Coke and Cheerleaders II

I became a staunch supporter of drugs and those who do them last Tuesday. The night job's been pretty good - tips plus decent salary has equaled rapid payments on my pudgy credit card bill. But you know, you can only earn so much doing shit like that and I, for one, was getting tired of seeing poverty in my financial forecast. How many more weeks of austerity can I truly, realistically, expect to handle, I'd ask myself, chin resting on my despair-filled fists. Credit card companies are brutally unfair - they deceive you with the colorful, fun-filled commercials. They send you correspondence with cheery language and smiley faces - they make you think they are your friend. And just when you start to get comfortable, just when you start to trust that they are on your side and that you can entrust your credit score to them, they fuck you. Hard. My interest rate went up 7 points within six months of having a balance on my bill, despite my constant payments (above the minimum), despite being a responsible customer for years. Fuming aside, it's all I've been able to think about since the year started: making enough of a dent in the damn thing so I can LIVE MY LIFE!!

I got my opportunity on Tuesday.

It was a slow night. D, the new Asian hostess we hired, was starting that day. She's a self-proclaimed lush and party girl. At 22, she's already addicted to weed, X, alcohol, and Xanex. She does a couple of lines of blow a month "for fun". She tends bar at a family establishment in MD and got this job at my restaurant "for fun" - she doesn't have to work. I pity her Korean parents. Anyway, it was her introduction to the bizarre world that I have come to know and love three nights a week. I felt sorry for her because it was a Tuesday - nothing ever happens on Tuesdays. We spent a couple of hours chatting - small talk - and yawning. Around 9:15, I said, "You know, you can go. I'm sure you've been trained enough for one night." She agreed, the manager agreed. I started splitting our meager tips - $30 each, silently cursing her for showing up at all and halving what could have equaled a major CC payment for me. Just before she put on her coat, we noticed two couples...well, we noticed one man amid two couples. He was wearing a tan suit and whirling like a dervish, or a tornado. Along the sidewalk, through the double doors, all the way up to the host stand, bald head glistening pale under the streetlights. Just before he slammed his groin against the stand, he stopped, with a flourish and grinned at us through his rimless glasses.

"Well, hello." He didn't so much speak the words as let them slide down his tongue and out of his mouth, like so much oily residue. D perked up instantly - she hadn't been this excited since the evening started. I instinctively recoiled. I guess it's true what they say: birds of a feather, it takes one to know one....

The other three in his party had caught up. Two ladies - one short blonde, one tall brunette - and another short man in a leather jacket. The brunette was laughing loudly about nothing and hung on to the man in the tan suit like he would escape in another whirl. They were chattering loudly - just in from their hockey game, sorry about being 30 minutes late for their dinner reservation. Tall man was especially impressed that D guessed their name right - wasn't hard, seeing as they were the last reservation for the night. But, like an intoxicated magician, with a flick of his wrist, he made a $100 bill appear from his pocket and placed it in D's subconsciously outstretched hand.

Having seen my fair share of drunken idiots with money to spend, I was intrigued but not particularly fazed by the appearance of Mr. Franklin at our "party". But D was bouncing off the walls. "He gave us A HUNDRED DOLLARS!" she whispered loudly in my ear as I hung their coats and baseball caps - memorabilia from the game. "I know - seat them, we'll congratulate ourselves later!" I said.

She sat them, I started searching for a way to break the $100. Mere annoyance turned to quiet rage, as I started calculating how much money I'd "lost" that night as a result of her presence. She bounded out the door later, as happy as Pooh's Tigger - I could barely even smile as I hugged her "good night" - my new best friend, as she told me she was. But she was gone at least, and there were at least 20 more coats. Any other wandering dollar bills would be mine and only mine.

Meanwhile, the restaurant was agog with excitement over those four diners. They were rambunctious, ordering bottles of wine and champagne that cost in the hundreds. Servers were falling over themselves, trying to decide who would be the lucky bastard that got their table. The winner wasn't disappointed - within the hour, they had spent over $2400 on alcohol and didn't eat a bite of food. My favorite servers paid intermittent visits to the host stand and we made bets about how much of a tip they were going to leave, and cracked jokes about how many eight-balls were resting in the console of their Escalade limo. The general manager stopped by as well to try and convince us to get them out of there before they started causing trouble - he didn't even think they could afford to pay. And he was right to worry - they never asked how much anything cost before they picked it off the menu, and they didn't really care what they were ordering. But every five minutes, like clockwork, they would stand up - one by one - and head for the bathrooms. Didn't take us long to figure out that they were snorting cocaine up their noses off the toilet seat covers and bathroom shelves.

I was intrigued. Very intrigued. To be perfectly honest, I could have gone home long before they did, but I was hoping, waiting, praying. Some good was definitely going to come out of this night for me, I just knew it. As they drank, I bade other customers a good night, collected their dollar bills and five-dollar bills with the same humility and gratitude I always display. But I was watching the eightball crew - they would come to me eventually, and I'd be ready.

My time came. Tan-Suit Man walked up to me - he didn't look any worse for wear from a distance. But when he tried to say hello and his jaw became misaligned, it was very obvious that we were in a situation. For my own amusement, I asked him how he enjoyed his dinner.

"I'wash...i'wash...." His mouth just would not, could not, form the words. He slapped himself twice, slaps that would have sent a grown mare galloping over a field, bruised the cheek of a small child, or set my ears ringing. He didn't feel a thing. "Was grea'." He smiled - or tried to. He looked eerily blissful - I would have envied him his euphoria, but I was busy.

"Can I help you with your coat?" Smiling sweetly.

He was staring directly into my eyes, like they were magnets and he was powerless in my gaze. I didn't blink. He tried to speak again, and the words were heavy on his tongue, thick and slurred like he was trying to talk through a mouthful of toffee.

"How d'you...how d'you feel 'bout y'parentsh?"

"I don't have any parents." I'm sometimes grateful that I can claim orphanhood - this was one of those times.

"Oh." He was still staring at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him pulling out his money clip - a thick, gold band straining to hold together a bundle of hundred dollar bills. My eyes flashed.

Pay dirt.

We were still locked into each other's stares. His posse was scrambling to their feet at their table. There wasn't much time. I willed him to pay me. I willed him to pay me now.

"Am real...really shorry to hear that." He released one Benjamin from captivity and waved it in front of me. I only let it taste freedom briefly before I gently, but firmly, extricated it from his pasty fingers and placed it in my right pocket.

"Thank you." I smiled coyly. And stared through his glasses, persuading all the mammywater spirits that have laid claim to my heritage to shine through in that moment.

"I wan' you ta...ta think 'bout two things." His hands were still fumbling with that money clip. I maintained my gaze, fully convinced of its hypnotic power by this point. "I wan' you t'think 'bout your future..." At this, he yanked another $100 bill from the clip. "...and how you're underutilized."

I took the money and put it with its brother in my pocket. "Thank you."

We were still staring directly at each other. I don't know what he was thinking, but I myself was full of hidden encouragement: "You can do it! One more...just one more...." I was aiming for another hundred, a total of $400 on coat check, $300 of which I wouldn't have to share.

No such luck. The posse had finally made its crooked way over to the host stand, and the brunette found her way to his arm and held on tight. Guess she didn't want him to finish all his money on me - she still had to be paid for her services that night, and it wouldn't do to fall short cuz of this Negro hostess.

Still, I couldn't complain. I handed them their stuff, and waltzed all the way to the time clock, where I punched out on cloud nine - which wasn't easy, as weighted down as I was with more money than I'd seen in weeks. Free owo is not something to laugh at, but I laughed my ass off all the way home and through Wednesday night. Who said money can't buy you happiness?

Since then, earnings have seriously dried up at the host stand. I've been praying for the return of the Ghost Dusters, while at the same time feeling eternally grateful to them for paying Target, Inc. on my behalf - they have no idea what they did for me that night. I hope they didn't o.d. I sincerely hope they come back. But in the meantime, I replay the memories over and over, smiling and giggling uncontrollably - I had an unforgettable experience and I didn't even have to leave my comfort zone. How about that.