Servers, not servants (and certainly not slags!)

The woes of waitressing is a topic not foreign to the blogosphere. For a thorough and more entertaining account of the traumas experienced by fellow servers, I recommend thebitchywaiter@blogspot.com, but what follows is one of my own more traumatic experiences whilst waitressing.

This particular event (or non-event, as most of it happened only in my head) occurred not too long ago. The man who initiated it is a “regular” at my place of work. He drinks far too much and it isn’t unusual for him to spend an additional R300-R400 after everyone has finished their meals just on shooters. He is extremely rude and hardly ever tips anything at all. All of this wouldn't be so bad, however, if only he wasn't also a complete pervert.

On this occasion, I was conscious of his being increasingly flirtatious through the meal. As servers we have to smile politely and play along (what else? I’m depending on you to tip me so I can have life’s essentials such as coffee, bus fare and airtime for the week to come!), which I did whilst inwardly squirming, trying to remain calm and keep things as lighthearted as possible. As the evening progressed, however, things started to get ugly as he repeatedly asked for my phone number and even went so far as to ask the manager my surname and address. The restaurant was full so I at least had an excuse not to spend too much time at their table and asked one of my colleagues to drop off their bill for me. One might think he would have by this time taken the hint and left the restaurant (preferably after having left me a large tip by way of an apology), but no. That would have been too easy. He started following me around the restaurant claiming that he would not leave until I gave him my phone number. Some of the customers at my other tables even started to try and intervene on my behalf. In short, it was a mess.

What was so frustrating throughout this episode was that I was so close to turning around and giving this fool a piece of my mind in a manner akin to the speech Erin Brockovich gives to the similarly slimy character giving her trouble in the film. I didn’t say it, but if I had it would have gone something like this:

“So you want my number? Well, I have numbers coming out of my ears. But, seeing as I am busy working, let’s just go with five, which happens to be the time I get up every morning to get ready for varsity. Four is the number of shifts I work [though not always] per week in this hellhole in an effort to make enough money to do it all over again the next week. Three is the number of jobs (plural!) which I work in order to sustain what really isn’t an extravagant lifestyle. Two is for the number of degrees I have [I’m still working on the second one, but this would break the momentum and probably be too complex for the drunken mess of a prole I was dealing with to understand anyway]. One is for my incredibly intelligent, talented, VIP superstar boyfriend who loves me and whom I would never consider leaving (least of all for a dodgy, ugly mess of a human being who preys upon the server-customer dynamic which happens to put him in a position of power), and who would be most upset and angry if he ever found out that I was being violated in such a way. And with all the numbers I’ve just given you, I’m sure even you can understand that zero is both the amount of respect I have for you and the chance you have of ever being with me.”

It would have cost me my tip (which was non-existent anyway. Perhaps my eyes said what my mouth could not.) and my job, but would have unquestionably have relieved my feelings.

And I know he’s probably just a sad, frustrated, aging wreck of a man, but that is certainly no excuse for abuse. In all my years of waitressing I’ve never spat in or otherwise deliberately sabotaged someone’s meal. Apart from being unethical and disgusting, it simply never occurs to me at the time. But, sometimes, I think about it afterwards. There’s that saying that goes “don’t bite the hand that feeds you”. Well, don’t disrespect the owner of the hands that hand you your food either!

Michel Foucault deconstructed pretty much everything through his writing, but maintained that one thing is inevitable: revolution. It didn’t happen that day and will most likely not happen for many years (if ever at all). However, in my darkest dreams, I plot the most revolting of revolutions for such “regulars” so lacking in respect.

Ode to Betty

I recently came across an album of old photos. Actually, that’s a lie. I was procrastinating and on my way to the kitchen for about the seventh time in one hour I saw the shelf where these photos have been my entire life and jumped at the chance to peruse them (it was surely a necessity to examine my own past before even attempting an essay on gender and identity).

And then I saw her.

Not the best photo but, as far as I can establish, the only one that exists. She was my first ‘Barbie’ and her name was Betty. She wasn’t a “real” Barbie in that she wasn’t created by Mattel, but she was the first such doll I ever had. She wasn’t made out of the glossy and solid plastic ‘real’ Barbies are, and she only had two or three outfits, but I loved her with all my heart. She had brown hair (like mine) and wasn’t what one might call beautiful (again, I identified with her) but she was fancy and she was mine.

During the summer holiday before I went to "big school" my parents and I went on a roadtrip up the coast. We stopped for lunch along the way and requested a table for four (for, of course, Betty had to have her own place setting). We had a tasty meal and went on our way and it wasn’t until hours later when we were hundreds of kilometres away that I realised I had left Betty behind.

I was devastated.

My mother comforted me and said that another little girl had found her and given her a good home. Also, that, although Betty was sad to leave me, she would always love and remember me. I don’t know how my mother knew this, but she knew everything then (mos), and I was just glad she was safe.

Soon after this I got a replacement Barbie. She was blonde, tanned and attired in a cowgirl outfit with long pink boots that were made for her feet (which were only suited for high heels). She was glamorous, to be sure. But she wasn’t Betty. New Barbie (whose name changed so frequently that I don’t associate her with any name in particular) was followed by others, including a Ken who had to double as both father and husband to the others (no mean feat for one clad only in lifesaver short-shorts and a gold mesh vest). But although they’re all still around, albeit packed away in a box someplace, none of them ever took Betty’s place in my heart.

When they fell I wouldn’t run to pick them up and kiss them better. They didn’t accompany me around the house like Betty did, nor did I feel the need to take them with me to school every now and then when I was feeling sad or scared.

I’ll never forget Betty because she was much more to me than a toy. She was a friend. I wonder if children today ever feel the same attachment towards a particular toy. Imagination is not exactly something that is encouraged in an age when one’s profit can be multiplied by creating every ‘must-have’ accessory under the sun to make the experience of the toy “complete”.

I remember a time when you didn’t need to “catch them all” or have it all.

When imagination took us everywhere and Betty was the most beautiful because she was mine.

When no one else’s approval mattered.

I remember when she was mine.

In a world of my own...

I’m starting this blog because, like many arts graduates in the midst of post-graduation day euphoria, I feel the pressing need to do something (…anything!) with my life that is different from the things I have been doing for the past couple of years.

Also, having been in something of a creative drought since leaving high school and the realms of concert band, debating, drama class and our controversial (but well-loved) school paper, I have been increasingly desirous of a medium through which to channel my thoughts and stories. This blog is thus part of my attempt to stay sane and tell some stories about fancy things, such as the anxiety of the word “abominable” and its apparently inextricable connection with snowmen, what the carpet would say if only someone would take the trouble to ask it, and why when you say “potato” I hear “vodka”!

However, in the immortal words of Abba, "no promises, no regrets".

Enjoy and please try not to kill people while you are thinking.