June 24, 2012
As a writer, I try not to judge a book by cover, mostly because I know that any books that I'd write would most likely have janky looking covers. However, as a human being, I make assumptions based on others' appearances like I'm being paid to scrutinize instead of serve. Tonight was no exception. Now, I'm used to being the awkward third wheel on dates that are unfortunately forced to dine in my section. However, I never tricycled with a mob boss sugar daddy and his baby until tonight. Obviously, I don't know for sure if he was her sugar daddy; he could have been her father or her awkwardly close uncle. However, I was convinced by his bulk and her age that some exchange was being made over the barbecue chicken wrap. Picture this: a fifty-sixty year old man, Italian-looking, balding, melonoma tan, sagging, complete with a forgettable face. Sitting across from him was a tanned, bleach blonde twenty-something mascara whore. (The term "mascara whore" should not be taken as a slur because it takes one to know one. Wink.) The disparity of physical attractiveness between them was almost laughable if it hadn't been so perplexing.
Although their relationship could have been totally innocent and platonic, I doubted that he was paying for her dinner without getting something in return. I mean, come on, it's rare to get fed without putting out in normal relationships. I was sure that this girl would be tasting something less savory than barbecue sauce later that night. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to catch any of their personal conversation to verify my conjecture. As a good server, I make myself scarce once all necessary interaction is over so as not to ruin my guests' romance. As I said in a previous post, I sincerely do my best to get all of my customers laid.
It was not until I was taking their payment (cash of course) that I realized that I might technically be an accomplice to some form of prostitution. Food for sex (or sexual favors or..."quality time"...or whatever the kids are calling it these days) is a blurry kind of prostitution. No actual money was exchanged, but that wrap cost about ten bucks. The poor girl; she probably thought that her looks would have deserved a night at the ritzy Italian restaurant across the way. Oh well, at least he didn't take her to the Subway next door.
Upon reflection, I'm pretty sure I accidentally helped fill her stomach and his pants. I'm not proud of my part in this imaginary small town prostitution ring, but at least I was not the pimp that set it up. I was the cashier, nothing more, and I'll go to my grave claiming innocence and ignorance.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
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