Cory O Story O ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Of all my co-workers ever, present and past, there's this dude named Cory O that's definitely one of them. He's a nice guy and a good waiter. As near as I can tell, none of his managers, customers or fellow employees have a problem with him and that includes me. Pretty much.
     Cory O's about 30 and newly married. I don't know for sure, but I bet they didn't have a pre-nup or anything like that. I've met his wife, she's fairly attractive and real nice. They're both very religious. In fact, Cory O is an ordained (by what or whom I don't know) minister. Supposedly he's on track to someday be lead pastor of his own congregation and then it'll be bye-bye waiting tables, although that's probably a few years away. Cory O's been observed typing up sermons on his iPad® between shifts. Due to his church obligations, he's off from the restaurant Wednesday nights and all day Sundays.
     I've never heard Cory O utter even the tamest of cuss words. Cory O likes to make fun of me. I say "Hell yeah!" a lot. Cory O does a pretty dead-on impersonation of me saying that but he changes it to "Heck yeah!" I try to never cross the line into actual verbal cruelty--except with people I dislike and maybe not even then--but I make fun of people all the time so I have little room to be upset with Cory O for his mockery. Except for sometimes when I'm kind of weeded, he'll fuck with me a little (he'd never call it that, of course) and I don't like that shit at all. It's at the very least unhelpful and can easily be counter-productive. But I think it's not done mean-spiritedly and I try and not let it bother me much.
     One evening about three weeks ago I was at work and Cory O was off. He called me on the company phone to ask if he could borrow 20 bucks from me 'til the next day. That's all he needed to say but he tacked on a convoluted yarn about how he had money but his ATM card was acting up and so on and whatever that, had it come from a less upstanding citizen than Cory O, I'd have thought was the bullshit story of a jive artist with a substance-abuse problem. I didn't get my money back the next day; I wound up being first cut that night and Cory O hadn't received any cash payments by the time I left but I did get it back within a day or two, no biggie.
     Then one afternoon about a week later, Cory O asked me if I had a debit card with any money on it. That struck me as an odd question, yet I answered that I did. He wanted to know if it was Visa® or Mastercard®. I hardly ever use the thing so I had to think a minute before I answered. "Visa." Cory O told me he was paying off a fine on the installment plan that he owed to some governmental jurisdiction, the state I think. He wanted to pay over the phone and save himself a trip downtown. Cory O has a Mastercard debit card and the entity getting his money will only take Visa. Cory O didn't want a loan. He would (and did) pay me the $25 coming off my card immediately. "(A co-worker) usually does it for me but her purse was stolen," he said. I let Cory O pay his ordeal with my card, but reluctantly. I'm mostly a cash, check and money order guy and keep my plastical purchases to a bare minimum. I believed Cory O and didn't think he was scamming or anything. But I have no idea who--besides just the spying-ass NSA--may have garnered my information that was transmitted via cellphone. Cory O paid me cash right then. That was a little over a week ago and I haven't detected any suspicious activity on my bank account.
     This past Saturday night, Cory O and I were on the same shift again. When I got to work as scheduled at 5:00 PM, I was very happy to note that I was in the station that's customarily first cut. Cory O'd arrived at 4:30 and was in a later-cut, though non-closing, section. As purely a station, I prefer the one Cory O got assigned to that evening and I'm sure he does too. But since I'd be cut earlier, I was cool. I worked my section and Cory O worked his. When cuts were made, Cory O got cut and I didn't! WTF? I asked him what was up and he mumbled something about him having to be at work a little earlier than me. Big fucking deal. At least two other employees were scheduled even earlier than Cory O was and had to close. Cory O had used his 30-minute arrival advantage to finagle the new rookie manager into fucking me over.

     What do Emmy Nominations, Behati Prinsloo, British Open, Rolling Stone cover, Honky Boo Boo, Rachel Jeantel, Detroit and Talia Castellano have in common? I'm guessing that they all have Twitter. Well, guess what? I've got Twitter too! @JoeSixtop . If I'm doing the math right, as of last time I checked my next follower on there will increase my Twitter crew by a whopping 100%! Plus I'm trying to work out a deal with the New England Candy Company to supply free Clark® Bars to my next 600 Twitter followers, but those people wouldn't know a great promotional opportunity if it kicked them in their ass, so don't hold your breath waiting for that one, OK?

The Absorbent Strings c2011 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved (repost)

      It's Canada Day and I wish a happy one to you and yours. Speaking of Canada, I've only got one Twitter follower and they're from Canada. So if you want to be the first from the United States to join me on there, that'd be great! @JoeSixtop. Anyway, I've been trying to get a new installment of These American Servers up here for ya but I can't seem to come up with anything that even rises to the low standards already set for my struggling internet column here. Therefore, I'm rerunning an episode that I kind of like from back in March of 2011. If you haven't read it (and you probably haven't) it's new to you, right? Enjoy!

  It was Margarita Monday, our busiest night of the week. I guess Smurf, our badass barback, had requested off because they had me taking his place that evening. I'd wash glasses, run bustubs back to dish, change out beer kegs, shit like that. They also had me helping the cocktail servers in the bar area. The bar was where it was at nighttimes but we had a fairly busy, separated, dining room. Like most nights, the buser in there was a young man named JimBop.
     CRASH! Colleen, the usually sure-footed cocktail waitress, had dropped a trayful of drinks and appetizers. "Joe? Can ya help me take care of this? Thanks, sweetie!" she told me, not really meaning the "help me" part of her request. I cleaned as best I could with a dustpan, a broom and my hands. Then I got the mop and finished the chore.
     A couple hours later, most of the bar clients began noisily fixating on Table 113. You would have thought it was a sudden-death cage match between musical entertainer Colin Meloy and a reanimated L. Ron Hubbard but no; just a couple of fat guys arm-wrestling. BAM! One of the combatants suddenly emerged victorious but in so doing managed to knock over a shitload of brewski. I went and got the mop.
     On my way out the kitchen, I saw JimBop. "How's it goin', dude?" I asked him.
     "Pretty good," he replied, "I'm not as busy down here as y'all are. You doin' OK up there?"
     "Yea, not bad. But dude. This is, like, the third time tonight I've had to mop some shit up," I exaggerated, "next time's your turn." JimBop agreed to wield the O-Cedar® product if it was needed again and we went back to work.
     At last it was getting near closing time and had slowed down considerably. A middle-aged redhead in a white coat was sitting at the bar. She had a margarita and some chips and salsa. I noticed that she wasn't using the chips very much but was mostly scooping up and eating her picante with a fork. Maybe it's a crucial tenet of Scientology or just some weird diet ordeal. Who knows? Oh well, not my business or my problem.
     And then she threw up. She managed to step away from the bar and hurl onto the floor. Poor lady, she wasn't drunk—she'd only had part of one 'rita—and she didn't puke on purpose. She was pretty embarrassed, hurriedly paid and left. I knew what was expected and who it was expected of. "I'll go get the mop," I lied.
     Of course I didn't go looking for the absorbent strings. I went looking for JimBop. I found him in the employee smoke hole, standing there with Colleen, about to spark up a Newport 100. "Dude," I told him, there's some kind of spill up there in the bar and it is your turn..."
     "I got it, no prob," said JimBop, postponing his nicotine fix, "where's the mop?" I told him where it was and took my own trip to Marlboro Country. I told Colleen about the contents of the bar spill JimBop was attending to. We laughed and smoked our cigarettes until JimBop returned.
     "What was up with that?" I asked him innocently.
     "Aw, it wasn't nothin'," JimBop told us, "Barney (the bartender) said there was some throw-up but really somebody'd just spilled some sour mix and some salsa."

Blunder from Down Under ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

  

     Some of y'all might know that besides waiting tables, et cetera, at a couple of restaurants, I'm also a beer vendor at the local football team's home games. I stroll around the stadium, toting a big-ass tub of ice and brewskis. And I'm versatile, too; sometimes I'll work other events, like concerts or different sports. My beer-vending supervisor called me last week to ask if I could work an upcoming show at the local shed, Tampax® Amphitheatre. I said I'd try. I wound up being scheduled at the regular gig that evening but a co-worker asked if she could pick up. So I took the vending opportunity. The show was last night.
    Every venue has its own rules, beyond what you might expect. These edicts can even be more, or less, stringent within the same building for different events. This show, headlined by a C&W-tinged pop act, was expected to draw plenty of folks under 30. Therefore a lot of strict rules and the promise of more enforcement and spying than usual were in effect.
    One of the rules was ID everyone every time. I've dealt with that one a lot. Another, imposed sometimes but not always, was that driving licenses from outside the US and Canada weren't to be accepted. And by the way hockey fans, welcome and thanks for visiting but don't flash that sweet CHT Card at me. I can't accept it for ID and it'll just make me jealous.
     Anyway, at one point during my pretty lucrative night, a 35-year-oldish-looking dude ordered a beer from me and passed along a driving license from Australia. He didn't seem at all intoxicated and I'm sure he's well over 21. In other situations, I'd have been at least tempted to sell him a brew anyway. But for that show, the bosses seemed very serious that surveillance and enforcement were at the max, so I shut the guy out. "I'm sorry sir. I'm afraid I can't use that. Did ya bring your passport?" He didn't.
     I felt bad and hoped he hadn't come all that way just for this one lame (to me) show. I was trying to think of a way I could help him out. Maybe I could make a legit sale to another patron with the instruction to not pass it to dude until I'd walked away or something like that. Before I'd decided what, if anything, I could do for the tourist—and just to be nice too; one measly sale's not going to make or break my night—he got a little pleady and a lot argumentative, which withered my sympathy considerably. I thought about fucking with him back a little. It even briefly crossed my mind to get security into the mix—under venue protocol, his verbal hostility had given me that option—but I didn't. His words didn't hurt my feelings or anything. I try to not give a shit about something somebody has said and in this instance was successful. I shrugged and told him, "I just work here," or, "My kids gotta eat," or whatever, and walked away.
     He probably got suds later if he half-assed tried. I'm easily imagining one of my dumbass fellow vendors thinking Queensland's a province or a state. It'd be cool if he told another vendor what a dick I was and the story making them realize they couldn't sell him anything either.
     I like my vending gig OK, especially when it's as profitable as last night, but it's pretty physical and always wears me out. I cheerfully eschewed the Outback Steakhouse® I passed on the way home—take that, Australia!—and instead got to the crib and microwaved some Campbell's Chunky®, 'cause it's the soup that eats like a meal and I was pretty fucking hungry.





     Oh yeah, I almost forgot: I've got Twitter now. @JoeSixtop. I haven't checked it in a couple of days but as far as I know, my next follower on there will be my first and I want it to be you!

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?