The first job I got on my own, after my paper route delivering The Cleveland Press, was working as a dishwasher at the pizza restaurant at the top of my street. I was 14. The restaurant was owned by an Italian family who lived at the north end of my street. Two tough daughters worked as waitresses while a third ran the kitchen. She wasn't the cook — just the person who screamed at the cook and kept him away from the beer tap. Mrs. C was a chain-smoking, battle-axe with an occasional heart of gold. In other words, sometimes she let me supplement my meager wages with scratchy old 45's that had been replaced by newer records in the jukebox — once her daughters had picked through the pile, of course. Fortunately, the girls knew next to nothing about music so occasionally I went home with a stack of decent 45's. Mr. C was non-existent at the restaurant—content to let the women in the family run the show. But the son, a tough guy, would pop in at least once a night to make my life miserable and flirt with any of the waitresses who didn't share the same last name. On a busy Friday night the place would be buzzing with packs of high school kids pacifying a serious case of the munchies and hellbent on making the biggest possible mess possible for the poor slob bussing tables… moi. Rather than police the shenanigans going on in the darkened dining room like he was supposed to, J preferred to swoop into the kitchen, grab a big white plastic tub, bus as many tables as he could fit, and dump the whole mess in front of me with a flourish as if to say “I shouldn't be doin' your job, kid.” He did this not to help out, not even to give me pointers in the fine art of bussing tables, but just so he could pocket the meager soggy tips before the waitresses and I had a chance to grab them. J was a prick, but he was all muscle and all he wanted was half an excuse to tear your head off.
There was one waitress who wouldn't take any shit from J. She was a tough talkin', cigarette smokin', sassy-assed Italian Catholic girl named Mary Therese. She hated the formality of her name and the first time we met requested that I simply call her “MT.” Unlike the other girls, MT had short hair, like a boy's, and a bust size the owner's daughters had grown out of back in second grade. All the waitresses had to wear a uniform I was certain Jimmy had picked out. It was better suited for a French maid or a hospital candy striper than a teenage suburban Italian restaurant waitress… but who was I to complain? The funny thing was, MT was the only one who looked good in the stupid thing. All the other girls looked uncomfortable and embarrassed. I got the feeling that nothing embarrassed MT, and even fewer things made her uncomfortable. She took her cigarette breaks like clockwork — no matter what kind of chaos the dining room was in — standing just outside the back screen door, blowing smoke into the dark parking lot and staring up at the sky. I would sneak a peek at her through the steam rising from the sink full of hot water and dirty dishes. She knew I was looking at her, and I knew that she knew. J would yell at her from the kitchen to finish her “fuckin' cigarette and get her ass back inside.” I guess you could motivate your employees that way in the old days… She'd casually ignore him and continue smoking right down to the filter. She never actually told J to “go fuck himself,” but we all heard it loud and clear anyway, and it drove him crazy. On a busy weekend it was not uncommon for the night to end with a screaming match between the two of them in the kitchen or the back parking lot. She'd accuse him of stealing her tips. He'd accuse her of being lazy. Really he was just incensed that she wasn't having any of the Italian machismo that seemed to work so well with the other girls. She'd call him a mamma's boy and threaten to have one of her four brothers kick his ass. Then she'd wink at me as he'd slink away.
One particularly busy night J was fuming more than usual, and I knew why. MT was beating him to the tips at every single table. And what she wasn't picking up, I managed to grab for her. As the night wore on, J literally threw in the towel, hopped into his blue GTO and squealed out of the parking lot without a cent for beer or smokes. I looked up from the sink to see MT standing outside the back door counting her tips and laughing. A few minutes later, I experienced that unforgettable magic moment that every adolescent boy dreams about in one way or another. I felt my conspirator's bony body press up against me as I leaned into the sink to fish out another tomato sauce covered plate. Then I felt a hand in my pocket. “Don't get too excited, kid” she whispered in my ear, “it's just your half of the tips. Thanks for helping me out tonight.” Her body was warm from the pizza oven near by, and she smelled of baked crust and cigarettes. By the time I had turned around she was putting on her ratty sweater and heading off into the night. I didn't believe J the following Friday when he explained that MT had gone to work somewhere else because she needed more money. I suspected that somehow he was to blame. And later that night, when he slammed the white plastic tub of dishes down in front of me, he grinned and felt compelled to tell me, a fifteen year old kid up to his elbows in dirty dishwater on a Saturday night, “Ya know why her nick name was MT, doncha?” Pointing at his own head he delivered the punchline, “MT. EMP-TY. Get it?” I wanted to bash his face in. I wanted to slash the tires on his beloved GTO. I wanted to spit on the sub sandwich he had us make for him every night. Instead I went back to washing dishes and thinking about a cute girl in a ridiculous waitress uniform who had shared her tips with me one crazy night.
So, where do we go from here? Well, the Happy Medium Song of the Day might be the female counterpart to the old Gang of Four Song, "I Love a Man in a Uniform." It's called "I'm a Sucker For a Girl in Uniform," by The Churchills. And even though I know there are references to it being a military uniform, I think that's all tongue in cheek. One thing is for certain… Today's song rocks like a hormone laden pizza parlor in the suburbs on a sweaty Saturday night. The End. (Please use the comments box to share your thoughts.)
One particularly busy night J was fuming more than usual, and I knew why. MT was beating him to the tips at every single table. And what she wasn't picking up, I managed to grab for her. As the night wore on, J literally threw in the towel, hopped into his blue GTO and squealed out of the parking lot without a cent for beer or smokes. I looked up from the sink to see MT standing outside the back door counting her tips and laughing. A few minutes later, I experienced that unforgettable magic moment that every adolescent boy dreams about in one way or another. I felt my conspirator's bony body press up against me as I leaned into the sink to fish out another tomato sauce covered plate. Then I felt a hand in my pocket. “Don't get too excited, kid” she whispered in my ear, “it's just your half of the tips. Thanks for helping me out tonight.” Her body was warm from the pizza oven near by, and she smelled of baked crust and cigarettes. By the time I had turned around she was putting on her ratty sweater and heading off into the night. I didn't believe J the following Friday when he explained that MT had gone to work somewhere else because she needed more money. I suspected that somehow he was to blame. And later that night, when he slammed the white plastic tub of dishes down in front of me, he grinned and felt compelled to tell me, a fifteen year old kid up to his elbows in dirty dishwater on a Saturday night, “Ya know why her nick name was MT, doncha?” Pointing at his own head he delivered the punchline, “MT. EMP-TY. Get it?” I wanted to bash his face in. I wanted to slash the tires on his beloved GTO. I wanted to spit on the sub sandwich he had us make for him every night. Instead I went back to washing dishes and thinking about a cute girl in a ridiculous waitress uniform who had shared her tips with me one crazy night.
So, where do we go from here? Well, the Happy Medium Song of the Day might be the female counterpart to the old Gang of Four Song, "I Love a Man in a Uniform." It's called "I'm a Sucker For a Girl in Uniform," by The Churchills. And even though I know there are references to it being a military uniform, I think that's all tongue in cheek. One thing is for certain… Today's song rocks like a hormone laden pizza parlor in the suburbs on a sweaty Saturday night. The End. (Please use the comments box to share your thoughts.)