It was the day after Thanksgiving. The biggest retail day of the year, and you would know that I'd be slaving in a Mexican restaurant in a damn mall. To say that day was busy would be accurate, but it just wasn't that day. It was the whole weekend. Thankfully, we only saw mothers and aunts and grandmas during the first rush at Christmas. They'd left the brats at home with the beer drinking dads and uncles and grandpas. ( By the way, I loved children til I waited tables. Side note to mothers: Order for your whiney kid in a Mexican restaurant. If you dont' speak Spanish, your brat sure as hell doesn't AND keep your kid tied to a chair if you have to. Those huge trays that waiters carry full of food tend to squash those tiny precious tykes because we can't see them when they are crawling around on the floor because our arms are full of hot tamales and fluffy green taco salads on trays bigger than ur kid that block our view of your brat. ) Anyway, at least early Christmas shoppers left the sweet little booger-eaters at home.
This was an Americanized version of a Mexican restaurant with American waiters and management. The only real Mexicans we had at the time washed dishes and made salads. A big black girl named Janet (( with 5 little girls and a toothpick sized husband who used to beat her )) was the main cook; her sidekick, Skurbin -- an anorexic white kid with acne issues -- kept the queso flowing and the salad girls were a pair of Guatemalan sisters sans green cards who made me very thankful that I spoke Spanish cuz if I hadn't, my customers would have received whatever the Guat girls wanted to prepare. (( and the other servers had to contend with that )) It was a full service restaurant with a bar and a beautiful Bartendress and a not-too-shabby-to-look-at Bartender -- both of American descent. This particular restaurant was part of a chain that was owned by a horseman who had hit it big, made some money, had an affair with his Mexican housekeeper and decided to invest in refried beans after the divorce and new marriage. WHITE TRASH flashed above his 10 gallon cowboy hat in golden neon in my mind every time I saw the rude drunk, and I can't print what I thought of his former housekeeper turned Queen of Refrieds. I usually just avoided his table and presence on his trips to Hot Springs. Thankfully, he was only usually in town during holidays and racing season. He had this idea that he was somehow KING of everything when he walked into the restaurant, and he expected everyone to wait on him hand and foot for free. (( IF YOU OWN A RESTAURANT, TIP YOUR EMPLOYEES. They are not your slaves. Slavery was abolished in this country in the 1860's. If you are not from this country, perhaps it would be better if you learned a bit about our history and laws before you bought a business. You might save yourself a lot of money in lawyers fees and legal settlements. Believe it or not, most of your waiters are probably more educated than you are, and they would love to sue your ass and watch you be humbled because of the way you treat them. )) I always felt like the wife was worse, but that is probably because I spoke Spanish and fully understood the vile things that flowed from her mouth. I needed the job, so I kept my mouth shut...for awhile.
Anyway, so you get the idea of the type of place I worked in. For awhile, I was the only gay person who worked there, and I kept it under my skirt for as long as I could because I was afraid of rejection, and I was afraid of losing my job. (( Yeah, they can fire you for being gay here, and it does happen )).....but little by little....co-workers began to take notice that I showered regularly, gelled my hair and even wore colonge..Oh yeah, and there was one more BIG give away. I spoke proper English. All of those things are gay give-aways in Arkansas. Let's face it, I would have looked like a fool if I had denied it, and I would have been a liar. So, I finally gave-in to their their subtle hints, but I waited for as long as I could. You see, I learned a long time ago that it is best to let people know you as a person BEFORE you let them stick a label on you, otherwise, you become JUST like the other gay people they knew. AND, in this town, that wasn't always a good thing.........I am not like the other gay people they knew. I am not like any other person they knew. I was me and there is only one me, and I didn't have any problems being me...BUT..I'd have a problem being like the other gay people you knew.
My fears of losing my job vanished after I'd been there for a few days because these servers sucked, and it didn't take long to become the best damn ( and most requested ) waiter there -- even though I'd never done it before but had lied and said I had to get the job. How hard is to wait tables, I thought? Well, it wasn't hard for me, but it was apparently hard for many people. The turn over was unbelievable: one drunk after another walked in the door and walked or ran just as quickly out. I do have to say that you have to use many skills to be a good server, and it can be a difficult job if you are an idiot.
During the Christmas holidays, carols played from the speakers through out the mall, but in the restaurant it was even better than that. We heard Spanish Christmas carols all day and all night for 29 days. The same carols over and over and over in Spanish, and I don't mean they were American carols with only Spanish words. Oh hell no. They have their own Spanish carols, and while I am all for multiculturalism, hearing "Felize Navidad" 27 times a day for 29 days in a row can wear on a person. At first, it was fun and interesting to hear these lovely mariachis sing over the loud speakers about the day of our Lord's birth, but by the end of the day, trust me, you were hoping for Easter so someone would kill those damn songs so you'd never have to hear them again.
If there is one phrase that I never want to hear at Christmastime, now..it is FELIZ NAVIDAD.
This was an Americanized version of a Mexican restaurant with American waiters and management. The only real Mexicans we had at the time washed dishes and made salads. A big black girl named Janet (( with 5 little girls and a toothpick sized husband who used to beat her )) was the main cook; her sidekick, Skurbin -- an anorexic white kid with acne issues -- kept the queso flowing and the salad girls were a pair of Guatemalan sisters sans green cards who made me very thankful that I spoke Spanish cuz if I hadn't, my customers would have received whatever the Guat girls wanted to prepare. (( and the other servers had to contend with that )) It was a full service restaurant with a bar and a beautiful Bartendress and a not-too-shabby-to-look-at Bartender -- both of American descent. This particular restaurant was part of a chain that was owned by a horseman who had hit it big, made some money, had an affair with his Mexican housekeeper and decided to invest in refried beans after the divorce and new marriage. WHITE TRASH flashed above his 10 gallon cowboy hat in golden neon in my mind every time I saw the rude drunk, and I can't print what I thought of his former housekeeper turned Queen of Refrieds. I usually just avoided his table and presence on his trips to Hot Springs. Thankfully, he was only usually in town during holidays and racing season. He had this idea that he was somehow KING of everything when he walked into the restaurant, and he expected everyone to wait on him hand and foot for free. (( IF YOU OWN A RESTAURANT, TIP YOUR EMPLOYEES. They are not your slaves. Slavery was abolished in this country in the 1860's. If you are not from this country, perhaps it would be better if you learned a bit about our history and laws before you bought a business. You might save yourself a lot of money in lawyers fees and legal settlements. Believe it or not, most of your waiters are probably more educated than you are, and they would love to sue your ass and watch you be humbled because of the way you treat them. )) I always felt like the wife was worse, but that is probably because I spoke Spanish and fully understood the vile things that flowed from her mouth. I needed the job, so I kept my mouth shut...for awhile.
Anyway, so you get the idea of the type of place I worked in. For awhile, I was the only gay person who worked there, and I kept it under my skirt for as long as I could because I was afraid of rejection, and I was afraid of losing my job. (( Yeah, they can fire you for being gay here, and it does happen )).....but little by little....co-workers began to take notice that I showered regularly, gelled my hair and even wore colonge..Oh yeah, and there was one more BIG give away. I spoke proper English. All of those things are gay give-aways in Arkansas. Let's face it, I would have looked like a fool if I had denied it, and I would have been a liar. So, I finally gave-in to their their subtle hints, but I waited for as long as I could. You see, I learned a long time ago that it is best to let people know you as a person BEFORE you let them stick a label on you, otherwise, you become JUST like the other gay people they knew. AND, in this town, that wasn't always a good thing.........I am not like the other gay people they knew. I am not like any other person they knew. I was me and there is only one me, and I didn't have any problems being me...BUT..I'd have a problem being like the other gay people you knew.
My fears of losing my job vanished after I'd been there for a few days because these servers sucked, and it didn't take long to become the best damn ( and most requested ) waiter there -- even though I'd never done it before but had lied and said I had to get the job. How hard is to wait tables, I thought? Well, it wasn't hard for me, but it was apparently hard for many people. The turn over was unbelievable: one drunk after another walked in the door and walked or ran just as quickly out. I do have to say that you have to use many skills to be a good server, and it can be a difficult job if you are an idiot.
During the Christmas holidays, carols played from the speakers through out the mall, but in the restaurant it was even better than that. We heard Spanish Christmas carols all day and all night for 29 days. The same carols over and over and over in Spanish, and I don't mean they were American carols with only Spanish words. Oh hell no. They have their own Spanish carols, and while I am all for multiculturalism, hearing "Felize Navidad" 27 times a day for 29 days in a row can wear on a person. At first, it was fun and interesting to hear these lovely mariachis sing over the loud speakers about the day of our Lord's birth, but by the end of the day, trust me, you were hoping for Easter so someone would kill those damn songs so you'd never have to hear them again.
If there is one phrase that I never want to hear at Christmastime, now..it is FELIZ NAVIDAD.
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