Make That Money...

A cocktail tray makes an excellent Frisbee. If one is adept in the handling of a Frisbee, one can fire a cocktail tray at someone’s head with deadly precision and accuracy.

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I had to work my way through college. I had three jobs.

The first was ad designer for the school newspaper. I put in some very long hours over there, but the atmosphere was enjoyable and the staff was totally cool. It was actually one of the highest paying “campus jobs” available. That wasn’t saying much though.

The second was babysitting. In one of my art classes there was a young mother. She used to talk about her two-year-old son all the time. Then one day she mentioned that she couldn’t wait to see him.

“Where is he?”

“He stays with my parents while I go to school.”

“Do they live nearby?”

“About three hours away.”

“So how often do you see your baby???”

“Every other weekend.”

Turns out the problem was her 8:30am classes. She couldn’t get anyone to watch him during that time. Oh, and the other problem was she had hardly any money. So I offered to watch him in the mornings. She paid me $1 per hour. It was worth it.

My third job was cocktail waitressing at one of the local hotspots. Now that was a fun job! I got to meet a lot of people, I made great tips, and I didn’t spend money going out and drinking like everyone else I knew. My friends would come in and hang out with me sometimes, and if it wasn’t too busy I would be dancing or chatting with my usual customers.

We wore cute little outfits too: white tuxedo shirts with red bow ties and cummerbunds, and little tuxedo shorts. I could often be seen running down our street in this outfit, trying to catch the bus to work. My roommate joked that I was known on our block as The Running Girl.

At the end of the night, the club owner would give $200 to the staff so everyone could go out to the diner and get breakfast. We were like family.

And after that I’d sleep for an hour or two, and then take the 7am bus to go babysitting for little Najee.

Somehow I was able to squeeze my classes in there too.

Well one night when I showed up for work at the bar, there was a meeting in progress. We had a new owner, Alex, a man who had been one of my frequent customers and always kind of gave me the creeps.

At the meeting, Alex let us know that he wanted to keep the current staff intact. Well that was a relief. He also handed out, to the cocktail waitresses only, a new piece of uniform. Instead of wearing the tuxedo shirt, he wanted us to wear these sleeveless, backless tuxedo shirts with our red bowties and cummerbunds.

I looked at this thing in disbelief. There was very little material.

“I’d like you to wear these for our grand reopening this Friday night."

“Where’s the rest of it?” I asked.

“Oh, you’re going to look very nice in this. You’ll make a lot of tips.”

“I can’t walk through a crowded bar wearing this. All that skin showing is an invitation to the drunks to touch me.”

“You’ll be fine. That’s what bouncers are for.”

“Can’t I just wear my regular shirt?”

“Just try it. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to wear it again.”

So I tried it. Begrudgingly.

It used to be a pretty classy place, but I could see that it was going to go downhill pretty quickly under his reign. Alex had advertised a wet t-shirt contest. The place was a mob scene.

Just as I had expected, as I worked my way through the crowd taking drink orders, I often felt a hand across my back. And guys put their hands on my back while they were talking to me. I was constantly being touched, and it was freaking me out.

Then, while taking orders up near the stage, amongst the patrons who were shouting “Skin to win!” to the contest participants, a hand grabbed hold of my cheek. No, not the one on my face.

I didn’t even see who it was. I just seized the hand and lead it out of the crowd, through the tables, over to the other end of the bar near the stairs. I gave the hand to Colin, our 6’7” bouncer.

“I found this where it doesn’t belong. Please throw this idiot out.”

Then I marched into the back room, absolutely fuming, and starting cashing out my tip jar. I was going home.

Alex came rushing in moments later to try to smooth things over. I think my enraged expression, no doubt reminiscent of the Exorcist, told him everything he needed to know. He kept a safe distance.

Or so he thought.

“Okay, I know, you don’t have to wear the shirt anymore…”

“I told you I didn’t want to wear this thing!”

“But you look so nice!”

A cocktail tray makes an excellent Frisbee. If one is adept in the handling of a Frisbee, one can fire a cocktail tray at someone’s head with deadly precision and accuracy.

Unfortunately, some people have outstanding reflexes. Alex ducked out of the way in time, and the tray crashed into the rack of pots behind him.

“I’m going home,” I said. He didn’t argue.

I was back at work the following night, wearing the old tuxedo shirt. So were all the other girls.



Needless to say, I’ve already started a college fund for Mandy.