Dagney's Voice Became Shrill ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     What was my problem last time? Oh yeah; I was whining about some folks I feel like should of been a little more thoughty ("Fucktarded Whims," May, 2013). And the time before that? I was pretty unhappy about work wanting us to solicit charitable donations from our clients. That's what this here installment right here is about, too. Then it'll be time to give that particular Sixtopic a rest. I think.

     You've seem 'em, mostly in retail establishments like Eckerd's® and Family Dollar®, but restaurants have 'em too sometimes: Smartphone-sized pieces of construction paper, shaped and printed like big, stylized aortas, flogging The American Heart Association, stars for Make-A-Wish and the popular shamrocks, benefiting, uh, The Lucky Charms® Foundation for Magical Deliciousness. Merchants sell these decals, usually for a buck, with proceeds (allegedly) going to the designated worthy cause. If you spring for one, you're emcouraged to write your name, or whatever, on it. The personalized pieces of colorful paper are then taped to the cash registers and walls throughout the property. When asked, I'll usually get a charity sticker. I tend to write something smartass (but not dirty) on mine. Until the disappointing CD was finally released in 2008, I'd buy a decal and scribble "Chinese Democracy?" and sign it W. Axl Rose, which I (and probably no one else) thought was hilarious.
     All through March, our store was selling paper Easter eggs to benefit The Osgood-Schlatter Syndrome Awareness Center. We have a similar campaign, helping whatever, every couple of years or so. This time, our managers were really adamant that we move a lot of stickers. Obviously, their bosses were pressing them for our store to sell a lot of paper Easter eggs.
     I work Curveside™ to-go—where you can phone or fax in your order and I'll bring it out to your ride—on weekday lunches. I've got a lot of regulars and I do all right with it. One of my most frequent regulars is a nice white lady named Dagney, who I'm accustomed to seeing five times a month, easy. She always orders just one lunch, with few or zero special mods. She always receives her chow in a timely manner, without any problems. She always tips me either one dollar or two dollars, five if it's right before Christmas. Dagney's in her early 60's, dresses well and conservatively, seems to get her hair done a lot and drives a sharp, late-model Mercedes®. She works for a non-profit organization, I don't know which one. I'm aware that she's married to a prominent local physician. Together, they've got to be pulling down some pretty nice coin.
     Early in March, when the Osgood-Schlatter push was just getting underway, Dagney pulled up to get an order she'd called in. Everything went as usual until I asked her to buy an Easter egg. Dagney's voice became shrill and she got pretty flustered. She began stammering about how she has a substantial charity budget and it's all earmarked for her church and the non-profit she works for and she just couldn't do anything about Osgood-Schlatter, which I construed as a no. Oh well. I smiled, thanked Dagney (she tipped me as always) and told her I'd see her soon.
     But I didn't see her soon. She didn't show up again for over a month. When I thought about the situation later, I was a little irritated with Dagney for being weird—not too much, because otherwise she's always been real cool and nice—but mostly I was pissed off at work itself for setting me up to be in a situation so redolent of awkwardness. Plus I didn't like that it looked as though the company and I were set to lose out on some nice potential future revenue.
     About mid-April, Dagney returned. I mentioned how we'd missed her and she said something about having been real busy. It looks like she's back to being my easy, good, regular customer again and the whole ordeal seems to have been forgotten. By everyone save me.

     I'm particularly reminded of my friend D right now. Happy Birthday and Rest In Peace bro'.

Fucktarded Whims ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Jakey G stayed in the same apartments as me, that's how we met. Last summer, he moved far away. His whole plan—really, more like a fucktarded whim that kind of metastasized—was pretty weak and vague and he didn't have nearly enough funds saved up to relocate. In one of the very few instances where I hated to be right, he moved back soon after he left.
     Not back here exactly, but to a small city about 60 miles away where he has some relatives. He shacked up with them for a couple of months and resumed working for the same fast food chain he'd been at when he lived here. He recently got his own apartment. Jakey G is really struggling financially.
     As long as we've been acquainted, Jake's had some sorry-ass pay-as-you-go phone plan, so he's always real stressed about his "minutes." Now his phone company, I think it's something called SafeLink®, wants some kind of expensive reregistration fee, just for the privelige of continuing to purchase their services, that he's very reluctant to pay. Yeah, I offered to help but he declined.
     So a couple of Tuesdays ago, I got a call from my friend. He needed to come into town here soon for something, probably the following Thursday. Was I off that night and how about us checking out the local Minor League Baseball team that evening? Since he had to burn some expensive gasoline that he can ill afford in order to make the 100+-mile round trip anyway, he wanted to hang out and do something cool while he was here. Plus, admission to the old ballyard is very reasonable on Thursdays. Unfortunately, I was scheduled a rare, special guest rockstar nighttime appearance at what's usually just my day job that Thursday PM. I texted back that I'd try and get someone to pick up but being as how they were kind of short-staffed at the time (new servers have since been hired), I wasn't too optimistic.
     I wrote a note on a cocktail napkin offering my shift and put it next to the schedule. No bites that day,Tuesday, nor the next. On Thursday lunch, my current least-favorite co-worker ever, Tanya G ("A Tanya Fiasco," January, 2011 and no relation to Jakey G), approached me unbidden and expressed an interest. She'd just lost her recent, part-time, other job and was maybe kind of looking for shifts. She wanted to know if I was closing. I wasn't. Was I early out? I didn't know but our very cool GM, Brenda, was going to be that night's closing manager, therefore probably. I was so sure that I'd be first cut that I truthfully told Tanya to just go ahead and pick up and everything would be all right. But no. She told me she'd contact Brenda for confirmation of early-outness. I told her OK but please to call me and let me know either way, it was kind of important, as soon as possible and she promised she would.
     I went home and waited to hear from Tanya. Nothing. At about a quarter 'til four, the latest I could tell Jakey G the situation in time for him to leave there, get here, do whatever he had to do and still make the game, I called work. Brenda answered. Tanya was a lunch closer, so I asked for her. "Tanya's gone," Brenda told me. Tanya'd gotten someone to close lunch for her; she does that a lot.
     "Did she say anything about picking up my shift tonight?"
     "Nope," said Brenda, "She never called or texted me and was gone when I got here."


     I'm pretty sure Tanya wasn't on purpose trying to mess with me. She's just an inconsiderate, uncool person who saw my sign and then me and thoughtlessly ran her mouth. Anyway, I went to work that night as scheduled. It started out slow, built to a brief crescendo of busyness, then got slow again. As expected, I was first cut. One of the hostesses that evening, Corazon, whom, in contrast to Tanya is a good co-worker I like, asked me for a ride home. I told her sure, but since my sidework would take a little longer than hers, to please find me and let me know if she scored some other transportation in the meantime and she assured me she would.
     I finished my tasks, checked out, hit the clock and went looking for Corazon, who was nowhere to be found. It took me a few minutes but I reached the inescapable conclusion that she'd left without telling me. My very mild irritation had totally dissipated by the time I got to the crib and I forgot all about it. So I was momentarily (albeit pleasantly) surprised when Corazon greeted me with a nice hug the next morning instead of her usual "Hey" and cheerful smile. "I'm so sorry!" she said, "My friend was in the neighborhood and stopped in to see if I needed a ride and I just left with her."
     I told her it was no big deal (it wasn't) and to not worry about it. Tanya hasn't apologized, nor even mentioned, her discourtesy while Corazon was pretty contrite and I immediately forgave both of them. Well, Corazon anyway.

Charity Begins at Work ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     If you can swing it financially, I'd like you to consider making a charitable contribution to the worthy cause of your choice. I personally prefer organizations that help children that are having a rough way to go, 'cause that's just something I particularly care about, but you might rather help stop some fucked-up disease, for example, or the euthanization of stray doggies and kitties. I waited on some executives for the American Red Cross one time who left a bad impression with me, so I usually won't give that organization jack shit, but I'll make an exception when stuff happens like the recent unpleasantnesses in McClennan County, TX and Boston. I never give anything online but I try and send out a little check or money order donation from time to time. Or at least I would if so much of my income didn't have to go to such crucial purchases as beer, cigarettes and lottery tickets.
     The point is, I whole-heartedly approve of making gifts that help to increase things that are good or to cock-block things that are bad. Most restaurants now and then try and extract donations from their guests and they really need to stop that shit right now. Or at least dial it down a little. Specifically, they need to stop requiring me to promote their pet cause, what with all the other crap I've gotta deal with at work. I'll be happy to collect some donations, I just don't want to have to ask for them.
     Like maybe if the restaurant is pretty casual, the employees could wear buttons saying, "Ask me how you can help stop Non-Hodgkins Perineal Infartions!" or something like that, and if guests want to inquire about that, great. If the "flair" is unacceptable, a plea for charity could be written on the features blackboard next to the hostess stand. If the establishment is pretty swanky—and in my experience, those kinds of places are the least likely to put the extra squeeze on their clients—there's a $1600 Phaser® Multifunction printer from Xerox®  and lots of nice vellum back in the office that some classy-looking menu inserts could be created on. Whatever.
     Waiting tables isn't nearly as easy as a lot of the public seems to think it is. We've got to smile and act nice no matter how hungover we are. We're expected to have a lot of knowledge about the restaurant, its product and policies. There's a lot of learning and memorization. We've got to put forth a massive effort to "upsell" our guests—a lot of whom don't want to hear that shit—and get them to part with more money than they'd intended. If it's a corporate place, they're constantly on the servers to get clients to sign up for email club or take the bitch-ass survey that randomly appears on some of the receipts.
     I do all this and a lot more and I do it with a smile because that's my job. I don't mind collecting donations if clients want to give them. But having to plead for, or really, even mention, them on top of everything else I've gotta stress about is asking too much and I'm not gonna do it anymore.

     How do you feel about it?

Arose for Emily ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Don't get romantically interested in any of your co-workers, OK? Hey, you do what you want and I'll wish you the best. It's just that I care and I'm trying to spare ya any situations containing a high probability of awkwardness, disappointment or unhappiness, among other unpleasant potentialities. I recently started hanging out a little bit after work with this co-worker of mine. I grew kind of interested, and tonight at her house, I made a move. Re-jected! Oh well, I'm a big grown-up and I'll be OK. The only reason I even mention it is because I've been meaning to tell y'all a little bit about another co-worker, named Emily, who shares an apartment with the woman who just wants to be my "friend" (presumably without benefits). The roommateness doesn't have anything to do with this story, it's just a weird little coincidence and I don't have anyone but y'all I can share it with. Plus the fact that I gained access to the knowledge (without even asking) that Emily always pays the agreed-upon rent in a timely manner without any drama but spends less than one night a month in the shared crib.
     I've worked with Emily for a couple of years now, but we were just barely acquainted until about January. She's usually been nights and I'm mostly lunches there. We've been on the same shifts a little more here lately. Emily quit her day job working the counter at one of your second- or third-ranked "fast food" chicken franchises, Lee's Famous Recipe® or maybe Mrs. Winner's®, on the grounds that "it sucks." Consequently, she's started working a couple of lunches a week with me. That and I've recently picked up a few nights there too.
     Emily's in her mid-30's but looks to be in her early 40's. She's had a rough life, partied hard and smoked a lot of Newport 100's®. That's not to say she's unattractive or anything, she's slim and actually pretty decent-looking. She talks with a very pronounced Southern, country accent. She dresses nice but pushes the boundaries of what the approved uniform at work is. She's got scarves and earrings and bracelets and rings and shit like that. Sartorially, she seems to be heavily influenced by classic rock singers like Janis Joplin and Stevie Nicks. Emily's titties are pretty little but she always wears low-cut shirts that make the most of what cleavage she has.
     We can wear long or short sleeves at that job. Most everybody rocks the short, but not Emily. Only once have I ever seen her wearing  short sleeves. She had a couple of big, pink–splotches, I think you call them–on her arms. I thought she'd been burned on the heatlamps—something that happens to me with shocking semi-regularity—and commented thusly. "No," she said matter-of-factly, "I have Lupus."
     The other day Emily was picking up vouchers off her vacated tables as lunch was winding down. I was next to the POS register that Emily was fixing to enter her tips on. She doesn't usually do stuff like this, but I guess because I was standing right there, she showed me, unbidden, one of her vouchers. It was signed and the tip line was filled in with the correct arithmatic completed, just like it's supposed to be. At the top of the slip, in very feminine-looking cursive, was written, "Great Job! Keep up the Good Work!" and a smiley face. The bill had been for about 13 dollars and Emily had been tipped a whopping 20 bucks on it.
     "Way to go," I said. "She really liked you!" or something like that.
     Emily's big brown eyes looked even more sad than usual and she flashed me a forlorn little smile that was more melancholy than cheerful. "That's my DCS worker," Emily said. "She's the one who took my kids."

Win a Dream Date with Jodi Arias! ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Sorry, I can't really get you a date with Jodi Ann Arias. I don't even think she's eligible for any conjugal visits right now. Which is too bad, 'cause from what I'm given to understand, she's a really fun chick. Except that she might kill your ass; she's currently on trial for murdering her boyfriend, T-Dogg. And she didn't just kill him, she killed the shit out of him. Allegedly.
     The reason I even mention all this is because you (or at least I) can't glance in the direction of that TV behind the bar at work that's always tuned to CNN without seeing the bespectacled (yet still cute!) visage of Jodi Ann so she must be pretty damn important. Plus the fact that she's one of us. Yep, before her legal troubles started, Jodi Arias waited tables at Casa Ramos®, a popular Mexican-style chain they have out west. And she claims to have worked at Margaritaville® even though she maybe didn't but if she did, she'll probably be acquitted on grounds of compassion and possible insanity. This paragraph contains some feeble attempts on my part at Search Engine Optimization, by the way. Hope it works!
     The real topic of today's episode is a co-worker of mine named Emily. Well, it isn't really but I wanted it to be. Her story's interesting and I've been trying to put it together in a coherent manner to tell for the last week or so. Unfortunately, it isn't ready yet. You'll probably get it later this month. Meanwhile, I just (figuratively) pulled this here installment out of my keester, kind of like you do if a table asks you about the new featured menu items and you haven't learned them yet.

      In conclussion, I think it's safe to say that we've all learned something here today. Safe, but inaccurate. Anybody that cares about learning (and is or was a server) should click this link right here and take the survey that Wm. Michael Lynn, the Burton M. Sack Professor in Food & Beverage Management in Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration, has there. It won't take a lot of time and it's pretty interesting. Professor Mike has a well-deserved rep as being a world-class authority on tipping and you can help him add to that knowledge. Thanks.
                                                      
                                                  From a couple of weeks later:
     Did you take the survery? I hope so but if ya didn't it's too late now. The survery is over and the results are in. Professor Lynn was kind enough to send me a link to the results, which are pretty interesting. He didn't mention that I couldn't share that link with y'all and I'm guessing he would have if it was some big secret or something.  http://tippingresearch.com/uploads/Waiter_Survey_Initial_Report__1_.pdf .

A Lot of Doubles ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     I like waiting tables OK, I just wish I had more say over when I do it. That's an at least somewhat true statement I guess, but it's also a joke I made up. I've said it at work a time or two over the years and it's always gotten a little chuckle from somebody. Feel free to use it yourself if you want. Nobody reads These American Servers™—especially after its just-ended little hiatus here—so you'll have scant reason to fear any accusations of plagarism.
     I go to work at the AM job about five days a week. I go to the night gig about five times a week too. So I wind up working a lot of doubles. At least, they're doubles to me. Unfortunately, work doesn't see it that way. If you spend two hours working a very slow lunch and get a nice long break before returning for the dinner shift, you're a double and your managers just have to get you out of there QUICK! But no matter what difficulties you may face every day, med school, a demanding other job, taking care of your kids, sleeping off the Budweiser® flu, whatever—if you didn't do it at that restaurant, you're not a double and they'll cheerfully keep your ass there until the woeful Chicago Cubs win something and really, there's nothing you can do about it.
     The other night, a co-worker named Kyle and I were assigned station one, an eight-table section up near the front of the restaurant. After volume slows, one of the servers for that area gets cut, while the other one stays until almost close. Kyle told me an amusing story about how he'd been 15 minutes late at that job that morning and been sent home. He suffered no other sanctions, not even a write-up.
      Then our tables filled up. That's when Kyle and I had to do some, you know, actual work for a minute. Then it slowed down. Kyle got cut. I didn't. Bummer, 'cause I was on the second part of a double (by my lights, anyway) and really wanted to go. I asked Kyle if he wanted to stay and let me be cut. He'd missed out on some money when he punted his lunch shift that morning and agreed to stay. Hell, he seemed to feel like I was doing a favor for him and I don't have a problem with him feeling like that. We asked a manager if it was OK and she reluctantly (WTF?) agreed. I did my sidework and got out of there at a decent hour, which was really cool, especially being as how I had another double the next day. On my way out the door I noticed that Kyle had a couple of decent-looking tables.