When my grandparents were really really satisfied with what happened at a meal, they would tip 15%. Now I'm almost disapointed when someone leaves me less than 20. Once a truely awful woman left me 10% out of spite. But it really isn't all that uncommon to get 25%, and I have on occassion--when I really worked the table--I mean really worked the waiter-waitee banter--I mean, like sitting down at their table and having a margarita with them--seen as much as 45%. But is the quality of service changing as the average tip price goes up? Is it the same percentage? In England you rarely tip at restaurants and the thinking is that the people serving you are already paid well, have health care, etc. I gave up a fixed-income office job for waitering, but the pay may not be much different, in fact it might even be less. But there is a chance that I could make more money on certain nights than others. And that is what makes me an American.
1) There is no beach dwelling society on earth that has blond hair. Even polynesians don't develop highlights. Yet the icon is always tan and blonde. How could we let this happen?
2) For some reason I arbitrarily hate people with alergies. "Is it self-loathe?" I ask myself as I prepare to drop eight dollars on over-the-counter histamine inhibitors. The best I can figure is that many arbitrarily hate me for being a vegetarian because they assume I will make my business theirs at mealtime. There is currently an advertisement on TV of a mother explaining the horrors of watching her son play soccer, knowing that he is allergic to bee stings. "Sam's determined to play pro-ball, despite his life-threatening allergies. Last time, Sam's throat closed up--he couldn't breathe!" And I can't stop wishing the child would die.
3)No, I'm serious about this. Due to my vaguely vegan diet, I rarely eat in a restaurant without becoming Mr. Special Order, and often end up having the waitperson invent a meal for me based on ingredients from other selections. But when I'm taking someones order now, and they tell me to ask the chef if there's any flour in the corn tortilla, or if there's any dairy in the guacamole, I want to lie to them, if only to get them out of the gene pool.
Since moving to the beach and making new friends I find myself strattle two stratifications: on the one hand my dearest friends are locals--it is important to be local at the beach, I've learned--they work alot and know the other locals, they introduce me around as the new guy, not the temporary guy. On the other is the people I meet who are my age and live in their parents or grandparents beach mansions. They live in a perpetual, consequence-free bubble which I can best liken to that of the rich kid in every eighties movie whose parents are out of town for the weekend.
They've grown up with honest to god sweater-around-the-neck parents, and are--for many, many reasons--psychologically disfigured. This makes them hilarious to me.
I spent last evening among them at a mansion (grandparents'), nine debutaunts, Amanda, and little ole me. When appologizing for the shortage of diet coke for rum and cokes, they launched into a discussion about their parents concerns over their respective weight-gain in college. The drunkest among them fell into awkward diatribes to invisible mothers: "Yeah, I gained ten pounds, so what? What? Sorry I'm not little miss perfect!" Have you ever witnessed someone yelling at someone who is not present? Well add 20 years of pent-up agression and a shot of Captain Morgans.
"Sure Sherry didn't gain weight when she went to college. Sherry fucking throws up her fucking salad everyday after lunch. Is that what you want? You want me to get an eating disorder--again?"
(yelling over the other girl) "So what if I'm not 5'6" 97 pounds like you? I'm fuckin who I am." She goes on to mention that her mother (still both there and not there) weighed the same amount when pregnant with her, which may account for something.
I can't help feeling sorry for them, but it's easier to laugh.
Let's be honest about something here: I'm a pretty terrible waiter. This is not to say that I don't like my job, or that I don't return each night from work and jump on the bed while throwing hundreds of dollars in the air screaming "...the kinfolks said 'Jed, move away from there!' they said California's the place you outta be..." It's just that I have the worst memory in the world.
If I have three tables in the back, I'm sure as hell going to forget I sat you in the front 20 minutes ago in the front and promised to be back with your margaritas. Could you have a glass of water when I get the chance? Of course, but if I don't get it immediately I will forget it and have to make something up about the delay next time I'm at your table.
The other day I filled in at breakfast, which was something I thought I'd be good at. But it turns out I'm not. I closed at eleven the night before and returned eight hours later, completely brainfried. By the afternoon I was complely losing my shit. A husband and wife team were seated outside, and I trotted out there with their two Dos Equis Lagers on my tray.
Waiter: Alright guys, it's beer time. (smiles) do you know what you want for lun--
Wife: (screams, the next instant feels as though in slow motiong)
Waiter: (removes his workboot from on top of woman's sandaled foot)
Wife: (inhales from corners of mouth in lieu of screaming more)
Waiter: (does a little dance with foot in the air to regain balance, which works fine for him.)
Beer on tray: (lands on man's backpack, splashes, leaks all over table, and then onto woman's now red foot.)
I pretend to feel really bad about this, even though the woman's foot was in the aisle, waiting as if to trip Biff Tannon. I begin to make promises about bringing fresh beer and taking the man's hiking purse to the back to clean it. My apparent deep concern and repeat mentioning of deep concern makes them feel sorry for me and assure me that the injured/soaked foot does not hurt, despite husband's note of how much she screams at home when he steps on her foot.
Wife comes in moments later to check on food, which she thinks should be done already, and adds that neither the beer on her lap, nor the one on her table is the variety she ordered. I pretend to feel just awful about this and use the phrase "0 for 2 with you." Moments later I return with beer and allow them to ridicule me in the good natured way of people who wish they were not middle aged. We discuss where they are from, the recent weather, my career goals, etc.
This is the point where I save them as customers and secure my forthcoming tip ($10, in this case, or 40%) by smothing things over, providing them with free things for free (more chips? salsa?), discussing their beverage choice, assuring them that such a beverage choice is a sign of good taste, etc.
I return soon after with two chicken quesadillas, which--if you are wondering--is not the meat filling they had ordered.
Someone at my school made up a quiz for how much of a "badass" you could be considered on campus. I have no idea whether it is someone I know mocking themselves, or someone else mocking my people.
Try it out:
I scored a 49% on the "How much of a kenyon badass are you" Quizie! What about you?
It was a question that males of my tax bracket/socioeconomic background/sexuality do not expect to hear while in the room where they are about to have their hair cut. I expect coffee in the emergency room, and even then it should be from a machine and from my quarters.
The question came up again with Justin, a man who came to get me "for a wash." I was out of my depths entirely and I did whatever he told me, figuring that instead of using barbersol to clean the combs and scissors, this place preferred to clean my hair before it could dirty their implements. Putting the mug down, I followed him.
As he protected my shirt collar and provided me with a towel, he sat me down with my back facing a sink and asked if I wished to have any hand lotion. It turns out I did not. Having Ozzy hearing, I had trouble understanding him as the spray of the warm, soothing water rushed over my greasy-ass hair. He mentioned something else and all I caught was "--ritz--cucumber--spray." Assuming it was a variety of shampoo I said yes before he could come up with more options.
Moments later he laid cucumber slices upon my eyelids. I jumped a little. I had never seen this done, with the exception of one scene in the 1992 film "Don't Tell Mom The Babysitters Dead." This can't be happening, I thought. If it is happening, it is going to cost me more money than I had thought (it didn't). He went on to massage my scalp and provide my hair with conditioner as he rubbed some calming shit into my temples. What the hell am I doing here?I beleive I went through a checklist in my mind the way homophobic men do when they wonder if they could be a gay.
Me? No, not me. I own a motorcycle. I trim my nails by biting them. Recently I rented a movie that was about the CIA. Before that I changed the oil in my car, myself. Currently I have an electrical burn.
But of course, whether it was "me" or not didn't matter. Because I could always pretend to be someone else entirely. The woman who Justin lead me to began to arrange me in a manner wherin she could cut my hair, and required service-banter. So I said, "Yeah, I haven't had a good haircut since I left england." And immediately pretended to be the old standby: Young American Magazine Writer, Who Lived in England Until the Magazine went Belly Up.
Eager to match her haircutting skills with her European counter-parts, she brought her A-game to my scalp, while I told her stories.
"Wow, So how did you get home from Prague when your home offices closed on you?" Pretending to be a magazine writer is still my favorite guilty pleasure because I can talk at length about subjects I have become obessed about over the years, or extrapolate on something I saw on Behind the Music and say, "Yeah, I did a story on that once," as a way of explaining a seemingly incongruous conversation shift, all while under the auspices of a periodical that doesn't exist.
"Spight magazine? Yeah, you know I think my old roomate used to subscribe to that. I should dig out her old issues and read your stuff."
