Asshole Customers…

January 25, 2010

…I’ve had a few in the past few days. Here are two examples:

This pretty drunk guy is downing beers. Lindsay, a waitress more experience than I, tells me to ask him if he wants another beer. I go up and ask and without looking at me, he says yes. I get it for him, come back, and tell him in my perky, customer service voice, “That will be $10, please!”

“I’m gonna pay with a card,” he slurs.

“Sir, can you please pay cash? My shift is ending and I can’t open any tabs right now.” (If I were to open a tab at that moment, a night waitress would get my tips)

“What?” He finally looks up at me. “This is bullshit!”

“Excuse me?”

“This is bullshit. I don’t….fucking…..this is fucking bullshit!”

Me and him go back and forth. He pulls out about 4 bills and goes through them repeatedly for about 5 minutes. Finally, he pulls out a $20 that was hidden underneath a bunch of ones and hands it to me. I hold out the $10 change to him, assuming I won’t get a tip. He just looks at the change, bewildered in his drunken stupor.

“What the fuck is this?”

Trying not to hold in my laughter, I walk away with my 50% tip. Finally, one of these cheap bastards has drunken tipped me! Success! Me and the other waitresses crack up about it, as they were watching the whole scene a few feet away.

Then, today- a button down comes in. Button downs are guys that work in one of the many office buildings nearby and come in after work. They wear button downs (duh), hence their nickname.

Button down’s name is Alex, and when I bring over his card for him to open a tab to the cashier he tells me this guy is a major d-bag, and to make sure I write down precisely what I charge him for since last time they had to show him every drink he bought since his tab was so expensive. I always do this anyway, so no biggie. He orders the same top shelf drink again and again, in between numerous lap dances. Before one lap dance, I ask him if he wants another drink. He does, so I bring it over the the lap dance area (lap dances take place in the back of the club on this long sofa that lines the wall). I hand it to him, girl getting on his lap. As I turn to walk away, I feel a hand on my ass.

I turn to him. “That wasn’t you that just touched my ass, was it?” I ask. I really can’t tell, because there was a guy sitting near him that also could have done it.

“What?” he asks, seemingly surprised. I can’t tell if it was him or not, so I say, “Ok, I didn’t think so,” and walk away.

When he comes back to his table, I ask him if he wants anything else and he orders another drink. We pretend what just happened didn’t, and he starts talking to me, telling me how he went to Yale, and works in finance, and lives in an expensive area downtown, and blah blah blah. I totally lie to him about where I love, my nationality, etc. At the end of our convo, he asks if we can go out sometime after work. I tell him no.

He tipped 25%, though I think for the ass feel I deserved at least 45%. Better luck next time.


I need a job elsewhere

January 17, 2010

It’s only been 2 weeks and I’m already tired of working in this place. Me and another waitress that I’ve befriended named Julie are going to search for jobs in nightclubs in a trendier part of the city. We work near office buildings, so most of the clientele are older men in button down shirts looking for a little fun before heading home to the wife and kids. They don’t have lots of extra cash to spend. They tip us waitresses a measly $1 most of the time, then go and spend $20 on multiple lap dances with the dancers.

If Julie and I head somewhere trendier, I’m thinking these young hipsters with money will tip us better. I could be wrong, but who knows. What we really want is a night shift, because there’s barely any money in the day shift. Even the dancers look like they’re hurting, gently swaying back and forth while gripping the poles onstage and staring out into the distance. They do this most of the day until customers that are actually willing to sit by the stage come in (this is rare, which surprised me- I envisioned horny, rowdy men constantly throwing money at them before I came to work here- the opposite is true). When a customer actually does sit by the stage, they of course start doing their fancy pole tricks and wriggling their butts at them so that dollars can be tucked into their thongs. But I digress.

So the money sucks. It’s way too little for us to be wearing high heels all day and the short skirts and skimpy tops that are our uniform (yes, we have to wear heels ALL DAY). I even stopped wearing my ultra slutty makeup. Why would I take all that time and effort for these cheapskates that are only going to nurse one drink all day and give me a dollar anyway? Now I just throw on some eyeliner and lipstick and call it a day.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Not all of the customers are cheap. Yesterday I had a group of 4 guys that actually kept ordering drinks and tipping decently! They even said please and thank you to me. Guys like these make my day. I’m thinking next time I get a group like that, I should give them a round, on me. That is, if I can afford it.

So I’m waitressing at a strip club…

January 15, 2010

I thought I’d start this blog to let out my experiences waitressing at a strip club. It’s been a few weeks working there now and I’m getting used to it. 

When I tell people where I work, the looks on their faces are priceless. Before, I was doing what I thought was interesting work at a very well known company. When I told people where I worked, they would say, “Oh, ok,” with little interest. Now when I tell people where I work, their eyes get all big and they barrage me with questions.

“Are you stripping?”

“What do you have to wear?”

“What are the strippers like?”

They eagerly await my answers with big eyes and excited expressions on their faces.  Now telling my parents where I work, I didn’t exactly get the same expression.

My mom looked at me sympathetically, a little disappointed, then said, “Oh, how terrible. I feel so bad for those strippers. If I worked there, I would try to get them all to quit!”

“But then I wouldn’t have a job, Mom.”

(More sympathetic looks)