WAITING TABLES
By
Phoenix Hocking
I was fourteen when I got my first job in 1962. I come from a long line of career waitresses, so it was only natural that I decided to go in that direction myself. That particular job didn’t last long, I’m afraid.
I got an after-school job at a little coffee shop on lower State Street. Beer was also served, but I wasn’t allowed to do that, being underage and all. I worked there for about a week. I loved it! I had my own money every day from getting tips, and I really liked that. Back in those days, tips were given in coin, and if you got a dollar, it was a very big deal indeed.
Anyway, I had finished my shift and walked down to Thrifty’s Drug Store to buy a new apron. When I got back, I saw that my mother had arrived to pick me up. As we walked out to the car, she said, “Sandra, you’re never going back there!”
“But, why?” I cried.
It seems that while Mom was waiting at the counter for me to return from Thrifty’s, an inebriated man came in, plunked himself down at the counter, hailed the manager, and slurred, “Where’s that cute l’il thing ya got workin’ for ya?”
I didn’t work again until I was sixteen.
Back then, women were waitresses and men were cooks. I don’t think I ever worked with a male server or a female cook. Managers were all men. We were paid less than minimum wage, too. It was felt that a person’s tips would make up for the shortfall. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it didn’t.
It may surprise some people to know that I was desperately shy when I was a teenager. And when I was off-duty, I still was. But shy waitresses didn’t make many tips, so learned to be outgoing when I was on the job.
When I was working at the College Café in Goleta in 1964, a customer doodled my name, three times, in different styles, with red pen, on a paper napkin, along with the date. Fifty-five years later, I still have it. I still have my Sambo’s name tag, too. I suppose my family will throw all that stuff away when I die, but it always brings a smile to my face when I go through my keepsake box.
I liked working days best, of course. But I did my time in the barrel working graveyard, too. Ten at night until seven in the morning, and I never knew who was going to come through the door. I learned a lot working graveyard.
I learned to avoid the men who wanted to pat me on the butt as I passed by. It was just part of the job and something I learned to live with. And if the man who patted me on the butt was my manager, well, that was just part of the job as well. Such behavior wouldn’t fly today, but back then nobody said a word. If it really got out of hand, I just quit, that’s all.
One graveyard shift, about two o’clock in the morning, a man came in wearing jeans, a t-shirt, a bright red hat, and swimming flippers on his feet. He sat at the counter, had a cup of coffee, then left. About fifteen minutes later a couple of college students came in asking the staff and customers what they thought, for a paper they were writing. Most of the customers didn’t even notice, and the staff just shrugged their shoulders. All in a day’s work on graveyard.
I learned to drink my coffee black, and to wait patiently when a family was saying grace before interrupting them. I learned to cut up the one-armed customer’s steak before I brought him his plate. I learned to say, “Do you want to drink this coffee or wear it?” to the drunks who came in after the bar closed. I learned to tip the busboy really well, and to count out change to the customer. A lost art, that.
I learned to smile, even when I was dog tired and my feet hurt, or when the busboy quit in the middle of a shift and I had to bus tables myself. I learned to be pleasant, even when the customer was being a jerk. I learned to pick up the slack when another waitress called in sick, and I learned to go to work even if I didn’t much feel like it.
Once (I was working at Sambo’s on State Street at the time), I came down with a horrendous bout of laryngitis. I felt fine; I just couldn’t talk. But I couldn’t afford to miss work, so I made myself some three-by-five index cards: “I have laryngitis. What can I get you today?” “Something to drink?” “Salad dressing? We have bleu cheese, ranch and thousand.” “How would you like that cooked?” I was busier, as my father used to say, than a one-armed paper-hanger. And I made money hand-over-fist. It was a good night.
And I learned the difference between being nice, and stealing. When I was working at the Jolly King in Albuquerque in 1970, I had a favorite customer. He would come in at least once a week and order a small strawberry sundae. Well, I liked him. He was fun, and we would chat when it wasn’t too busy. I didn’t really notice that his “small” sundaes had somehow turned into large ones, and I was only charging him for a small. My boss cornered me one day to point out my error, and said I was effectively stealing from the restaurant. I was forced to go back to this customer, in tears, and rewrite his bill. He never came in again.
I was a good waitress. I was fast, I was efficient, I was friendly, and I never called in sick unless I really WAS sick. The customers liked me, and I liked them. Why, when I worked Sunday mornings at Sambo’s I could carry at least six plates of pancakes on one arm, and four classes of water in one hand (though not at the same time!). I could handle my own station and pick up the slack in other’s as well.
I remember vividly one Sunday morning, I picked up an order from the cook station. Two eggs, over medium, hash browns, bacon and pancakes. Well, I was busy so I was moving fast, but when I put the plate down in front of the customer, he asked, “Where are the eggs?”
“I don’t know. They were on the plate when I picked it up!” I looked behind me, and sure enough, I had come around the corner so fast those eggs had slipped off the plate, cool as you please, and landed right side up on the floor!
I worked as a waitress in Goleta, Santa Barbara, and Albuquerque, New Mexico from 1962 (yes, I still count that week!) until 1972. I went on to other jobs: switchboard operator, library clerk, keypunch operator, medical receptionist, medical back office assistant, classified document control, client services coordinator and rape crisis counselor at a women’s shelter, pharmacy technician, massage therapist, wedding officiant, volunteer firefighter, emergency medical technician, and office clerk.
But of all the jobs I’ve had, I think I look back on my time as a waitress with the most fondness. I was always busy, I always had money in my pocket, and I met some pretty interesting people along the way. Everyone should be a server at least once in their lives. The things you learn waiting tables will serve you well.
phoenixhockingwrites 