Waitresses Don't Flirt

Waitresses Don't Flirt

Dear Son—

You are young but soon you will be a man. Maybe you will be lucky enough to have a girl to call your own. But if you don't, if you find yourself alone when you hit the age that it's socially acceptable to go out by yourself and do things on your own then I hope this advice will find you well.

You see Son, there is perhaps no more complicated social relationship you will ever encounter than the one between a single American male and his waitress. You will be confused. You will be troubled. You might even be hurt. Just know that it's okay to feel these things. Everyone has to go through them.

First off, let's get this out of the way—she doesn't like you. There are about a hundred to two hundred guys a week (depending on where you're eating) that talk to her and that interact with her and chances are, you're no different than any of them. And I don't want you to think you're not a cool kid. Because you are. But son, what you have to realize is that this woman is working for peanuts and her whole hope for regaining any shred of dignity after putting up with all the leers and ill-timed jokes is that you're going to tip really, really good. 

When this girl sees you, if it's slow she will fight with the other waitstaff to seat you. She will see you are alone. She will see that you are shy and that her attention is making you blush. She will see that you're whats called an “easy tip.”

And here I want to point out that tipping is not a bad thing. These people really deserve it. You're too young now but when you come of age, you will probably have a job in the service industry and if you do, you will see that it is a thankless, meaningless, hopeless means to an end and that every gratuitous penny you make helps to maintain the facade that the job isn't as bad as you know it really is.

So give her a tip. Whatever you can afford, though. Don't try and put her through college.

When this girl comes to your table and takes your order, and later, when she delivers the food, you will gush thanks for her attention like she is giving you free money. This is her job. You're paying for the food don't forget, so if something looks amiss—if the steak is overdone or if you asked for coleslaw instead of a salad, don't be afraid to say something. You won't offend her. She's not going to take it personally if you ask for a refill on your root-beer.

Slurping an empty cup to get to the last bit of watered-down drink at the bottom is rude. It's also the quickest way to get her attention. They hear this sound all day, every day—often in their dreams when they sleep at night. So when you start slurping and sucking through your empty straw, she will be there almost immediately with her smiles and cheer and a new root beer. Do not abuse this power.

And do not eat the ice-cubes. They're filthy, often times just a nic cleaner than the water in the toilet bowl. Seriously, I've read studies on it. Don't do it.

She might call you something when you tell her what you want. She might say something like “that sounds good, hun” or “coming right up, sweetie.” You will feel special, like this is a pet name—something she would say after a night of fuzzy yellow light, spent together in arms, huddled against the cold wind. You are not her sweetie. You are not her hun. You do not know this girl. She might not even be wearing a name tag. She is no one. You are no one. You might be no one together, briefly, in that place. But then it's over, the bill is folded on the table and she is looking at you from over by the counter, wondering when you're going to leave so she can seat another party.

When you leave, she'll smile sweetly. You'll be distracted by the smile, so much so that you miss the eyes—vacant and maybe a little sad or distant. Not for you to see. Not for you to know.

Pay and get out.

Maybe you will read this son. Maybe it won't matter. Maybe your mother will hide this letter with all my others in the bottom drawer of her dresser, under the shirts she doesn't wear—that she's forgotten she owns. Maybe she will give it to you someday when all of this has come and gone and I'm nothing but a dusty scratch of memory on your history.

I write to you sitting here, watching her as she grabs the coffee mug off of the burner. In front of everyone, a steaming white mug. She will approach me soon with my own bill and her smile will say be nice, tip well, pay, and get out.

Don't be a fool. Remember yourself, your loves and the lives they live.

Yours Faithfully,

Dad