Feb. 25 2004
Today, while waiting for the bus to go to work, one of my neighbors showed up at the bus stop. I asked,
"So where are you off to?"
"Job interview," he says, adding, "Bike repair."
I noticed that he had his bike with him. Strapped to his bike is a crate, where he has a cardboard box full of videos that he plans to sell at a video resale store.
Maybe it's good to go to a bike shop interview on a bike. I don't know.
He was wearing a Simpsons T shirt under an acid washed jeans jacket. Black jeans, a baseball cap. His mullet was pulled back into a ponytail. On his finger was a huge turquoise color ring with a big silver pot leaf in the center. Maybe it's me, but I don't think it's a good idea to wear marijuana jewelry to job interviews. It's like saying, "Hey, I may possibly indulge in illegal behavior." "Hey, I might be irresponsible due to drug induced behavior." I mean, of all places to wear a pot ring. To a job interview? Not to mention a Simpson's t-shirt. Or acid wash jeans jacket. Or mullet, for that matter. Or baseball cap.
It did not occur to me to say anything.
Yesterday, while working at the club, a man said to me,
"I find you very attractive," then adding, "of course, to each his own."
?
Feb. 23, 2004
Dear Girl I saw in the middle of the street:
You were laying face down. I didn't see any blood, but my boyfriend did. I saw an suv parked in the middle of the street. I wondered if it had hit you. I didn't see you move. My boyfriend said your legs did. I saw your short brown hair. I saw that you were young. I thought you were in your early twenties at the latest.
Face down in the middle of the street and a firetruck pulled up. The fireman was walking towards you. He looked at my face. I stared at his, wondering if he has to see this all the time.
I thought, one second.
All it took was one second, for you to walk into the street, presumably crossing it. And in one second, your life--
was changed
maybe even ended
one second.
I got nauseous. I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn't figure out why. I don't think it was the gore.
Maybe it was because the image wasn't right. It's not right seeing someone laying face down in the middle of the street and not get up. It's not right in a what's- wrong-with-this-picture way, rather, something is very wrong.
I gagged a little. Later though.
That was Friday. Sunday I didn't want to go to the grocery store. I kept thinking about all the streets I'd have to cross. I thought 'oh no, I'm becoming phobic...' but I stayed home anyway. I thought maybe I was overly sensitive due to my period, and I'd be able to leave my apartment eventually.
I did leave my apartment. Monday, I left for work, thinking about you. I wondered why I had gotten nauseous. What had made me feel that way? I thought maybe it was the injustice.
It occurred to me how my circumstances depress me. And have, since I was a kid. I always wish I had better...
I realized how much I love my life. I realized I love the trees I walk by. I love how the world moves past me when I walk, all the colors--gray sidewalk, blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, orange trimmed building, blue house.
I stopped by a store on my way to work. I bought three 99 cent plastic planters in pastel colors. I'm going to plant basil in one, cilantro in another, and green onions.
As I exited the store, a wind blew. I think maybe they're called whirlwinds. ? I don't know...it's when winds blow in different directions and come together and start spinning. In the parking lot, this wind had picked up a zillion tiny white flower petals, and they were all sprinkly floating flying in a circle, in a huge tube, taller than me, all these white flower petals like God was throwing a little party or something. I stared at it like how f-in' lucky I am to see this right now. How friggin blessed I am.
Sometimes in the rare moments when I'm not depressed and I'm in one of my private happy moods, I think the world is my Disneyland.
A place for me to play.
Today I finally wrote. I couldn't write for a while. I can now--but I had to write it in letter form. Maybe I've dealt with it.
I opened my notebook and found a poem that I had written maybe a month ago. I'd forgotten about the incident. But it was another incident like the flower petal party.
This is what I wrote:
Life is beautiful sometimes
walking the distance from bus stop to
work today I see across the street
3 Happy's...
In the center a woman in a motorized wheelchair
In front of her biting at her feet was her helper dog
with his vest on and
out of helper dog mode
just nipping at her feet like any old happy dog
playing and running backwards though, so he
don't get run over
Behind her, her mom (or someone)
with short white hair
face to the wind
Hitching a ride on the back of the thing
zipping down the sidewalk
the three of them.
For a moment I'm not
walking to work in feet that hurt already
I'm a kid on a hot day
sucking on a cherry popsicle
tasting happy with my eyes.
--------My former poetry teacher would tell me to write the above in a narrative. Story style. Probably.
How cute it all was, this happy dog nipping at this womans feet, jumping/running backwards as the wheelchair zipped along. Mom or someone was standing on the back of the thing, being carried along. Head held high. Like it said, the three of them zipping along the sidewalk. It was another of those blessed moments. Where I just stare, like wow, what a privelege I get to see this.
Dear girl in the middle of the street,
I wanted to call the fire department and find out if you were okay. But I didn't. I didn't want to hear that you weren't okay. I only wanted to hear that you were okay. So I'm not going to call.
I prayed instead. I prayed that you were okay. I thought I heard a voice saying you were. I don't know if that means you're dead or what, but I think I'm supposed to know you're okay. Still, I'm not going to call the fire department. I just want you to know that I hope you are okay.
Dear Girl who was laying face down in the middle of the street,
For all it's worth, I am thinking about you.
Adult Bookstores
Yesterday, my friend Jim offers to give me a ride home from work. I accept. We're driving along, and he says he has to make a stop and pick up a video. The video was Caligula, and we had to stop by an adult bookstore to get it.
I am suspicious by nature
I have had past experiences
I am female
Due to the above, I know that a man who offers me
drugs
a nudie magazine
a visit to an adult bookstore
anything remotely sexual...
Is often hoping to get me aroused enough to allow him access to any number of my orifices.
The
actual physical response I get is closer to
disgust
irritation
an internal fight w/myself along the lines of 'don't hate men, they don't know any better, stop, be nice, don't yell in anger, you will only frighten him...etc." Which results in confusion/frustration, and often leads to "I need to go home." (translated 'you will never hear from me again.')
I assess the situation. Jim has several things going for him:
I've known him for a very long time
During the whole time, he's never pulled anything unclassy with me or anyone I know of.
The video was Caligula which has historical value, versus something like Bangin' Ho's or whatever.
I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and we go in the store.
Here is what it's like for a woman to enter an adult bookstore:
First of all, most of the patrons were/are male. As I walked by the rows of magazines, toys and videos, I could feel and see men sliding their eyes over to the side, surreptitiously checking me out...assessing my fuckability. Only we're in an adult bookstore, therefore anything has the appearance of fuckability, especially women under 50. (Now that I think about it, probably women under 120) Because for the moment I'm the only live female in there, I'm being checked out and likely doing some weird stuff in other people's imagination. So I'm feeling a bit disconcerted by the scrutiny.
The cashier has to help others before he can open the cabinet containing the video, so Jim and I end up waiting near the bachelorette party favors, like multicolored confetti shaped like tiny penises at $6 for about two tablespoons worth. Plus penis shaped cake pans, penis candles, penis etcetera.
The clerk finally calls us over. He has the video. I am standing at the cash register waiting for Jim to complete his purchase. A stylishly dressed woman in her twenties is next to me. I have no idea when she walked in. She smells. I look at her. I think maybe her leather jacket got wet. You know, how sometimes leather and suede smell funny when wet? But it's not raining outside. This woman smells like pee.
I was grossed out, to say the least. Maybe she had a bladder issue. Or her kid peed on her. But being in a sex shop smelling like pee--eww.
On another note, I did learn an interesting bit of info.
While in the penis confetti aisle, Jim told me about the evolution of the penis head: There are two types: conical, and mushroom heads. The conical ones are pointy, and the head is smaller than the shaft. These were functional during evolutionary times when the female had a mating plug (do a google search). They were able to break thru the plug. The mushroom shaped penis heads had another function. The mushroom shape creates a suction, which can suck out another mammals sperm to better replace it with their own.
I pointed out that the mushroom heads seemed more popular commercially.
We then left. Jim was a perfect gentleman. Hooray for Jim! And thanks to him for the dickhead science.
Another day at the Club
I ask a guy what he'd like to drink. He's small, blonde. Probably in his forties. Just then, my bra strap falls down my shoulder, so I reach in thru the neck of my shirt, and yank it up with my thumb. (took all of a second to do.)The guy's like,
"Yeah, that's what I want, MILK!" (said in southern accent.)
We have milk. I'm not sure if he's serious, so I ask, "Milk?"
He says, "Yes!" While staring at my tits. That cemented my suspicion. I was right, he doesn't want milk per se, he wants to make idiot comments. I can hardly contain my irritation, but I've got a fifty cent tip riding on the motherfucker, so I say, "Sorry, I'm not lactating right now." I'm trying to be polite, but comes out deadpan.
He makes some comment about trying or the fun's in trying or whatever, I forget, I was deafened by irritation. I finally bring him a couple of cokes (you will have to read my first post to understand the whole job thing) and he looks at my tits again and says,
"Them're real, aren't they," but it's more a statement than a question. The idiot then tries to slyly touch one, brush against one, during the transaction in a nonchalant oops it was an accident way. I dodged it.
Now I wonder, what is the correct response to the question:
"Them're real, aren't they?"
"Yes, them are?"
"Yes, them certainly is."
"Thems real, all right. And thems mine. Now gimme a tip and go away."
2/8/04
I got on the bus the other day and a friendly face waved hello. It was a guy I have spoken with a few times. I see him on the bus, also, he very occasionally comes into the strip club where I work. He's candid. On one occasion, I recall him telling me that the club was his only sexual outlet. Anyway, he uses these hand crutches. It appears his legs don't work. When in motion, he drags his lower body around.
So I go sit by him, in the section reserved for handicapped/elderly, and he breaks out with this story. Seems he was on a trolley, and they had to transfer the people to another trolley due to an error. Since he's disabled, he cannot immediately jump from one trolley to the next, so he threw his backpack out onto the ground outside, while he put his crutches on and prepared to exit.
A man offered to help.
He told the man that he could grab his backpack, so the guy did. He's pretty sure he said "thanks," after the guy picked his backpack up for him.
Then he asked the man if he could push the button on the other trolley to hold it for him, so it wouldn't leave.
The man said,
"Maybe if your attitude was a little better..."
I'm not sure exactly what my acquaintance said back, but it escalated until the man yelled,
"You're lucky you're a cripple or I'd kick your ass,"
at which point my acquaintance said,
"No, YOU'RE lucky!" as he boarded the trolley.
Once on, he saw the guy outside, pounded on the window to get the mans attention, and flipped him a one finger salute. (the bird)
I liked the above story he shared with me. But the story was over, so I had to say something to continue the conversational momentum. I recalled him having been in school, so I asked how that was going. He said he had to do a sememster over again. I said, "Oh, that's too bad!"
He explained,
"I thought I was going to have surgery."
He explained that we all make spinal fluid. In his case, his body produced about ten times more spinal fluid than the average person. He said that sometimes when there's nowhere for the spinal fluid to go, it will either go up or down, and in his case, it did both, giving him debilitating headaches, leaving him in excruciating pain. So he elected to have surgery.
The doctors wouldn't operate. Apparently, they won't perform the operation unless it's life threatening. I asked him why. I said, "Is the operation life threatening?"
He said, "Well, it will considerably shorten your life."
So we went on, and I was like 'gee that sucks that you have to have these horrible headaches," etc..., and he said he'd likely come by the club sometime soon, I told him when I worked, etc...etc...all the while feeling tremendously disturbed. I realized that this kid, this young bright, ballsy young man had at one time chosen between excruciating pain, or a shortened life, and he had chosen the latter.
I thought that was really fucked. What a choice to have to make.
So I posted the following on Craigslist under their rants. I got encouraging responses, many from other servers. I also got a couple of angry, hostile responses. WHATEVER. The following is a description of a typical work situation. By the way, I waitress at a strip club:
MY JOB RANT
Welcome to your neighborhood nudie bar! Come in, have a seat, check out all the pretty girls. Oh, look! Here comes one now. But why is she fully clothed? I’ll tell you: because she’s me, your nudie bar waitress--here to tell you about our two drink minimum…
“Two drinks!” you scream, “they didn’t tell us at the door!”
Let me explain, idiot:
They don’t tell you that at the door because they don’t want to scare you cheap bastards off. See, you come in, you see a naked dancing lady, chances are, even the cheap mofo’s want to stay. You’ll probably be too distracted by the live pussy to notice the signs on all the tables that say, “two drink minimum.” So I’ve been hired at minimum wage to inform you.
I don’t tell you this. Instead, I smile, and in the sweetest, bubbliest voice minimum wage can buy, I say,
“It’s not the doorman’s job to tell you about the two drink minimum, it’s MY job!”
I hold a little sign with all the drinks and prices on it in front of you and ask kindly, “What would you like?”
You ignore the sign and say, “I’ll have a Budweiser.”
This is where I change my tone to sad and empathetic.
“We don’t serve alcohol,” I explain, “It’s illegal in (insert city here) to have full nudity and alcohol.”
I feel you. I understand. You make me want to drink.
Other times, I think, good try, little under-21 punk. You only got in because it’s an 18 and up club.
You finally look at the sign I’ve patiently held in front of your face. This is where you exclaim loudly, “$4.25 for a COKE?!!”
Inwardly, I sigh. Outwardly, I correct,
“$8.50. You have to buy two.”
I sense your confusion, (not too good at math, eh?) so I explain again,
“It’s a TWO drink minimum.”
You’re speechless.
Let me explain: In America, when you have a business, you want it to make money. Say you have a nudie bar in a city/state where it’s illegal to have full nudity and booze under the same roof. Where the heck are you going to make your money? You gotta sell something. So you sell cokes and juices for $4.25. And you make it a two-drink minimum.
Now you’re really upset.
“8.50 for two cokes? I’m not paying $8.50 for two cokes!”
Here’s a reality check, idiot: First of all, I’m talking to you. I doubt women talk to you much, unless, like me, they’re in the service industry. That’s gotta be worth something. Secondly, have you been to the movies lately? They’re like $9, and you don’t even get cokes. What’s more, you have to leave after an hour and 50 minutes. In a strip club, the entertainment is live. Nudity, right in front of you, and you can stay longer than an hour and fifty minutes. Plus you get two nonalcoholic drinks. For a mere $8.50. It’s really a super bargain. So get off my ass. I didn’t set the prices.
The more I think about this, the more it bugs me. You aren’t paying $8.50 for cokes; you are paying $8.50 for the privilege of having many women take their clothes off and dance before you. Ask some random non-crack head woman outside to take her clothes off and dance for you for $8.50. See what happens. You might get slapped, you might get the police called on you. Now, with that same $8.50, you go try to get 15 women to do it. It ain’t gonna happen, buddy. So buy the drinks and realize it’s a bargain.
But I don’t balk at your resistance to the $8.50. Instead, I make a cute little flirty face and purr, “It’s really worth it…” (I’m a real fucking bargain at minimum wage, I tell you.)
Now what gets me is the sheer percentage of you who will---after all this---say,
“Nah, I’m good. I don’t want anything.”
You look past me, at the naked dancing lady, verbally and non verbally telling me, “go away …”
I try to put it in even simpler terms. I say,
“It’s a two drink MINIMUM. You HAVE to buy two drinks to be in here.”
Then pause, dumb it down more:
“You HAVE TO BUY TWO DRINKS.”
You don’t want to tear your eyes away from the bent over ass a few yards in front of you. I know, it’s a joy to watch a pretty naked girl bent over slapping her own ass. But somewhere in your pea brain, it registers that you cannot fully enjoy the ass until you get the persistent waitress to leave.
“Okay, okay,” you grumble.
“What would you like?” I ask, slightly relieved. My smile is warmer.
You look back at the sign. On it, an assortment of non-alcoholic beverages. Coke, diet coke, Sprite. Orange juice. Cranberry juice. Etcetera.
You start reading it. Slowly.
Yessssssss, your waitress has allllllllllllllllll dayyyyyyyyyy...
After an eternity, you decide.
“I’ll have coke.”
I turn to your friend, whose been standing next to you the entire time.
“What would you like?”
“Uh, nothing. I’m not thirsty.”
Part Two: I Bring the Drinks
“Are you guys paying separately or together?”
“Separate.”
“That’ll be eight fifty,” I say.
You see two cokes in front of you. You complain,
“Ahh, you bring ‘em two at a time?”
“Yes, you idiot. Like I would trust you to buy one now and one later?”
Actually I only say, “Yes. “
You hand me a twenty.
I make change, giving you eleven one-dollar bills and two quarters.
Why so many ones?
A. Because it’s a strip club! I’m hoping that once you see a big pile of ones, you’ll realize what they’re for, and give me one.
B. I know if I don’t give you a bunch of dollar bills now, you will be asking for them later when the stripper whose ass you’ve been staring at hits you up for money……… And lastly,
C. Since you’re probably not going to tip me well on the drinks, you for sure aren’t going to tip me for a second trip if I have to bring you change later. I unload all my ones on you now to save myself the trouble.
But I do make it slightly inconvenient. I have learned not to hand you your change, which you will pocket. If I put your change on my tray, you have to pick it up. I’m counting on you being too lazy to pick up the quarters. That way, I’ll get at least fifty cents, (yeah, it’s pathetic what I gotta do for fifty cents). Fifty cents is more of an insult than a tip, but because I make so little, I figure it’s better than nothing.
So you pick up the bills. You look at the two quarters on my tray, decide it’s not worth it, and leave them. You didn’t tip me; you were just too lazy to pick up the quarters. You don’t say thank you. Neither do I.
I turn to your friend.
“$8.50,” I say.
He’s rifling thru his pockets. He’s scrounged up a five-dollar bill and three wadded ones. He drops them on my tray.
“It’s $8.50,” I say. “You’re short fifty cents.”
He looks at you.
“You got fifty cent?”
You remember that fifty cents and nod at my tray. It’s already there. For a $17 order, I get nothing. And because I value/need my job, I don’t say anything.
Here’s a little rule: When you buy a drink, never tip less than a dollar. I live so far under the poverty level that I have to go to bars with $2 drink nights. I still tip a buck a drink.
If you ask your strip club waitress to go get someone because you want a lap dance, give me a dollar for my trouble. If you didn’t tip me for drinks, and don’t intend to tip me to go get her, get off your ass and get her yourself.
Lastly, don’t come in with a bunch of guys, have a big order, not tip me, then ask me to change $40 into ones to tip the dancers with.
I’m not making a living wage. My paychecks do not even cover my share of rent. And guess what? In the tipping/service industry, the government assumes we are getting tipped, and taxes us accordingly. I lose money when you don’t tip. It costs me money out of my paycheck!
My favorite: I wish you were out there reading this, but I’m assuming you’re retarded and illiterate. You came in. You bought two drinks. You asked for all ones for change. You gave me nothing, explaining, “I need these for tips.”
Let me explain something: You’re telling me that the naked ladies are more important for you to tip than your server. Well guess what? Some of those naked ladies (deservedly) make over $500 per night. Your dollar, little man, doesn’t mean shit to her. You will only mean something to her if you get her in a private booth and let her do a string of lap dances for you at $15 a pop. Ten dances, she’ll remember you and smile at you next time you come in.
I’ve seen strippers pick up dollars time and time again and not say “Thank you.” I will always say thank you for a dollar. That dollar will mean a lot more to your waitress.
I can’t believe you, saying, “I need these for tips.” Then not tipping me, your server.
I hope all that jacking off gives you carpal tunnel.
