Imagine with me if you will, your job as a cocktail waitress. From toe to torso your uniform is as follows; cowboy boots, short shorts, and a shirt that ties under your little boobs and has cut off sleeves; The kind of shirt a skanky trucker’s wife would wear. Tacky as can be and what you walk around in for 8 hours at a time.
Job description: walking around making what sounds like a bird call. COCKTAILS, you yell in a cheerful voice, trying to use different pitches and varying the length of the words so you don’t sound bored or redundant. COCKTAILS, you yell as you balance a 25 lb tray of soda. Coke, diet coke, sprite, vault, and lemonade, you point and name the cups respectively when a thirsty gambler inquires of the flavors.
“Do you have coffee?” an old lady wants to know.
“Not on my tray but I’ll bring you one,” you lie as you smile and walk away to repeat your bird call. She wouldn’t have tipped you anyway and before long she will be so mesmerized with the lights of the slot machine she wont even notice you the next 6 times you wander around her section.
An old man with long hair turns and raises his hand to summon you and your 25 lb tray. You smile flirtatiously and ask if he is thirsty. He orders a Budweiser and winks when you tell him you’ll bring it right out. You cringe and internally roll your eyes as you do your best to strut and balance your tray of nonprofit drinks. He will tip you so you make your way to the closet that is called a bar in the back corner of the casino.
You slide your card, touch the Bud Bottle button on the screen and refill your tray as the bartender grabs a beer out of the cooler and continues your conversation about good fishing spots around southern Minnesota. You are not busy so you humor him and wait patiently while a 24 second process of reading the ticket, opening the fridge and taking the top off the beer turns into a 5 minute conversation. After he places the bottle in your reach you find a spot for it on your tray next to the now watered down sprite that no one has asked for. You carefully slide the tray onto your arm that feels like it might fall off and yell COMING OUT, as you exit the closet. This of course is to avoid colliding with another cocktail waitress who may be returning from a round of bird calls.
You struggle for a second as you try to recall what slot the old man with long hair is sitting at. Did he have long hair, was it even a man? Your mind is trying to remember your last order and you become flustered because returning to the closet with a drink you intended to sell means, lying to the supervisor and saying the customer moved and cannot be found. This tactic is of course to avoid being yelled at. Then they need to void the drink and you have to watch painfully as the alcohol is poured down the drain. And watching alcohol being wasted when you want so badly to drink it is about as gruesome as life can get.
But then there he is, his beautiful long hair is turning in his seat as you approach. He hands you a five dollar bill and waves his hand as if to say keep the change, and you do, all $1.75 of it. You stroll through your section, again doing your best to strut (mostly bouncing.) When you have no takers you slow your pace and your COCKTAIL cry become annoying even to yourself.
Again, you become desperate; with every cry you use your peripheral vision so as not to miss any hand raises or turning heads. Out of the corner of your eye you see a head turn your direction. You grow far too excited and as you stop to turn you almost dump your tray. Good, eye contact, this person looks thirsty. You approach and ask if they would like something. They stare blankly at you for a moment then smile and shake their head and return their attention to the glowing slot machine.
It is as if the machines suck out half their brains and they are incapable of hearing anything but the sound of a potential jackpot and when the sound of your voice breaks through the magical barrier they don’t know how to respond other than to look for the source of the distraction. Many just stop and stare for long enough to confuse you into walking over to check the status of their thirst. You can’t imagine what makes them stare for more than the amount of time it would take to figure out what your purpose is. You’re sure it has nothing to do with your attire or the fact that you have a pen sticking out of your hookerish hair-do.
After tard-face gets back to his game and you get back to your job you continue your round to the tables. They are always more promising and often are occupied by high-rollers who tip well no matter what beverage you place in their cup holder (the dealers scowl at you if you place the drink on the table instead of in a gold cup-holders that there are far too few of.)
The first table ignores you and the dealer smiles empathetically (how annoying.) At the second table a loud “gentleman” exclaims at how much he loves your shorts as you approach and the entire table of men and women pause to turn and look at you. You smile as if you don’t feel completely awkward and say a prayer thanking god that no one you know is sitting at the table. The dealer asks if they want anything to drink and tells them that you are the lady to get what they need. The “gentleman” enjoys that comment entirely too much and asks for a jack and coke. The rest of the table wants miller light.
4 miller lights and a jack and coke table two, you repeat over and over in your head as you approach the next table. It must be a birthday party because the 6 women are all having an extremely good time and grow rather excited when you inform them that you can bring them any sort of alcohol they wish to drink (and you pray they don’t all want separate, specialized cocktails.) You luck out, they want 4 Miller lights, a Coors light and a Budweiser. 8 Miller lights, 1 jack and coke, 1 Coors, 1 Bud.
I plan on skipping the next few tables until my next round because it would be hard to fit much more alcohol on your tray let alone remember much more. A man at the craps table spots you and holds up his Bud light to indicate he wants another. Ok 1 bud and one bud light. You smile to acknowledge his request and keep walking hoping to be unnoticed by the rest of the table until you return. It works and you keep your eyes down and avoid wiggling your butt as you make your way to the back. You slide your card, your mind goes blank… 8 Millers, you know that much… 2 bud lights… wait no… ok you remember and punch it in just as another cocktailer walks in yelling COMING IN. You watch as the bartender strolls over to your ticket to start pulling out the drinks. The cocktailer who just entered has a story about some drama taking place with your supervisors and you listen and interact and totally forget where every drink you need to deliver goes.
By the time you realize this, all your drinks are prepared and you need to remove the styrofoam cups that are fill with watered down pop to make room for all the bottles. You load up your tray helplessly trying to remember where each beer goes. You stand there for a moment, retracing your steps. You remember the table of rowdy women so you figure you will start with them. You slide the tray onto your arm and remember why you don’t take more than one table order at a time when they all want beer. The glass bottles weigh down the tray in such a way that it feels as if the bones in your wrist are going to tear free of what they are connected to and pop out of your skin. You smile and do your best to strut. Your feet are raw and your boots are rubbing the insides of your calves. It’s the most pain you’ve experienced for as long as you remember. You smile.
Suddenly you remember, this man needs his bud light. He pays, you give him his change and he turns, forgetting to tip you… You smile. You approach the ladies and the one offers to pay for the round. You didn’t anticipate having to calculate a total… Lets see, there are 6 beers at 3.25 a piece, you think out loud as she watches you with a twenty in her hand. $19.50 you say and she hands you the bill and smiles as she tells you to keep the change. Fifty cents for all the agony it took to carry that heavy tray over here. Thank you. You smile and continue to the next table. You deliver the jack and coke and 4 millers. They all give you dollar chips. Your tray is light again. You make your way to the closet to rest and chat with the bartender.
