It’s pretty interesting working in an upscale Nashville restaurant where lawyers and professors and music executives often meet for lunch and Big Talking. Everyone is Very Rich and Very Powerful. Hear Them!

I overhear attorneys laughing over playing tic tac toe in the courtroom while they are charging a clueless client $250 an hour. I hear statements like, “Truth be told, $500,000 is not that big an investment. It’s nothing. Chump change.” I get to see wanna-be country music-singin’ starlets complain to their agents about too many “pictures of me with hay bales.” The valets love to spill it about which suit owns the shiny Jag out front that stinks of scotch. You know, thanks to the clearly evident highball glass in the console’s cup holder.

The best is that since everybody is so clearly some fucking body that they all deserve preferential treatment. This 65-year-old waspy looking hag just tonight was all in my face, talking about, “It’s been over the thirty minute mark. I have an early flight in the morning. [It was 7:30 p.m.] We are such valuable customers that I really hate it that we are having to wait so long. You know we meant to get here at 5:30, but (pointing to a woman nearly in her 80s) she has dementia and they got lost on 8th Ave., and I had to go get them.” My cohort explained that the only server with an open table just got 3 big, new ones and that we had to at least give her 5-10 minutes to get caught up. Her response was, “Well, is the kitchen too busy? Because we can go ahead and order now, because I know what we are having. I know I am having the steak salad and he is going to get the pasta. She may not eat at all.” I walked away from her in mid-order.

Just about this time my other deft and cunning cohort had bussed and wiped a freshly availavble booth and was offering it to them generously. “Oh, well, we can’t sit in a booth, he can’t get out.” I’m am seriously fucking myself in the karma department for saying this, but I wanted to tell her she should have thought twice about bringing their old asses out and being all picky and shit, acting like because you’re old you get shit. Looking like a skeleton in a tired, old Chanel suit gets you fuck all, bitch.

It’s totally worth it though, when wiping down a table I get to hear this kind of stuff: “I told Reba, ‘Men don’t buy t-shirts with women’s pictures on them!’”