Queen Bee and the Ruffians


I smiled as I set their drinks down, plucked the straws from my shirt pocket and placed them beside each glass. Things looked promising for this bunch, much more so than any of the other uneventful guests I’ve waited on this evening. I haven’t received any spectacular tips, nor have I been forced to suffer through hellish customers- I very rarely stumble upon truly intolerable individuals at work, come to think of it- but the night is young and full of perilous possibility.

The older woman on the left side of the booth is anxiously charming, and had arrived before the two younger women who sat beside her now. Her hair was drawn up into one of those masterful hairdos common among older women, rigidly set into unyielding arcs and curls that seem flowing and natural until the creature beneath it moves, and by the coif’s inability to sway with its master one realizes that the hair might as well be set in stone.

When I had asked her what she would like to drink she glanced around, torn between reservedly ordering and gregariously gushing hello. She delicately ordered a pinot grigio before allowing her smile to nervously wither. Her counterparts- loud, oblivious, miller-lite swilling girls- disappointed me, to say the least. I didn’t know quite what to think; upon the arrival of the first bird I’d felt an amazing tip was a sure thing, but if the bill ended up in the wrong hands- and it had a 66% chance of doing so- I wouldn’t be surprised to receive a lackluster 15%.

I sang for my tip regardless as I always do, and slowly eased into a little light humor with the table. The queen bee and one of the ruffians revealed an interest in fashion, and we lamented Marc Jacob’s latest disappointments together. When it came time to order the three were jovially requesting suggestions and asking questions. The fashionable ruffian asked me if I had ever had the veggie stack, and in what I thought was perfectly acceptable good humor responded, “Well, as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes”.

Queen bee misheard me. She must have. Her jaw dropped to the table with an earsplitting thud as if I had just referenced a type of specialty fellatio native to Singapore. Mouth agape, she pointedly gasped at her fellow diners. They must have heard me correctly and thought nothing of it, because they didn’t react to bee’s shock. I stood there awkwardly, almost ready to ask the woman what the hell her problem was and offer another pinot. I decided against it, and, blushing, walked away.

“I have a question for you”, I told Alexis, a fellow server, at the side station.

“Yeah?” she said as she prepared four waters.

“I know it’s not exactly typical, but does the sentence ‘as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes’ offend you?”

“Damn, girl. You think some crazy shit. I swear to god just yesterday you were all confused about why humans have eyebrows and getting mad at the bread tongs. Now you’re just trippin me out.”

“Oh, I asked my dad about it, by the way. He said they’re to keep the sweat from running into our eyes. And he didn’t have to think about for a second, but it makes perfect sense. I don’t know how he knows all the stuff he knows.”

“Huh”, Alexis muttered. “That does make sense, now that I think about it.”

“Anyways, the comment thing”, I hurriedly said, noticing that I had just received another table that needed tending to.

“As a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know meatless dishes”, she said to herself, looking up and pausing. “No, doesn’t offend me. Sounds weird though. The word ‘meatless’ is questionable.”

“This woman misunderstood me, and now probably thinks I’m uncouth and inappropriate or something”, I said, squinting my eyes.

“Don’t you hate that” she sympathized. “Cause you can’t help but think that they thought you said the worst possible thing. Once I offered a man desert, and he looked at me, all mad-like, and was like ‘I’m married’. You don’t know what to say, you know?”

“Just another thing to love about the service industry”, I said, grinning. I walked up to my new table and took drink orders. When bee’s and the ruffian’s food came up I had no choice but to return to the table. I delivered their food and acted as comfortable as possible, but found myself not making eye contact at times. Bee was still acting bizarre, though her behavior was not too different from the nervous unease she had displayed earlier. Maybe she had just escaped from a mental institution and showed up at the ruffian’s door for refuge, posing as a long-lost grandmother. She certainly didn’t fit in with the bunch.

As I placed her meal in front of her she was once again marked by overt indecision. She smiled graciously, but before the words “thank you” reached her lips her smile fell, she pursed her lips, squinted her eyes, and looked up at me cockeyed as if she were contemplating throwing a drink in my face. I once again consider my escaped nut-job theory.

They ate their dinner, ordered a couple more drinks, and were soon ready for the bill. Queen bee, much to my dismay, reached for the checkbook and held it in her jewel-clad fingers. Great, I thought to myself: now I’ll be lucky if they pay for just the meal.

I hurried away and doted upon my other tables in an attempt to distract myself. I walked to the kitchen to fix some bread, and when I returned to the garden room bee and the ruffians had gone. Among the glasses of partially finished wine, rumpled linens, and sucked-dry beer bottles on their table was the checkbook. I pocketed the check and walked to the side station. Alexis saw me pull the book from my apron and asked an ambiguous but all too well understood “Well?”. I glanced down, puckered my lips and looked to the window.

“25%” I said.

“Did she pay, or did one of the other girls at the table?”

“No, it was her”, I confirmed. “Crazy get-all-offended lady. She paid and left the tip.”

“Crazy motherfuckers”, she laughed. “It’s so funny; you become a part of these people’s lives for an hour out of the evening, you find out what they like to eat and drink, and how they speak, and sometimes where they’re from and shit. But nothing, absolutely nothing says as much about people as what kind of tip they leave. I will never stop being surprised by people. Crazy motherfuckers.”

“That was downright profound”, I chuckled.

“Well think about it. We know these people better than their friends and family, because tipping is personal. There are no pretenses when it comes time to tip. No more acting. It’s the one act that forces you to put your money where your mouth is.”

I smile at her insight, and reach for the water pitcher. I circle round my tables, an obsequious, smiling vulture, assessing their conditions from above, sneaking plates off of tables, silent and unknown, all while wondering what it was Queen bee thought I had said to her.