Matt Learns an Important Lesson About Waitresses, by Matt Shirley

“Why the hell do you work out here if you live by USC?”

I found myself posing this question to our waitress as she produced another round of $3 Miller Lites. Anyone who spends a lot of time around me knows that I don’t ever talk to waitresses. My brother Paul has no problem scribbling his number on a bar napkin or asking our attendant what she’s doing after work, but I do. I don’t want to be just another a-hole talking up his waitress. Talking a-holes are terrifying.

In fact, I don’t even talk to GIRLS that much – waitresses or otherwise. Well, I suppose I do talk with girls from time to time but I never hit on them. Not without some serious signs of interest at least. Some of these signs include:

1. At least 30 instances of intense eye contact.
2. A wink followed by a wave followed by another wink.
3. A note that says “Come talk to me or I will shank you.”

It’s not that I’m too cool to talk to girls or anything. I’m just spineless.

But this waitress of ours practically forced me to talk to her. My group of three (my friend (and yours) Hank Layton, a college buddy of mine, and me) had come to this dark karaoke bar to catch an NBA finals game and watch some old ladies make fools of themselves. I had no intention of talking to this waitress, but she kept chatting me up and touching my shoulder (we went skiing, we made a snowman, she touched my leg…) so I had no choice.

And so I talked. And drank. And watched basketball. And drank.

Long after the Mavericks had finished off the Heat and some drunk guy had burned through 10 minutes of our time with a heartfelt (but bad) rendition of “American Pie”, we decided to call it a night. Per standard operating procedure in such a situation, I planned to ask for our waitress’s number. Here’s how that conversation went.

Waitress brings check.

Waitress: Anything else I can get for you guys?
Me: Yes actually. I would like your phone number.
Waitress: I’m sorry, I don’t give my number out to customers.
Me: What?!

Her response was clearly a retarded thing to say because giving your number out to a person at the bar you work at is no different than giving your number out to a person at a bar you don’t work at.

But more than that I was insulted. The two options that explained her behavior both made me look like an ass.

A) She was just being nice to me all night so I would give her a big tip at the end of the night and this is just what she says to suckers like me. (Joke’s on her! Hank left the tip!)

Or

B) She actually believed what she said, which means I was talking to a moron all night while thinking I wasn’t talking to a moron all night. (I already know where you work, if I wanted to stalk you I pretty much could already.)

I know what you’re thinking; it’s obviously the first one. Waitresses try to get tips using all types of schemes. And talking to some guy you’re waiting on is probably more fun than not talking to some guy you’re waiting on. It passes the time.

Guess what?

You’re right.

This was confirmed when Hank and I went back to this same establishment a month or so later. She was there again. And waited on us again. This time, though, she was cold and robotic. And to top it off, she acted like she had never seen me before.

But also this time, I was responsible for the tip.

She got 35 cents.

***

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