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."

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.