I really hate having to write titles for these things . . .

For a while there, I was in a slump at the restaurant. The hostesses seemed to seat me with nothing but two tops of old people and large parties consisting mostly of children. High maintenance but low checks. A lot of two dollar tips. I would get excited every time I saw guests over four feet tall with a full head of non-gray hair being led to one of my tables. Maybe, I would think, maybe they’ll order the ribeye and dessert and the kitchen won’t screw anything up.

All hope for a decent tip would leave, however, as soon as I stepped up to the table and the complaints began – why did they have to wait so long for a table? Why didn’t we have anything other than vegetable soup today? Why is their silverware dirty (spotty)? The answer to all of these questions was apparently that I am a bad server and screwed everything up. At least that’s what they told me through the tip they did not leave.

But I’d had enough. I’d had enough of the ass-kissing and unnecessary apologizing all in order to maybe squeeze out fifteen percent from these ungrateful bastards (Why is it taking them so long to recook that meal you dropped? It isn’t my fault that your server ran into my kid while he was chasing his brother around the dining room!). No more, I thought. No more will I smile politely while guests complain about stupid shit. No more will I answer their stupid questions as if they are perfectly valid. No more will I have to ask each and every guest in a party of seven the exact same thing because none of them are paying attention. No more.

Some examples:

Guest: I need more napkins!
Me: Sorry. One per customer. Perhaps you should have worn long sleeves today.
Result: Laughter and 20% tip. (I brought them more napkins obviously)

Guest: (after I knocked over a glass of water and broke it at the table behind them) Guess you have a case of the dropsies!
Me: Am I gonna have to cut you?
Result: Laughter. Man’s wife pats me on the arm. 23% tip.

Guest: I’d like a peach cobbler for dessert.
Me: I’m sorry, but we’re out.
Guest: That’s ridiculous! I came in here just for that.
Me: I’m very sorry.
Guest: I just can’t believe this. How could you run out?
Me: I’m not sure. I only ate seven of them before I came on shift.
Result: Guest stares at me for a moment, then laughs and calls me ‘cheeky.’ 30% tip and tells the manager I did an awesome job.

Guest: (looking around a full and very busy dining room) Why did it take so long for us to get a table?
Me: (as other servers and bussers fly past me in both directions) The Redskins’ game is on and we were all watching in back. Now can we make this quick? Half time is almost over.
Guest: Yeah, well what’s the score?
Result: 25% tip

Guest: My god! Did they have to kill the cow before cooking my steak?
Me: Yes, actually. We had one tied up out back, but some neighborhood kids keep letting it loose. Don't worry though, we had a couple of dishwashers chase it down. Your steak should be out as soon as we get some clean plates to serve it on.
Result: Everyone else at the table laughs. When I bring the steak, the guest asks what the cow's name was. I tell him "Patience." More laughter. 20% and a verbal tip (I used that to buy smokes on the way home)

For the past two weeks I’ve just been myself – my bitchy, sarcastic self – and it’s changed everything. I’d been holding back before, not saying what was on my mind, not becoming incredulous when someone asked why the food for their party of fifteen wasn’t already on the table when they ordered a whole ten minutes ago, apologizing for things that were beyond my control. I’m still not verbalizing every thought that comes into my head. I try to refrain from using the words ‘bitch’ or ‘alpha male jackass’ when standing at a table. But otherwise, I’ve pretty much let loose.

And I’ve been averaging about twenty-five percent every night. Sometimes more.

Go figure.