Check Registers ©2014 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     I waited on this fivetop the other day. They were pretty nice. A somewhat elderly gentleman in the party ordered a Miller Lite®. I convinced him that his best bet would be our 22-ounce Blotto™ draft. Another of the guests also wanted a beer but only would go for the pint. I served up everybody's beverages. A couple of minutes later, I strolled by their table again. The old guy claimed to be sorry but that his beer was "sour" and could he just have a twelve-ounce bottle? Sure thing sir. Just a second. The other beer drinker in the group polished his off just fine and you could tell he wished he'd opted for the larger serving and it was a little bit of a struggle for him to not order up another.
     I took the offending lowered-calorie treat off the table. I showed it to my GM and told him what was up. My boss is nice but he kind of argued with me a little about the sourness of the brewski, as though it was I who had a complaint about the product. I reminded him that wasn't the case and that I imagined  the beer to be fine and fresh and that the other guy enjoying less filling great taste at that table didn't seem to have a problem with his. I rang the bottled Lite and was assured that the problem one would be taken off the check.
     My five finished their lunch, shared a dessert and the pint drinker requested the single check. I'd printed it up when I rang in their raspberry chocolate cheesecake, probably at least a half hour after the draft beer contretemps happened. The bill was for about 49 dollars (one of the diners hadn't eaten but merely enjoyed some coffee). Dude gave me his credit card and I ran it. As everybody gathered up their coats and shit and prepared to leave and I thanked them a final time, I happened to see the credit card slip, signed and totaled and face up on the table. I'd been left $15. Sweet! A minute later I noticed my GM over at the table talking to them. He'd forgotten to take the allegedly sour draft beer off the check.
     I'd hit "summary" when I rang in the chow. It was right. I checked again when I rung up dessert and I hadn't fucked that up either. I didn't check to see if the 22-oz beer had been removed. I just trusted that it had but it hadn't. The clients didn't notice it; my boss remembered when he bade them goodbye. He owned his mistake and didn't in any way suggest that I was at fault or anything. Good for him. So we removed the already-run and -totaled receipt and asked for and got the credit card for the second time and reran it. I brought jones his voucher—now corrected to 45 dollars—again. He signed and totaled it again and they left.
     When I went back to retrieve the receipt I saw that this time I hadn't been left 15 bucks. This time I'd gotten 20.
    
     I'm fortunate enough to be a member of a credit union. I've had my meager finances in banks before and, while some banks are way better than others, credit unions are better still.. My credit union is located not where I live now and have for almost a decade, but back in my hometown. I can mail money orders from anywhere to my credit union and they get deposited in whichever of my accounts I want. And I've got a debit card. I have to pay about 30 bucks for a box of checks but there's no other charge for checking and the boxes of checks last me for literally years. I finally filled out my last check register a couple of days ago. Damn!  I still have plenty of checks left and always get registers with them and I didn't want to order more checks. I'm not wanting to go 500 miles to my credit union just for a check register. So there's a credit union located in a real cool 1970's-looking building next door to my day job. I just went in there after work today, got in line like I had money on deposit and asked the teller for a check register. Dude just gave me one free, no questions or static or anything. I think that's pretty cool and maybe I'll see if I can join that credit union or, since it's so conveniently located, might even try and get a job there. I'm still OK with the restaurant business but kind of thinking that working at two corporate chain restaurants every day is a little much.

     Cheers and happy New Year everybody!

 

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

A Letter from Texas ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

Dear Cousin Earl:
     I'm sorry you haven't heard much from me since I left Mississippi and moved here to Dallas, Texas. I dialed your phone last week but I guess you weren't home or maybe you're still trying to duck calls from the draft board. Too bad there isn't a way to know who's calling before you answer. Heck, I think it'd be nifty to have a phone you can carry around like a transistor radio you can talk on. Of course, that'll never happen but it's fun to think about.
     I'm real lucky to have landed myself a pretty good job. I wait tables at The Dreamlifter Restaurant in the Statler Hilton Hotel. It's kind of like what our poor, homely old Aunt Melinda—you remember her, don't you?—does at the Cotton Patch Café up in Holly Springs, except my place is a lot swankier. Anyway, I told them I'd been a waiter at The Secession House over in Jackson for two years and they bought it. I figured nobody'd want to spend all that money calling long distance just to find out about me and I guess I was right.
     It's kind of a tough job but I like it  OK and the tip money's pretty great. I just wait on customers and then when they pay, they put an extra ten per cent on top of it that I get to keep. Shucks, it's not unusual for folks to leave me 15%, sometimes even 20! Plus the hotel pays us .13¢ an hour on top of the tips. I'm darn near rich!
     Our customers can come in here and order up some alcohol (except on Sundays, of course) and not just beer but wine and even whiskey and it's all legal and legit. That's just one of the lots of ways here's different from back home. We've got both kinds of wine here too, Burgundy and Chablis. I'm trying to learn more about them, like how to look really swell opening the bottles at the tables (!) and why the only good wine is from France.
     When I take people's orders, I have to write 'em down on a piece of carbon paper. I have to use this complicated secret code they made us learn called abbreviations. Then I ring up the orders on this expensive ciphering machine they got back by the kitchen. Then I tear off one of the pieces of carbon paper and put it on this thing called the wheel and the cooks usually start making it. My work-friend Otis said that someday soon just ringing up an order on the ciphering machine will automatically make it appear to the cooks in the kitchen and save a lot of wear and tear on my Florsheim shoes (I think I  got mine at Kresge's) but I'm calling cow-poop on that. I don't think they'll be able to do some Twilight Zone crap like that even 50 years from now.
     The other night after work our chef, Pierre, invited some of us over to his swanky apartment. He's a real nice fellow although he's kind of persnickety about how a lot of things at work get done. He's about 50 and is kind enough to let our new Cuban busboy, Jiminez, be his roommate, even though Jiminez can't be more than 20. They need to get a bigger apartment, too. I noticed they only have one bedroom and one bed. I guess they take turns sleeping on the couch.
     Pierre just got back from a vacation in Europe. He has a nice hi-fi set-up and played us a record album he brought back. It's an English combo called The Beatles. And I gotta tell ya, they're pretty good. If they were American, they might even have a chance to get popular here, too. Pierre brought out these funny, hand-rolled cigarettes and told us to "be cool," whatever that means. They smelled like a cross between shit and a lespedeza stack caught on fire but we passed 'em around and I got to feeling pretty good from them. I need to check and see if Camel or Philip Morris make anything like them that I can maybe buy at Walgreens.
     I've been hoping to meet some girls here in Texas. Our restaurant is pretty fancy so they won't let any women wait tables here and all the housekeeping ladies are 45-year-old Mexicans. There is one girl I really like here. She fixes salads in our kitchen. Her name's Betty. She's real pretty and super nice and I like her a lot and I'm always wanting to kiss her. The only problem is that Betty's a negro! Don't tell my Daddy about this, OK?
     President Kennedy is going to be here in Dallas tomorrow. He's gonna ride through town in his cherry presidential Lincoln limousine and then make a speech. I'm off work and I think I'll go see him. I like President Kennedy a lot. But I might not go. I'm from the same small town in Mississippi you are and I'm still not used to the big city crowds something like this will bring. It's no big deal either way. The president is a healthy young man and I'm sure I'll have plenty of other opportunities to see him in person.
    

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™!

 

A Struggling Single Mom ©2013 by Joe Sixtop all right reserved

     Big-eyed co-worker Carrie was looking through the trash cans beneath the POS register as I rung something up. "I lost one of my credit card receipts," said Carrie, "has anybody seen it?" Neither I nor the other nearby employee had. Carrie'd picked up the voucher from her vacated table, looked at it and then misplaced it.
     "Damn, that sucks. Do you know how much was on it?" I asked.
     "Yeah, the total was $34.something and they brought it up to $40. What do you think I should do?" said Carrie, a struggling single mom to whom every five dollars means a lot.
     Like at most restaurants, excepting Chili's®, our managers take our cashouts, glance at how much we owe, count our money and never look at our credit card slips. If you had, like, $1200 in sales or something and no credit card payments, I guess it's possible they might delve into that anomaly, but that's about it. Sometimes a client will pay with plastic and when you return to the empty table, you'll find they've taken the voucher and you're shit out of luck. But if I've seen the CC receipt before it got misplaced and know for sure what I've been left? You know what I'm gonna do and I'm sure you would too. I counseled Carrie thusly.
     "I don't know," quibbled Carrie, "I  don't want to get in trouble or anything."
     "Look. You do what you want. But you asked and I've been doing this shit for 30 fucking years," I exaggerated (but not by all that much!). "I've been through that credit card ordeal hundreds of times (another possible slight exaggeration), sometimes the amount's way more than five bucks. And you know how many times it's come back to bite me on my ass? Exactly zero.
     "I'm not suggesting you do anything dishonest—although it may be a rules violation—you're entitled to that money. Besides, what kind of trouble might you get into? You've been working here for three damn years and they've never had any reason to question your integrity. Worst-case scenario? You have to give back the fiver. And I promise that ain't gonna happen.
     "Yeah," replied the harried Carrie, "I guess you're right but I don't know..." Then we each went about our respective business
     I saw lunch-closing Carrie a little bit later as she was doing her cashout. "Wha'd ya wind up doing about that credit card?" I asked.
     "Oh," said Carrie, "I entered the tip as "zero." I don't want to get in trouble."

     Since I got fired from a restaurant I worked at for over nine years—I'm calling it the American El Chico—I'm really blessed to have been welcomed back on nights at a restaurant I worked dinners at during a lot of 2012. And I start another restaurant tomorrow on days. So I guess it looks like I'll be OK for awhile. At least financially. Since I seem to be totally incapable of getting any good women to even momentarily consider getting interested in me, I might as well work a lot and make some money I guess. Hell, I can be lonesome slinging chow in station seven just as well as I can sitting on the couch at home. Besides, what else do I got to do?

     Something that always bothers me at every restaurant everywhere ever is an even bigger problem at my current PM gig. Employees that bus and reset tables usually do an adequate job on the table tops. But they tend to suck at everything else relating to those tables. Like, you might have a buser take care of a table of yours that just emptied. You'll walk by there and at first glance it'll look OK. But look at the seats. There'll be crumbs and detritus, maybe some mayonnaise smeared on there. And crap under the tables, like used napkins or some dropped cutlery will be there that shouldn't be. I really hate that shit. Managers, do you think you could mention this in tomorrow's line-up? That'd be great.

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.