With Love
Issue date: 10/19/09 Section: Opinion
Dear
Oh how I love thee. You and your Karisma bags filled with size -3 pants that cost $900 each walk into my restaurant. I smile enthusiastically as I come to your table, eager to serve no one but you. I've been waiting all day just for you two, my only customers. I count the hours until you walk through that door and then my heart jumps for joy, as you look over the menu, in your Ralph Lauren outfits with a confused look on your faces. I admire your devotion to the brand and the fact that if it were a religion, you (and the credit card your parents pay for) would be the most devout followers of Ralph Lauren-ism.
As I cheerily state my name, one of you cuts me off with your request for a cup of soup and a water. A grand total of $10 for you and your friend combined. Don't worry about knowing my name, just cut me off and tell me exactly what you want. I am your humble, lowly slave. In fact, please just snap your fingers in the air and no matter how busy I am or how far away I am, I'll know that you need me for something minuscule. Like the saying goes, "every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings," every time you snap at a waitress, her self-worth goes up a whole half of a point. It's just what she lives for … to be snapped at by spoiled, rude people.
I work quickly to get the items to you and savor all the time you spend speaking with your friend about important things like celebrity gossip, how many times you've been tanning today and how you need to go to CVS to get some more platinum Miami blonde hair dye while gazing at your expensive fake nails to see if they look just right. Oh, I know I was supposed to go home at 2 p.m., but having you come in at one and sit around until four is just fine. I love to spend extra hours working when I have a ten-page paper due tomorrow - but that's my fault for having to work so much and put myself through school. At least I'll have the privilege of making some money for the great job I did serving you. I would just fall to pieces if I didn't have you, sweetie-pie.
You finally snap your fingers at me as I walk by. You ask for the check. I have six other tables, but no matter - you, my darling, are the only one I have eyes for at this very moment and I know you know that since that's how it's been your whole life. You're the apple of your daddy's eye and mine too. I let out a sigh of gratitude as I gingerly hand you your checks and curtsy as I back away and thank you so very much for coming to my restaurant and getting soup and a water. It's a good thing you didn't go to a coffee shop where there aren't any waitresses and you can sit for as long as you want and you don't have to tip anyone regardless of the total amount of things you bought. That would be a waste of time, so instead, please, oh please waste my time instead.
You rise from your seats, Vera Bradley / Coach case-covered Blackberries in hand and turn to leave the restaurant, Karisma goodies in tow. I wave goodbye and thank you for coming in and you gracefully ignore me while your friend murmurs something that sounded like "thanks" … or maybe she just sneezed. Nevermind. I watch you leave and count the minutes until you return.
I turn to clear your table and the whole 30 cents that lie there are like a beacon of hope - to me, my wallet and my Miami bill for going here. Now I can buy a whole bag of penny candy at the old fashioned candy shop down the street or perhaps a slingshot. Don't worry bad tipper, I won't spend my 30 cents all in one place. Who tips at least 20 percent anymore, anyway? Not you. You have no concept of that idea because you've never waited tables, but that's okay. I can only hope to see you soon and that the tip you leave next time will be a modest 10 percent. Perhaps even 20 percent if you have your wits about you.
with love,
The Waitress
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