Entries Tagged 'Overheard' ↓

You know, I hear a lot of talk. I’m a waitress. I overhear snatches of conversations at my table. I overhear political arguments of martini-sipping bar guests while sitting behind the host stand. I engage in friendly debates on current issues with co-workers just about every day. (The bar t.v. is always on CNN, so there is an impetus for the discussions.) And one thing no one is talking about is the newest terror threat.

All day long it blares on the tube overhead: “Clear and Present Danger” Top U.S. officials are telling us outright that, “We will be attacked.” And no one bats an eye.

The terror alert stories are followed with reports on Bush’s dismal ratings in the polls. I overhear something about “coincidence.”

It is becoming apparent to me that most people, not just a radical few, no longer trust their President and his administration. Even when that administration predicts a catastrophe.

This gives me some hope.

I thought I’d share with you a couple of conversations I’ve had in the past 24 hours.

How to Tell You’re in Tennessee

Last night, on the phone with the VCB:

VCB: You still at Mark’s?
Me: No, I’m at the grocery store already.
VCB: Wow, it sure is quiet.
Me: Yeah, I know. I’m in the vegetarian section.

How to be Made to Feel like a Racist Asshole

Earlier at work today:

Me: I’m sorry, gentleman, but we’ve had to close. Due to Vanderbilt’s graduation this morning we were enormously busy. So much so that we had to close our kitchen in order to prepare for the dinner rush. Although you are free to have a drink at the bar.
Guy #1: You are closed? (looking around the dining room)
Me: I’m afraid so. Sorry.
Guy #1: Oh, I see. I am not wearing my black tie.
(Guy #2 and #3 enter.)
Guy #1: She won’t serve us!
(All three men turn and leave.)
Guy #3, just before he exits: Because we are Mexican!

*sigh*

And with all the twat-y, monogrammed bleach blondes climbing into their fleet of Lexi* (everybody drove seperately, natch) it’s no wonder they thought so.

*Lexi is, to me anyway, the plural of Lexus.

Tonight some blonde girl in strappy stilettos and a little flouncy mini-skirt (What is with those? Ugh.) stumbled like a fawn on its first legs into the restaurant, obviously in mid-conversation, and blurted, “It’s not that hard! It’s not like it’s rocket scientist!”

Old, very loud man on treadmill: YOU KNOW THAT ONE CAN OF POTTED MEAT EQUALS A CUP OF LARD? IF YOU ARE OUT OF LARD JUST USE POTTED MEAT.

Very sweet, petite redhead who works at the gym on the treadmill beside him: Really? (sounding astonished)

man: I’M JUST PULLING YOUR LEG.

redhead: I thought you might be.

man: YOU KNOW, I GOT MY DEGREE IN ANTHROPOLOGY AND ALL IT GOT ME WAS A TRIP TO THE CRAZY HOUSE.*

(a minute or so later)

man: YOU’RE NICE.

redhead, sweetly: Yeah, it’s tough. It’s hard to find a balance between nice and politely telling someone to shove off.

man: YEAH, I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN.

man: DID YOU KNOW I WAS IN VIETNAM? …

Their conversation was enough to warrant me finishing early on the treadmill.

*No shit it did, old man.

B., one of my favorite fellow servers, mysteriously lost her voice last Friday night. She had a touch of a cough earlier in the week, but otherwise she didn’t feel bad at all.

Later that night I heard her greeting a new table. “Hi. Sorry about not having a voice. Not sure how that happened. I’ll try to speak up.”

A condescending woman at that table asked right away, “Are you contagious?”

B. said, “No. Why? Do you know someone who needs to be quiet?”

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!’”

The Scene: A below-freezing Saturday at the fancy-pants little restaurant where I work. A man waits with two women wearing calf-length fur coats.

The Man: (rubbing both the ladies backs) My furry women. I like my women nice and furry. … (pointing to a young, eclectic looking couple at the bar) We’ll have to be careful not to piss off the PETA people.

Woman One: (whispering to The Man) -indistinguishable-

The Man: You’re right. So right. There are more important things to worry about than stupid hippy peer pressure. Like breeding more of those fucking minks to make my furry girls each a nice pair of fur chaps.*

*Okay, that last sentence was somewhat exaggerated.

Why I adore a certain 6-year-old:

Me: Guess what! I don’t have a job!

A certain 6-year-old: Well, I don’t have pierced nipples!

The next motherfucker that addresses me by singing “Hey Brittney” (like Madonna does in that Britney Spears single) is getting a fist in the throat.

Bits of conversation I had or overheard during my bar shift tonight:

Man with the blue shirt and long face: “She left me. Left a note. And, man, she only packed one suitcase. Damn near broke my heart in two.”

Trashy, blonde redneck lady drinking draft Bud Light: “I told that motherfucker to not leave Travis alone with them puppies.”

Me: “Look at that, Marlboro 27s. I have never seen those.”
Her: (reaches to hand me one)
Me: “Oh, I don’t smoke. I quit. But thank you though.”
Her: “Then you don’t get one. I’ll just tell you how smooth they are and watch you jones.”
Dude beside Her: “27 is the numbers of swepts it took to make that cigarette. Little dirt, a little hair, some rat turds…”

Me: “Hey, how are you?”
Asshole with cheap, feet-stinky cigar: “I need a Sapphire and tonic and a banana daquiri.”
Me: “Oh no, I said, ‘Hey, how are you?’”

Little, tiny lady with the neat purse but questionable eyewear: “I’ll have the Chicken on…”
Me: “The Chicken on the Barbie?”
Little, tiny lady: “Yeah, thanks for not making me say it.”
Me: “Oh, no problem.”

Doofus guy with awful haircut: “Can we watch the Victoria’s Secret fashion show?”
Me: (in my head) “Well, it is prime time on ABC. And, uh, ‘no rules, just right’ or whatever.”
Me: “Yeah, I guess.”
-30 minutes later-
The Boss: “Brittney! Turn that off! This is a family restaurant and naked ladies are not appropraite for family restaurants!
Me: (in my head) Like I care about the dang naked ladies!

Some smarmy guy in a black suit: (to K., a pretty hostess) “I have lots of money.”
K., the pretty hostess, who I think now totally rules: “That’s unremarkable.”