Karma Comedian ©2011 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     We've got this barfly named Coolidge. He's a bearded white guy, a little overweight, average height, about 50 years old. He's a decent tipper and pretty low-maintenance. He's far from being my favorite client but we're OK and I've never had a problem out of him. Coolidge works for a trucking company and travels a lot for them. I don't know what his job is there; if he's a driver, a mechanic, a sales guy or what. We usually just see Coolidge at night but one day early this month he joined us during the lunch shift.
     I was waiting tables that day. I walked past the bar a couple times and nodded hello to Coolidge as he sucked down some draft Coors Lights. I was cut and nearly done when bartender Veranda B asked if I'd take over the bar, allowing her to go home and see about her kids, or something. I reluctantly agreed. Veranda got Coolidge another brewski and he closed out. She turned in her bar drawer. I hadn't done a check-out so I was just going to ring anything on my server number.
     The bar didn't do any business that hour or so I had it. Coolidge drank the final beer he'd gotten from Veranda but he didn't get anything from me. He seemed to be preoccupied with some paper or something he was looking at. I tried unsuccessfully to find a Grapefruit League game on the TV. Coolidge finished his beverage and asked if he owed anything. I assured him that he didn't and he bailed.
     I picked up the empty beer vessel and wiped underneath it. I noticed Coolidge had left some out-of-state lottery tickets he'd been scratching. No surprise, he does that a lot. I tossed two of the tickets but I studied the third. It was a $20 ticket and I haven't seen too many of those, although I buy scratch-offs when I'm in a state that sells them. I noticed a number had matched on that ticket. Coolidge had overlooked a $50 prize!
     Coolidge had already left the building and driven off in his white '02 Ford F150 with the W sticker still on the back window. I stuck the ticket in my server book, finished up and went home. I figured I'd see Coolidge again soon and I'd give him back the ticket in person. It can't hurt to have a bar regular feel that he owes you a favor. Besides, if I'd of told GM Brenda B about it, she probably have laughed and insinuated I was a dumbass for saying anything.
     A few nights later I was waiting tables again and Coolidge showed up at the bar. I walked over there. "Remember you were in here the other day?" I asked, "I looked at those tickets you left on the bar and ya missed a winner." I pulled my server book out of my apron and gave Coolidge the ticket that had been stashed there. He thanked me profusely and offered to give me some money or to buy me a drink or some food or something. I declined with, "That's OK. Just tip me real good the next time I wait on ya!" said jokingly but really, actually meant.
     I'm sure I hadn't been messed with in some weird way. Coolidge had just misread his ticket. What I'm less sure about is what he would have done had our situations been reversed. Oh well.
     I could have kept the ticket. I thought about it. There's a way to mail winners to lottery HQ and they'll send you a check. My friend Jakey G goes up there to visit relatives sometimes, he'd have cashed it for me. I could have driven up there myself, maybe waited 'til April and checked out a baseball game (tommorow's opening day!) on the radio and between innings listened to that rockin' new Decemberists CD I got for my birthday. That's not such a bad evening. Gas would have run less than 20 bucks. Or I could have anonymously mailed it to a children's charity up there.
     This little adventure made me think about Karma. It seems like everyone believes in it, at least a little. But really, does it exist? Would it have been "wrong" to keep the ticket? Was something "bad" going to happen to me if I had? Who, if anybody, is the arbiter of Karma? I think a good argument could be made that Karma isn't real, it's just a little fairy story that's caught on 'cause people like it. I wonder. And I wonder what I would of done had that ticket been worth a lot more than 50 bucks.

Call-Ahead Eating ©2011 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

      So I'm bartending one day and this guy calls and wants to order lunch for himself and his daughter. I'm thinking he wants his chow to go but nuh-unh; he wants me to ring up his dine-in order immediately so that it's ready when they arrive. I'd never heard of any shit like that before and I didn't like the sound of it. Lots of scenarios went through my mind, none of them good. The only one I could think of that might not blow worse than the Chicago Cubs was to say we'd accommodate them if they'd eat at my bar. He reluctantly agreed. Everything went OK. I got so I'd discretely offer this service to a few of my regulars if they were cool people.
     Then I changed jobs. I bartend occasionally at my current gig but not too often 'cause the bar there sucks and I hate it. For years, our day bartender was usually Alicia P. Whenever someone wanted to order ahead, it was cool with her. If I remember correctly, I talked her through the procedure the first time she dealt with it. Then Alicia moved back to Tennessee. Now we kind of shuffle the bar schedule a lot. If someone wants to order ahead (I've never seen this issue surface at dinner, just lunch), it's OK; the bartender, sometimes me, handles it.
     Then today the bartender was the lovely Veranda B. I answered the phone call of some annoying, fucktarded client named Stacy who wanted to have some grub for herself and a dining companion cooking while they headed our way.  Stacy'd ordered ahead before and knew the drill. I put her on hold and told Veranda she had a phone call and its nature. Veranda wouldn't take the fucking call!
     If I'm bartending and someone wants to order ahead lunch, I'll take care of them but not if I'm waiting tables; I see the potential for too much confusion and bullshit. Plus I was already cut and nearly done. I found Quinzell, a lunch closer, and told him about the dilemma. He's a greedy bastard and agreed to take care of Stacy. I told Beth, our very competent hosting professional, that 'Zell would have a call deuce roll in shortly. Then I headed home. I guess everything went OK.
     Now, if the sign outside said Joe's Rib Crib™, we'd probably let people order ahead for lunch, maybe even dinner. Who knows? It might be a somewhat signifigant revenue genarator in a competitive racket. We'd have a policy and guidelines on how to deal. If a client didn't want to do things my way they could try their luck elsewhere.

The Absorbent Strings ©2011 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     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."

Waffle House® Confidential ©2011 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Celestelle is an ordinary-seeming American white woman, about 50 years old. She's kind of tall but not outrageously so and just a little plump. She has a nice smile and a pleasant demeanor. She wears glasses and keeps her hair cut kind of short. On Monday at about noon she bellied up to the bar and ordered a large top-shelf margarita.
     Celestelle worked at Waffle House, the one over in Ashcroft Heights, off and on for 28 years. On this day she walked out during her shift. One of Celestelle's coworkers, Bonnie or Bunnie, Celestelle's not sure about the name, had gotten all up in her grill about something and it really pissed Celestelle off. It pissed her off so much that she stepped into the dry storage room to calm down. Celestelle won't tell what was said but it had to be pretty fucked up.
     Celestelle had been off the floor for about two minutes and only needed another minute or so before she'd be ready to smile and get back to work. Then Jeremy, the manager, knocked on the door. "I need you to get the hell out of there now!" he shouted. She did get the hell out of there and out of the building too. Jeremy had only commited a venal sin but it compounded the effects of Bunnie's mortal one and sent poor Celestelle out the door and into the arms of Jose Cuervo.
     Celestelle only had one (albeit large) cocktail. It calmed her down and cheered her up. She got out her cell phone and called Jeremy. He correctly guessed that she'd gotten into the tequila, although she was far from drunk. She told Jeremy she was still upset (by now that may have been untrue) and she'd come in the next day to get her tips and turn in her uniforms.
     Celestelle is very confident she'll be invited back to work at Waffle House. She's been there for years and has a lot of regulars. Besides serving, she can cook too. She's never been in trouble at work. She's pretty tight with the Area Manager. And she's kept her mouth shut about the fact that Bunnie and Jeremy are fucking.
     According to Celestelle—and this might be just her franchise group, she's not sure—Waffle House servers only get $2.13 an hour. That wage gets a nickle a year added to it but if you're a server there and leave, however briefly, all the accumulated nickles don't come back when you do. Every Waffle House employee has four dollars "meal money" deducted from their pay for each shift they work. That money is deducted from everyone's pay even if they don't eat anything. And guess what? Lots of items aren't available under the employee meal policy, especially the new ribeye that I've heard a lot of good things about.

Self-Indulgent Rambling c2011 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Damn! I had ideas for two separate Black History Month episodes of These American Servers and I didn't get around to actually writing either of them. I got kind of a good start on one. Perhaps I'll finish up and put it on here soon or maybe you'll get it next February.
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     Happy Birthday, Buckette!
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     Do you ever use words like cocksmack (thanky Cranky) and fucktard to describe clients you've formed a negative opinion of? Here's another epithet for your lexicon: johnson skull.
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     If I'm an elected member of a legislative body and I can thwart the agenda of my opponents by not showing up for work, guess what? I'm probably not showing up for work.
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     Now that I actually have some readers (again, thanky Cranky!), I thought I'd mention some ideas you might have missed that have been presented on These American Servers that I feel pretty good about.
)from "A Ducats Negotiation"
☻If you buy tickets from a scalper, get their cell phone number. I tried this at a sold out NHL game recently and it worked great!
)from "Ramblin' Joe Sixtop"
☻Try using the word clients, not guests, to refer to customers.
☺I just don't care for the word blog, so I'm an Internet Columnist, OK?!
)from "A Righteous Proposal"
☻Please discuss this concept with your friends. Of course, I'd like it if you'd mention These American Servers but, really I don't care if you tell everybody it's your mom's idea. If enough of us give up buying alcohol (or at least cut back signifigantly) we could probably force a change in the laws regarding recreational intoxicants.
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     If you've joined me at MySpace or Facebook or at "The Cool Kids' Table" or just glance at this crizzap from time to time, thanks, I really appreciate ya!
     Are you an internet columnist? Am I on your blogroll? If I am and you're not on mine, please let me know so I can fix you up. If I'm not on your blogroll, I'd like to be. I'm talkin' to you, Paul Krugman!
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     OK that's more than enough sef-indulgent rambling for two posts in a row. Look for some slightly more coherent restaurant adventures next time.

My Kind Words on Their Website ©2011 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     Wow! One of my favorite restaurant bloggers wrote a post not long ago that was very favorable towards a concept called Freebirds where she'd recently eaten. Freebirds in turn reprinted what she'd written on their Facebook page. But it wasn't up for long because somebody took offense at the name of her internet column; it has a title some may consider to be vulgar. But apparently that brief little bit of pub got her lots of hits.
     Well, I want lots of hits too! I can't afford Freebirds so I usually go to Flirtin' With Disasters but last night I went to Red Robin®. It was my first visit and I gotta tell ya, it didn't suck. Our burgers were real good and according to my dining companion, so was the strawberry margarita. The prices weren't out of line with what you'd expect and our server took good care of us. We'll probably go back.
     According to Associated Press, Red Robin's business isn't sufficient to please the Wall Street community. But after a reasonably positive mention from Joe Sixtop, shares of Red Robin (ticker RRGB) might get upgraded to "buy" from "shitty." Now I just have to wait 'til they put my kind words on their website and I'll ride the RR train to fame and glory. Plus, These American Servers™ is a somewhat more family-friendly title than Fuck My Table is!
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     Skippy Mom, feel better soon, OK?!
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     If you follow These American Servers™ with any regularity (and why wouldn't you?), then you might be wondering what's up with my erstwhile coworkers, the "Four Guys From Guatemala." Arnulfo got another day job, so did Israel. Mahogany Rush and Señor Sunshine have decided to wait a few weeks before they even look. Remember, they have night jobs already, so it looks like everything's OK.
 ☻    Y'all have a good one for me.☺

Wallet Contretemps c2011 by Joe Sixtop all rights reserved

     A fourtop rolled into my station the other night, three men and a woman. Everyone appeared to be in their late 20s. They sat in the bar area, near a TV, so they could watch the game. They all wanted draft beers. I recommended Yuengling 'cause I like it but they went with some wussy low calorie products. Just to be safe, I carded everyone.
     The guys produced their IDs no problem but the distaff member of the quartet didn't have hers. She had her purse but claimed to have left her wallet in the car. She seemed a little peeved when she received no dispensation. Before she headed out to fetch her license she told me, "I'll be back in just a minute so you can go ahead and bring my beer with theirs," killing the slight chance I might do that.
     They ate, drank and enjoyed the game. When it was over they asked for three checks; the lady paid for one of the gentlemen. The singletons each left me about seven on 30. Ms. Lady paid her $44 tab with a $20 gift certificate and her credit card. She left me four dollars. They headed for their nearby motel.
     That table didn't get sat again that night. As I was sweeping my station at close I spied my client's purse. She'd left it hanging on one of the chairs. I took it to the MOD who was taking liquor inventory. Chickie came back the next morning. Her purse wasn't in the office, where it should of been. I asked that day's MOD to unlock the booze barn. Guess what? There was the purse, right where the previous shift's manager had left it. My customer looked inside and expressed dismay when (she claimed) her wallet wasn't there. It wasn't there because I'd removed it from her purse and given it to a homeless woman who hangs out in my neighborhood.
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      So OK, that last part isn't true, it just felt good to write it. When the client couldn't find her wallet she started whining about how the wallet was the main thing she needed, it held her driving license and her credit card. Why, the purse didn't really do her any good without the wallet! She allowed as to how she might have left the wallet in the motel room or the car. Maybe she did.