Poor Self-Opinion ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     I've got Low Self-Esteem. Was it circumstances growing up or DNA? Probably some of both but really, it doesn't matter. I won't get all psychological on y'all except to say that I believe it was something subconscious that made me stumble into a "career" where a big chunk of my income derives from how much some strangers like me.
     And it's got it's good side too, believe it or don't. There're actually like three, I think. benefits to LS-E but I can only think of one right now. When I walk, I tend to hang my head and look at the ground before me instead of facing the world straight-on and I find way more money than you.
     So just call me a big wuss I guess. I went to the meeting. I signed a write-up, my only one in nine years there. I asked to take a piss test (in the hope of finding out why I feel so fucking good all the time) but was declined. I'm aware that someone nice went out on a limb for me. And, while I wish she wouldn't have done it, for a man with Low Self-Esteem it's virtually impossible to pay back that sort of intended kindness with anything resembling scorn. I'm almost able to delude myself that my really good GM Brenda—no homo—(and if that's offensive please let me know and I'll remove it) might actually like that I work there instead of just feeling sorry for an employee she inherited from a previous administration.
     Our Area Director (GM Brenda's immediate boss, for those who don't wear an apron at work) Shane is a good guy. I've known him for years, before his impressive and deserved rise to his  coveted gig in the organization. So I wasn't expecting anything less than cordiality. But what I got was a veritable smorgasbord (that's what those of us from Ohio call a buffet) of high-calorie treats for the person who has everything except self-worth. "Asset to the organization" was mentioned. So was "Never had a problem out of you (which I believe to be technically untrue but close enough)." I was already reeled in but just in case I wasn't "Model Employee" was dusted off and put on the showroom floor for a minute. I would have felt like a horrible, ungrateful, despicable shitty excuse for a human being (you know, the usual) had I not leapt at the opportunity to stay on. Even though I swear that I meant every word of yesterday's post  when I was typing it, I caved at crunch time. I kind of feel as though I've let you down somehow. I'd be hoping I didn't lower anybody's good opinion of me if I could imagine anybody having one in the first place.

     This typing on the fly internet columnist shizzle is the bidniss! Why kill myself a couple of times a month trying to come up with something that had a lot of effort behind it when I can just think about  my Sixtopics for a few minutes, maybe take a couple notes, hop on the internet and there ya go? Shit Hell Damn, I might just compose me another episode tomorrow!

 

A (Former?) Waiter's Prayer ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     It'll probably be a good thing. I'm particularly happy for (now-former) co-worker Sweetie, who I have been, OK, I admit it, BEGGING to go out with me. She's way too nice to tell me to fuck off and now she won't have to. I didn't ask to like her but I may as well have. I'm also embarrassed to tell ya that not ever seeing her again is BY FAR my biggest regret about losing this job. I hope her life goes great and she manages to stop being geeked out on that shit all the time. Oh well, not my business or my problem, hunh?  O yeah. This here episode is the first-ever one where there was no rough draft or anything and I'm just thinking it and typing. You thought previous installments were lame? Stick around for this one!

     The age mentioned and the (in actuality non-Mexican) restaurant named are inaccurate. The rest is true.

     Here's a joke for ya: What was the old definition of a pathetic loser?
     A 53-year old man who's been a waiter at El Chico for nine years.
     What's the new definition of a pathetic loser?
     A 53-year old man who used to be a waiter at El Chico for nine years until yesterday when he got fired!
     Not bad, hunh? No brag, just fact: I made that up! Although it is based on true events.
     I'm trying to tell the story correctly and succinctly. I'm sure I'll fail miserably on both counts but here goes: I felt like shit all the time for years and it sucked. After lots of trial and error and research and a little effort on my part,  I finally have a handle on that. I consume only healthy foods. If it's something I like, I can't have it. Plus I get a lot of exercise, mostly jogging and lifting some weights. They're not that heavy but if you lift 'em a lot, it feels like they are. It seems to be working pretty well too, 'cause right now I've never felt better.
     I've always been a kind of a high-stress server (only because I care so much!) and that's how I roll but here lately it's gotten a little out of hand. I smile out front at the clients but I've been kind of a (seemingly but not actually) speed-addled dickhead to work with here lately. Like, I rang up something with honey mustard on the side the other day. It was run to the table by someone without the honey mustard. The table was a young couple who were very nice. They politely asked me for some honey mustard as though they'd just now thought of it instead of like we'd fucked up and God bless them for that. I freaked and SCREAMED at the kitchen crew something about thanks for ruining my goddam life and if I didn't get my honey mustard immediately I was going to come back there and skullfuck somebody. Recently I totally went off on my nice co-workers because of some very minor procedural disagreement about how they were rolling their silverware. I apologized later and they were all kind enough to forgive me and I'm very grateful for that. I've been freaking out in the BOH but managing to seem pretty chill in the FOH. Except the other night at the service well, I'm about to have a heart attack because some beverages have taken too long when the bartender informs  me that some crucial ingredient is unavailable. "Ya know," I told her in a voice just a little too loud for such convo and that may have been heard by some of the bar regulars, "I used to think I was a pretty good waiter but now I realize I suck and it's all because I work at El Chico!"
     So last night I was special guest fill-in bartender. I'd been on shift for about two hours and things were going well (I've been REALLY TRYING to chill and I believe I was finally getting somewhere with that) when GM Brenda B (a great manager and a better person) called me aside. "It's been alleged that you were observed huffing from a whip cream container last night. Would you please write your version of events on this here piece of paper please?"
     My version of events was, and I wrote, "Thank you for a great nine years! Good-bye," and signed my name. I told Brenda B I was truly sorry for putting her in the unpleasant situation and told her so long. I obviously have been very hyper lately and I promised her I was not on any recreational intoxicants and, while I swear to God that's true, if you'd of seen my recent behavior, you might have a hard time believing me. I really don't know what's wrong. I mostly feel great but work stresses me out more than ever. Could kale and store-brand V-8 juice from a blender really be that powerful?
    Brenda advised me that I wasn't fired yet. I was to show up for a meeting the following afternoon with the (Area Director) Shane, a good guy I've known for years. "Don't be so pessimistic," Brenda said. She's smart but she doesn't get it. I'll show up this afternoon as a courtesy but I feel as though I'm being treated shabbily and can't imagine a scenario where I'd ever condescend to work for that lousy company ever again.
    
     Oh yeah. Did I woof N²o out of an empty (I'd never do it if the can still contained saleable product; that would be theft!) whip cream can? Between you and me, yes. Usually I'm very discreet about such things but I was kind of showing off for a pretty girl. I can't remember who. I also told Brenda the truth. I don't know what I'll tell Shane this afternoon but I absolutely won't cop to the charges. The shit that charges the whip cream can will get you pretty fucked up but it goes away in like two minutes. It's not like I was smoking blunts on the back dock or doing lines off of Sweetie's ass in the parking lot (Sweetie and her lovely ass and me in the parking lot?! Hell yeah! If I got all that going on, I can personally do without the coke! ). I have a lot of regret and guilt about my life but not about some lousy whip cream deal, the only recreational intoxicant I've allowed myself for years. I want to thank my erstwhile co-workers ( who I pray to God never read this) for their patience, kindness and friendship. Whether or not this is the last installment of These American Servers™ ( and it probably isn't) I want to thank everybody who ever commented, LIKED, followed, read or just accidentally clicked to this cause they thought "servers" was computer-related, thank you so much and God bless you.   
                                 Cheers, ______-Joe

    

To Buy You a Gold Ring and a Pretty Dress of Blue ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     We don't see my work-friend Ray the cook more than three nights a week at most. He has a day job, something janitorial I think. When he does work with us, he talks about golf a lot. Raymond claims (and I believe him) to be a scratch golfer. In real sports, scratches don't get to participate, but in golf a scratch is a real badass, so in Ray's lexicon a scratch is a fine thing to be indeed. Ray-Ray never utters the word "golf," actually. "My hobby," he says, "my little hobby."
     "Joe." wondered absolutely no one, "do you have any hobbies?"
     "Why yes," I would've answered, "yes I do." Even though I don't think of it as one, what else is These American Servers™ but a hobby? It sure hasn't ever made me any money, nor do I ever expect it to. No boss makes me compose this drivel; no supervisor tells me when, how or even if to present it. Therefore, hobby. But I've also got this other kind-of fun activity that consumes most of my waking moments and has for over two decades now. I started out so shitty at it that I can't believe I didn't just give up but now I'm so good at it I've almost got it mastered. My hobby is trying to quit smoking.
     We had a kind of shitty night at work this evening. A couple of brutal pops were interspersed with some big-time slowness. Plus we were a little shorthanded  on both sides of the expo line. I got kind of stressed during one of the pops. So when it slowed I asked our hostess to not seat me for at least three minutes. I (literally) ran to the nearby ShittyMart™ and bought a pack of Newport 100's.
     I can't recall if I've ever mentioned it to y'all but long-time readers may know that my go-to brand is Marlboro Reds. The Newports weren't for me. I gave them to my totally awesome, incredibly gorgeous co-worker, Sweetie, so that maybe she'll like me. That's not really why I gave her the cigarettes, although if they had that effect I guess I'd have to step up like I'm a man and accept the consequences of my actions.
     Anyway, I wasn't sure how many smokes I'd want; a half-dozen, max. A whole pack  of tasty 'Boros would either go to waste or be consumed by me. I gave Sweetie the entire 20, with the understanding that I could have a few of them back (during that shift) upon request, an arrangement she was totally cool with. I got to smoke a few cigarettes and ease my stress without being a bum or throwing a bunch of product away. Plus it helped Sweetie out a little, something I'm always looking for opportunities to do. We snuck out back for our nicotine fix. As we lit up, I looked into her pretty face. The most beautiful brown eyes I've ever seen sparkled and she flashed me her lovely smile.
    

Breakfast in America © 2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     My fellow Americans, welcome and thank you for checking out today's press conference. Can I get ya started with a top-shelf margarita, Diet Pepsi, or a large draft beer? Wups! Flashback from old job, sorry about that. Anyway, I feel I can honestly say, without fear of contradiction, that "No Net Loss of Freedom" is more than a campaign slogan; it's the cornerstone of my administration. Remember "Stop & Frisk?" We stopped it. We've ended America's fucktarded "War on Drugs," repealed the RICO Act, revoked the government's civil forfeiture privileges—check out the United States website, a lot of you have money and cars coming back!—removed all the red light cameras and, while I strongly urge everyone to continue wearing your seat belts &/or brain buckets, there are no longer any laws saying you have to. You're welcome and, unless you're pulling down over a quarter-mil a year, there's lots more good news on the way for everybody!
     But I'm afraid that now I've got to urinate on the Froot Loops—sorry, I messed up and used the old name, of course I meant LGBT Circles™—of a troublesome few of you. I'm talking to the johnson skulls who go to a grocery store and grab some ice cream, say, or hot dogs, whatever, and then abandon that shit in a non-refrigerated part of the store, like by the tampons or light bulbs. That's messed up. I've asked Vice President Paul Krugman and Attorney General Tony LaRussa to craft legislation addressing this problem. We're thinking, first offense, ten dollar fine. A little steep? Hit me up on Twitter @JoeSixtop and let us know what you think, OK?
     I know I'm supposed to answer some questions from the public and the media now. But me and the First Girlfriend have to get on Air Force One and haul ass down to Saint Louis so I can throw out the game ball at tonight's World Series game. Tell ya what: I'll get CIA Director Ed Snowden to pinch hit for me. Unless you need to know about auto-grat or separate checks or something I'm sure he can answer most of your questions as well as I can. Anyway, thank you, God bless and I'll talk to y'all later.

     For about the last couple years, I've been slowly trying to healthy-up my lifestyle. Like, I haven't consumed any alcohol since 2010. Plus, I've been persuaded that it's a good idea to eat breakfast, so I try to, even though it's something I'm not naturally inclined to do.
     My first choice of AM repast is bourbon—but I gave up alcohol, remember?—so I have a heaping bowl of LGBT Circles™ doused in Nestlé's Quik! Not really. Usually I have an orange or apple or something like that. On other days, I have yogurt. I get Chobani or Dannon Oikos. They're pretty tasty and claim to be nutritious and maybe they are. Plus, they're Greek yogurts and since the economy over there is sucking so bad, it makes me feel good to help those people out a little.
     The other night after work, I went to the 24-hour grocery store for that evening's dinner, some salad, and the morrow's breakfast, a thing of pomegranite Chobani. I ate my lettuce, seriously considered lifting some weights for a minute, checked out a  little Coast to Coast AM  and sacked on out. The next morning, I was a little chagrined to realize that I'd neglected to put my intended breakfast in the fridge. It had sat out all night and become room temperature. As I headed out the door to my lunch shift, I threw the compromised yogurt away.
     Upon reflection, I think I made a mistake. I should of put the shit back in the refrigerator and had it later. Grocery customers pull stuff from the cold dairy case all the time and then abandon it wherever they might be in the store when they change their minds. It happens everywhere, from the swankiest Publix in Buckhead to the shittiest ghetto Jitney Jungle in Hattiesburg. Do you think that stuff gets thrown away? I don't. It gets restocked. I'm sure I've consumed yogurt that's spent several hours warming up next to the toilet paper and then been chilled back down. And if you ever eat yogurt, so have you.
    

Lonesome Joe Sixtop ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Thank you for visiting These American Servers™, America's premier restaurant-centric internet column (OK, server blog) to be presented by a guy named Joe, at least as far as I'm aware. And as to the afore-mentioned internet, the search engine terms (SETs) for today's installment include: Tim Hudson injury—and even after this weekend's disappointing series in Atlanta, I hate that happened—Gold Cup Final, Cyclospora, 孫旗 (a subject I'm not conversant on but that a lot of Chinese people seem to be interested in), rock's all-time greatest frontman Mick Jagger and Siohvaughn Funches. I'm not keeping up with the dispute she's having with NBA standout Dwayne Wade 'cause I don't care and it's none of my business and according to Google Trends she's dropped off their charts, yet remains in our hearts. Well, mine anyway. Whatever else Ms. Funches may be about—and I'm being serious here—she deserves mad props for having that world-class great name!
     And speaking (or more accurately, typing) of restaurant-centric internet columns, if you work as a server in North America, you probably have one and it's better than These American Servers. If you work with servers and bartenders but aren't one, you're a dishwasher, say, or a cook, door whore, manager or barback, you probably don't have one. What's up with that?
     Now where was I trying to go there? Oh, yeah. If you have a server blog, do you ever get any weird little synchronicities with it? It's happened with me, more than twice. Like one time, I was in the early stages of composing something about working with a lot of people from south of the United States and before I was finished there was a bit of labor unrest involving most of my Latino co-workers ("Four Guys from Guatemala," January, 2011) from that job.
     Another time, I was a mere couple of days away from trying to entertain y'all with some of my thoughts on the subject of auto-grat ("Mandatory Gratuicide," January, 2011) when some unpleasantness arose at work concerning that policy ("A Tanya Fiasco," January, 2011, a month where I was really ballin' with my little project here apparently). I could go on with more examples but that's enough for the present.
     Right now I want to see if I can maybe harness the theoretical power of these perceived coincidences by mentioning some things I'd like to have happen.(and yes, I'm totally aware that even in the very unlikely event that these are anything more than just some random coincidences that it probably doesn't work like that). For example, I'm kind of lonesome here lately and I'd like to get myself a righteous new girlfriend. Also, I want to win some insanely fat lottery prizes and I can't help but feel like the latter could definitely facilitate the former. Plus, I think I should  go and get myself another night job, something kinda awesome this time, please! Least likely of all—but what the hey, I'm kind of on a roll here—a substantial increase  in traffic for These American Servers would probably cheer me up some. Please stick around with my struggling internet column and I'll try and keep ya updated with any good news.
     Anyway and as always, thanks for reading and please feel free to share your thoughts on these or any other sixtopics in the comments section, via email, on Facebook or, if those lousy California bastards ever remove the totally unjustified (I swear!) cock-block they done put on me (yeah, really), Twitter @JoeSixtop.

     From a few of weeks later: Twitter removed the totally unjustified cock-block just a couple of days after they hit me with it. @JoeSixtop. Thank you.

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."