come? I'm not really sure; it's just something I don't do and that's that, I guess. But I've got a couple of hours to kill before my shift tonight. If any of y'all are holding and want a ride in, give me a call!

I Did a Dumb Thing ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

    One of my many flaws as a restaurant employee is that I'm kind of a slow closer a lot of times. I'm a little more thorough than a lot of my co-workers and my station and sidework—maybe not so my silverware—look a little better than yours and that's part of it. But I seem to have trouble getting focused and organized to get my closing stuff done in a timely manner. Saturday night I closed and it probably took me 30 to 40 minutes longer to get everything done than it would have taken someone else. I apologized to my manager and told him I hated that he was mad at me. He said he wasn't mad but I'm pretty sure he was at least a little irritated.

     Up until about 40 days ago I worked at a restaurant that I'd been at for years and years. On September 20th, I got fired. I really miss my job doing AM Curveside™ ("Hogging the Parking," September, 2012). It was a sweet gig for me, the likes of which I'll never have again. Oh well. I've got new jobs and I'll be OK. One real bad deal about the former long-time gig was that's where I met this chick I like who I'm trying to forget about now. Anyway, this morning at the new place I was asked to come up with a PIN number for POS register purposes. I blurted out the first number with the requisite amount of digits I could think of: Her birthday. Now I wish I'd thought of something else.

     Our Magical Mushrooms™ are marinated in beef stock, red wine and Italian dressing. They're really good. Especially when you can get them for just five bucks during Monday happy hour. Tonight a somewhat elderly white woman got seated at one of my tables. "Hi. Thanks for joining us! Is it just gonna be you and me tonight?" said I.
      "I'd like a glass of house chardonnay," she replied. Whatever. She was ready to order food then too. "I want an order of Magical Mushrooms please," said Ms. Lady. I rang them in. Magical Mushrooms usually take less than ten minutes to emerge from the kitchen but tonight they took somewhat longer. I strolled past her table, smiled and promised her 'shrooms quickly a couple of times. She smiled back, didn't seem stressed about it. I went and got manager Garry S and told him my simple order was taking way overlong.
     It turns out the kitchen lost my ticket. Garry got a rush put on my lady's chow and ran it out to her. I did a callback about a minute later. "How are they?" I asked. "Worth the wait, I hope."
     "They're fine. Thank you," she then asked me for a to-go box and her check, the latter of which I produced immediately. I brought her Styrofoam to her, took her twenty-spot and returned with her change. When next I glanced in that direction, she was gone. Two dollars was left on the table. A little later, Garry approached me. "Did you already have that lady's check printed as soon as you rang it in?" he asked.
     "Yeah," I said.
     "Well, she's mad at me, said Garry. "I told her I'd comp her mushrooms (not her glass of wine) when I ran them. She caught me in the lobby on her way out and told me she didn't like that she hadn't been comped and that she wouldn't be back and left before I could do anything about it. Didn't you realize I'd comp that?"
     I've known Garry for years—this is the second chain restaurant company he's been my manager at—and I know he's pretty quick to comp. If it'd been my call, I'd probably have comped her too but maybe not. Ms. Lady had kind of an abrupt demeanor but was not an unpleasant bitch or anything and seemed not terribly impatient or upset when her 'shrooms took too long. I'm pretty sure she was P.O.'d merely because she was promised a comp she ultimately didn't receive and not so much about the money itself. Garry should have told me about the comp and I should have thought to investigate if there was one. We were both at fault, I'm not sure who the worst. "Sorry dude. I'll try and be more mindful about shit like that," I told Garry.
     "Hey, things happen. If she'd of gave me a minute I could o' fixed the situation. Fuck it," said Garry, who didn't mention my somewhat ill-gotten five bucks.
   
     Day before yesterday, I made a bold prophecy on here. It didn't come true. I'm a big enough man to not try and play it off like I never said it. So here it is, reprinted:

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

     A bold prophecy: the mighty Saint Louis Cardinals will win a close, super-exciting Game Six on Wednesday night. Then they'll kick the living shit out of the Blosux on Halloween. Remember, you read it here first on These American Servers™!

 

Almost Three Weeks Later ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     So I finally managed to get fired from the American El Chico, my workplace of nine years. They'll tell you I quit but I got a more accurate story. My last shift there was a lunch on Friday, September 20, 2013. My penultimate one was dinner on the preceding evening, Thursday the 19th. As I was doing my closing sidework that night, I cut the shit out of my index finger on my go-to hand on one of the tea urns. I bled like a motherfucker. A big flap of skin was hanging off my bloody finger. I bit it off. It was kind of painful but luckily, I'm a badass.
     GM Brenda B offered to send me to the emergency room but I declined. I still want to be drug screened and asked for that but Brenda declined. The next day, I got fired (by the condescending dickhead KM, not Brenda). My finger's still a little fucked up so now (almost three weeks later)  I wish I would of gotten some medical attention for it but I guess it's too late now. O well.
     Regular enjoyers of These American Servers™ might recall that I've been a hyperactive, psychotic mess all summer long. I still don't know what was (and, to a lesser degree, still is) wrong with me but I've developed some coping mechanisms, kind of like if I were still living at home with Mom and Dad. Since I got real healthy a few months ago, I seem to be perpetually in what the cool kids in the psychiatric community used to call a manic phase. On some weird level I kind of love it but it's mostly just caused me some problems and I need to chill. So I've been trying to meditate. It helps some. Certain vitamins seem to hype me up so I have to be careful with them. And PLEASE don't nobody give me any B-12!
     Music really gets me going big-time and I like that shit at top volume. In an effort to calm down, I gave up the rock and rap for a couple of days. I substituted a CD I have from a band called The Innocence Mission. I'm a little charmed by their music and the vocals of bandleader Karen but they absolutely DO NOT rock. I played them at top volume. So mellow are the pride of Lancaster, PA that  they didn't make me play air drums or bounce off any major walls. Then I started thinking that giving up good music was too great a sacrifice. I've discovered that I can still listen to even fast, heavy rock without a lot of bad consequences but only if it's at low volume, which I guess is better than nothing.
     O yeah. I don't want anybody worried about me. I got fired on Friday and took off Saturday and Sunday. On Monday I went job-hunting. On Wednesday, I was out of training and on the floor in a full station at another, slightly better, chain restaurant. God bless them and I'm not joking. Plus football's ("Joe Beer Man!" January, 2011) back in full swing now so that helps. I paid October's rent when it was time AND the lights are still on. You never know what the future holds but sink or swim time arrived in Joeville and as of now I've yet to sink.
    The craziest, fucked up, most unforgettable part of my psycho-Summer 2013 was that back in the early part of it, I met someone I really, really like. That sounds like a good thing, doesn't it? Well, trust me; it hasn't been.

Always Have a Plan ©2013 by SkippyMom all rights reserved

     Do you know my friend Skippy? She's awesome! I don't want to embarrass her with too many kind words so here's just a few: Skippy's a terrific writer (as you're about to find out if you didn't know already) and she does a great job facing the blessings and challenges life has given her. AND if it hadn't been for her kind words and encouragement early on, I might've gotten discouraged and given up on These American Servers™ but please don't hold that against her. Enjoy!



Here I am!  SkippyMom. . .on Joe’s blog. . .and well?

I lost a bet and I owe Joe a guest post about my days in the restaurant biz.

I gladly lost this bet because I am as die hard a fan of baseball as
our pal Joe - his team just happens to be a helluva’ lot better than
mine.  My [Washington] Nationals lost a 3 game series 0-3 to Joe’s
beloved [St. Louis] Cardinals earlier this week.  Honestly?  They
whooped our behinds.

So be it.  ::sniff, sniff:: I honor my wagers and I loved my days in
the biz, so here goes. . .

Always Have a Plan

During the early years of my marriage I worked at a restaurant that
was close to my parents’ home.  It was a bit of a drive from our home,
but I was familiar with the neighborhood, clientele and the people
working there.   It worked out well and my coworkers and I had a great
time.

With one teensy, tiny exception.

Eight months after the opening a new manager was hired and no one
inside the restaurant [with the exception of the owners] knew the guy.

The staff was in the twenty to thirty year old range, but the new manager?

Some us had parents younger than this guy.

It wasn’t just that he was much older than us, he was. . .how do I say this?

Greasy?
Slimy?
Creepy?
He was all of 5‘6, with a slicked back pompadour, Sansabelt polyester
pants, shiny loafers and thick, dark lensed eye glasses.  He didn’t
exactly seem to understand that the millenium was upon us in a few
years. Mmmmkay?

I am pretty sure this guy thought he had rocked the Disco Era when the
rest of us were eating snack in third grade.  Even then I think he may
have been 10 years too old for Disco.

He was sketch before the word was invented.

Still, he was a good manager. The books balanced every night.  He was
equitable with the schedule. He didn’t yell or demean anyone - FOH,
BOH, customers? No one.  He played fair.

His greatest downfall?  He loved to drink and he loved to let the
staff drink too.

I think he allowed all of us to drink so he could hide his
consumption.  Now, don’t get me wrong. None of us drank on the job but
him. I swear by this. He might imbibe, but if someone on staff did it
on the clock he fired them. The owners looked the other way on him
because, as I said, he was good. He made them money. But he always had
a silver milkshake mixer container filled with ice and Scotch at the
ready.  Tho’ we never saw him drunk or less than professional.

Until THE night.

In the restaurant biz it is common to allow the staff to have one
shift drink after the restaurant is closed, our banks are turned in
and everything is ready for the next day.

We relax, talk about the night and count our tips.

This night Michael, the manager, took it to “sharing a drink with the
help” to a whole other level when he realized that the only ones
staying for the shift drink were the bartender [the most competent and
fabulous bartender I have ever met, Miss Tammie] and me.

He told Tammie to go to the other side of the bar and allow him to
serve us.  She looked at me a bit askance, but did as he asked and sat
down next to me.  I should point out that I was fresh out of college,
with a husband and two new babies - read: **LightWeight**, but when
Tony asked what we were drinking I stupidly shouted out “Wild Turkey!”

Tammie smacked me hard and laughingly whispered in my ear “Are you
nuts?  That will wreck you Skip!”

What did I know?  I saw that the “high octane” Wild Turkey was “Top
Shelf” and I knew it meant it was the best, plus? I could mix it with
my favorite Coca Cola, so I was going for it!

Michael had other ideas, as it became evident as the evening passed.  The
Coca Cola mixer became less and pure shots became more.   We were
laughing, carrying on - but something was weird with Michael. He kept
leaning closer and closer towards me over the bar. I kept leaning
farther and farther back - until Tammie had to grab me by the back of
my tie and jerk me upright to keep me from falling off my stool.

She saw what was going on and didn’t like it. Still holding onto my
tie she said to Michael “I think Skip needs to pee, “ and then she
dragged me to the bathroom. [Yes, by my tie.]

Now Tammie was a great woman. I loved her to pieces and she took care
of all of the younger staff. She had been around the block in a good
way. She got me into the bathroom, backed me up against the wall and
in all her tiny girl glory poked the crap out of me while hissing
“Michael is getting you wasted just to get into your pants. Now STOP IT!”

Noooo!
I protested.
No.
I was married.
A MOM for goshsakes.  [As if being a Mom had some hidden power or something?]
We were just having a good time.  Right?

All my denials just miffed her off more and she finally said “Okay, if
you are going to be this stupid have at it.”  I didn’t want her to be
mad so I told her I had a plan.  When she asked what my plan was I
replied, “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

Because, obviously, I was making this up as I went along.

The night progressed and we polished off that bottle of Wild Turkey.
Tammie’s husband was the head Chef and he drove her home, but I was
in no shape to drive.  So, of COURSE [did you not see this coming?],
Michael offered me a ride.  I told him it was too far to take me to my
house so if he could take me to my parents that would be great.  I
called my parents and they said “Sure. See you in a few. Use your
key.” I called my husband and he was okay with it because I would be
home for the kids before he left for work in the morning.

I walked to the back, slipped on my husband’s leather jacket, grabbed
my purse and stumbled outside.

As we were all piling into the cars, Tammie pulled me aside and said.
“I have to know what this plan is or you aren’t going.”  At that point
I had  so much to drink the entire world was spinning and I couldn’t
focus. I am pretty sure my words weren’t even coherent, but whatever I
said convinced her to let me go with Michael.

The drive to my parents house was less than 10 miles and I was sure I
could ward off a pervy manager with a couple of slaps from my hands
[Which? In hindsight I probably couldn’t even feel my hands at that
point.]

I hardly remember what Michael was saying, but his intentions were clear.

The man was drunkenly enamored with my very young, very married self.

When the conversation got to the point of no turning back I felt all
the liquor begin to churn.  The combination of not being a drinker and
the idea that someone who wasn’t my husband was hitting on me made me
ill. I told Michael to pull over for a moment as I didn’t feel well. He
insisted that he could keep driving as he needed to further tell me
his feelings.

I protested but he didn’t listen.

Then and there I decided on the plan I was going to tell Tammie the
next day.  As Michael droned on I leaned forward and whispered “If you
don’t shut up now and pull this car over I am going to show you
exactly how I feel about what you are saying.”

He refused. And he kept driving. And talking.

I inched away from him and slowly slipped out of the leather bomber
jacket. I opened it up and laid it across my lap.

As my manager yattered on I said “Last chance. Shut up. Or....”

But he didn’t.

With his words still coming, I turned my head, stuck my finger down my
throat and hurled 7 shots of Top Shelf Wild Turkey into the beautiful
silk lining of that expensive coat.

Along with that mess came a few tumblers of Coca Cola and my shift
meal of Fish and Chips.

I am pretty sure he never got the smell out of his car.

I know I never got it out of my husband’s coat.

End note to this story:  I stumbled into my folks’ house that night as
drunk as I have ever been in my life [before or since] and fell asleep
with my face pressed up on the cool tile of the guest bathroom.

I woke the next morning to sound of my Dad slamming cabinets in the
kitchen.  Not out of anger, mind you, but fun.  He knew from my phone
call the night before. As I worked my way down the hallway and fell
into a chair at our table my Dad grinned and continued to slam
cabinets.  He glanced back over his shoulder and slyly said “So Skip,
how does your first hangover feel like?” We laughed about that episode
for years after the fact.

And Michael?  He never hit on me again, and remained a pretty good
manager after the fact.

There you go Joe. I hope it is what you wanted. It was a funny memory
then and it is to us now.


     Thanks Skippy! I feel I was way more than adequately compensated for our bet. And if any of y'all want to see what's up with Skippy nowadays (and I encourage you to do so) you can always pay her a virtual visit at her excellent blog, I Make Soap. Thanks for joining us today and Skippy and I'll see ya on the flipside!