Sordid Tale of Prostitution
Ready for one heckuva post? I have a whole day to sit on my butt and read all about the internets- which, of course, gets me to thinkin' that I ought to tell the internets all about me; it's only fair, right?
So, I'm not very good at quitting. Sure, I'm a lot of spitfire talk, but when it comes to summoning the balls and telling the boss I'm out, it usually ends up with me chickening out and sticking with a shitty job for longer than I should (and therefore working too many simultaneous jobs). I'm getting better.
I work in the service industry as a server- a fine dining server. I took a job with a brand-spanking-new steakhouse, under sworn testimony that this thing would do some serious business in a wealthy area.
LIES!
But, I can handle that. I'm not making top dollar, but I'm doing better than if I had been working at Friday's or something like that- so I stick with it. Plus, most of the fine-dining restaurants in the area are union, so I've been having an extra hard time getting a job.
What I can't handle is all the grabbing. It started innocently-ish. We'd all go out for a beer with the boss at the pub on the next block and eventually that led to dancing. And, if you know me (and you don't) you would know that if there is dancing, I'm on the floor and I AM NOT LEAVING until the music stops. I don't even care that the DJ has managed to play all of the shitty hip hop and the "Soulja Boy" song three times in 1 hour. I like to dance.
Eventually, my boss decides that I need help. I was on the dance floor with my back waiter/assistant/bitch and he cuts in. I cut him some slack when he slaps my ass, and decide to dismiss.
This evolved into a bra-snapping, crotch-groping, erection-rubbing-into-my-back, breast-biting, neck-grabbing, shoulder-biting, ass-fondling mess. And, after I came home with a bruise ON MY NIPPLE from him walking up to me and biting me THROUGH MY CLOTHES hard enough to leave bruise for a week, The Boy was concerned. I blamed the dog. However, after The Boss (who is apparently REALLY into BDSM) got his hands on my neck and shoved his thumbs under my jaw hard enough to leave what looked like hickies and slapped my ass enough to leave a mark, The Boy forced me to confess.
And then he found his baseball bat and started walking to the garage.
So, I told him that I would make it stop without him busting my boss' kneecaps. I did. The next time he did it, I pulled him aside and said "I don't appreciate this attention, and now that I'm sporting marks, neither does my boyfriend."
It did totally stop after that, but so did my income. All of a sudden, he starts telling everyone that I'm not a very good server, despite the fact that I am still the dining room captain. He gives me only the two tops that look like they aren't going to spend any money, and seats me half as often as everyone else.
I went from clearing $300 on a Friday/Saturday to clearing $60 all weekend.
Of course, the backlash also means that none of the back waiters want to work with me because no matter what, they aren't going to make any money. If I make $60, they're making $40 for a weekend. Bullshit! So that means I get the dumbest, slowest and least motivated assistant EVERY SHIFT, so I have to do twice as much work making 20% of what I was making before.
BULLSHIT!
I confront the boss, and he tells me that since I "can't handle the volume." I have to be in the low-volume, non-VIP section until my service improves.
BULLSHIT!
So, even though as a condition of my hire I established that I DO NOT EVER work on Sundays unless it's a required holiday, like Mother's Day AKA the Apocalypse; I was scheduled for the Sunday dinner shift.
It's notoriously slow in high-end restaurants on Sundays because people usually go pick up grandma from the facility, comb their brats' hair and take everyone out for Sunday dinner. And, when the average price on a meal is $40 and there is no children's service, people don't generally opt for the steakhouse. The people who do don't usually know how expensive the place is, and so they buy the cheapest thing on the menu and tip like crap.
I took two tables before his horrible horse-faced wife walked in with her stupid inbred waitress friend and sat themselves in my section. Up till that point, I felt sorry for her, and we had always been friendly with each other. It would suck to be married to The Boss, and she seemed like a genuinely good human being- the kind that takes in stray cats and goes on bike rides. However, it seems that in spreading all kinds of horrible rumors about me, The Boss gave The Boss' Wife the impression that I'm worthy of contempt.
She chats with her friend and refuses to even acknowledge me, even though I am standing about 2 feet away, trying to take her goddamn order.
"What do you think, Tammy; should I have the Filet Oscar, or the Crab? I don't know if I am hungry enough for the crab- I mean, the Oscar is only a 6oz portion." TBW says, still refusing to address me. I tell the ladies to take their time and go back to the kitchen.
On Sunday, the kitchen closes at 9pm and it was 8:50 when when waddled in. Chef L. snarls at me and asks me what is taking me so long to get the order.
I stare at them through a window where they can't see me, and as soon as they put down their menus, I walk in to take their order.
"Where have you been?" TBW snorts. I flushed and was shocked- she's never talked to me like that, and there couldn't have been more than a 5 second delay between when their menus were put down and when I was at the table.
"I didn't want to rush you ladies. I saw that you were still examining the menu, and I didn't want to seem as though I was trying to push you." HA! This stupid bitch helped write the menu, she knew full well what we have!
"Did you serve any crab today?"
"Yes, it did look very good- and Chef L. has been experimenting with a blackening technique if you are interested."
"You're just saying that because you want a bigger tip." She hissed, flaring her nostrils. I smiled graciously and told her that the Oscar had the very same crab on it, and I could have the Chef do something interesting with that crab if she thought the legs would be too much.
She rolled her eyes, ordered the crab, and her companion ordered the chicken and some bruschetta.
OF FUCKING COURSE. It is now 10 minutes past closing and these bitches finally order, and they need multiple courses after both complaining that they weren't that hungry! I'm thinking of murderous rampage.
They literally took 25 minutes to eat half of the bruschetta. Then, their soup/salad course took another 15 minutes. If you're a waiter and know general cook-times, you can guess it is now 55 minutes past closing and these bitches haven't even gotten their dinner, yet.
They get their dinner at exactly 10pm, the chef has now left the building and so it is just me, the dishwasher and the asst. manager.
"Um, F.Y.I I wanted the Steak AND Crab." She whined. I turned white.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I thought you had ordered just the crab legs. I would have asked you for the temperature on the steak had I thought-"
"You didn't think, did you?" She interrupted, and her foul companion chortled.
The blood returned to my face full force and I felt myself flush.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am. I'll check to see if Chef L. is still here and I'll get a steak for you right away." I tried to hide my anger.
"I saw him pull away, already." She responded sternly. "I'll just eat this."
They slowly picked through their food and I finished up all the cleaning duties. I had sent my back waiter home before TBW showed up, so I had everything to do. They hemmed and hawed through their meal and I kept tabs on them.
I went back when they had both placed their napkins on the table and were leaning back- classic "I'm done" sign.
"Ladies, may I wrap these for you?" I asked, gesturing toward their half-eaten plates of food.
"Um, do we look done?" TBW seethed.
"I'm sorry. Ladies, please continue." I returned to the kitchen and checked the clock- 10:45.
Not 2 minutes later, while I was walking past with a tray full of glasses to be re-stocked, TBW grabbed my jacket.
"Could you be bothered to wrap this?" She inquired- sarcastically.
I smiled, agreed to return, and quickly put down my tray at the server station. I drop a hot napkin for TBW to wash her hands (since she had just eaten crab legs), and picked up the plates.
"What is this?" She snarled, pointing to the napkin.
"It's a napkin lightly soaked with warm water to wash your hands after eating the crab legs." I smiled, internally seething.
"Does The Boss know that you're wasting his linens? Do you know how expensive it is to have these things washed?" She pushed.
"I haven't asked him. It's standard practice in high-end restaurants to allow guests to wash their hands after a potentially messy meal." I began.
"Just wrap the food. We have a bathroom if people wanted to wash their hands." She retorted, rolling her eyes. I ran back and wrapped the food as quickly as possible. I returned the boxes, asked the ladies about dessert, and they thankfully decide against it. No after-dinner drinks, no cocktails, no dessert, no coffee- I'm almost out!
I grab the assistant manager and ask him if TBW gets her meal comped. He tells me "no." So, I drop check. 15 minutes later they finally get their cash straight. It's a total of $75 for both women, and they put 4 $20 bills in the book. I get the manager to cash it out and I bring the ladies their change.
"No, that's all your's." She said, smiling. It was probably the most gracious thing she said to me all night. I smiled, bade them a pleasant evening and ran to the back to finish cleaning. I gave those bitches the benefit of the doubt that, after keeping me 2 hours past closing, they'd leave a little more cash on the table. 15% of 75 is just over $11, 20% is $15 even. Maybe I'd find another $10-$15 on the table when I went back.
NOPE!
For the math challenged, that was a tip of 6.67%
2 hours after closing
And I waited on them hand and foot
And took their bullshit.
This, my reader, was definitely a set-up. She MUST have tried to mislead me about her order. If she wanted a steak, she would have, you know, ordered a motherfucking steak. Or at least said something like "and I'll take the filet medium rare." She went out of her way to make my night a living hell, and then financially rape me when it was over.
So, I quit that job.
I have to turn in my uniform (http://www.ambassadoruniform.com/shopexd.asp?id=593).
Her family-style restaurant is just down the street. So, I think that when I return my uniform, I'll go over to her restaurant and return the $5. Clearly, that family is in more financial trouble than me, so I better do the right thing and let her know that I believe in charity, and I'll give her the fiver back.
And, out of the kindness of my heart, I'll find a way to summon the courage to tell her that her husband is cheating on her with one of the back waitresses and that the bruises on my neck, nipple and ass are from her husband, too. Such a poor and unfortunate wretch needs to know what's going on behind her back.
So, it occurred to me that while at that restaurant, I was doing sexual favors for money. If I let The Boss use me and abuse me, I made money. If I cut him off sexually, he cut me off financially.
He didn't hire me to be a server. He hired me to be a prostitute.
So, if you got through everything, I have a poll.
I took pictures of the damages to my body and have documentation that as soon as I stopped allowing The Boss to harass me, I stopped making money. I know that there is at least 1 other waitress currently receiving the unwanted attention, but she allows it after seeing what happened to me. Do I press charges? I haven't told his wife about anything, so I'm thinking maybe I'll press charges and let her find out the hard way. Although, I'm poor, I have no time for anything, and I don't want to think about this scumbag anymore.
What do you think?
So, I'm not very good at quitting. Sure, I'm a lot of spitfire talk, but when it comes to summoning the balls and telling the boss I'm out, it usually ends up with me chickening out and sticking with a shitty job for longer than I should (and therefore working too many simultaneous jobs). I'm getting better.
I work in the service industry as a server- a fine dining server. I took a job with a brand-spanking-new steakhouse, under sworn testimony that this thing would do some serious business in a wealthy area.
LIES!
But, I can handle that. I'm not making top dollar, but I'm doing better than if I had been working at Friday's or something like that- so I stick with it. Plus, most of the fine-dining restaurants in the area are union, so I've been having an extra hard time getting a job.
What I can't handle is all the grabbing. It started innocently-ish. We'd all go out for a beer with the boss at the pub on the next block and eventually that led to dancing. And, if you know me (and you don't) you would know that if there is dancing, I'm on the floor and I AM NOT LEAVING until the music stops. I don't even care that the DJ has managed to play all of the shitty hip hop and the "Soulja Boy" song three times in 1 hour. I like to dance.
Eventually, my boss decides that I need help. I was on the dance floor with my back waiter/assistant/bitch and he cuts in. I cut him some slack when he slaps my ass, and decide to dismiss.
This evolved into a bra-snapping, crotch-groping, erection-rubbing-into-my-back, breast-biting, neck-grabbing, shoulder-biting, ass-fondling mess. And, after I came home with a bruise ON MY NIPPLE from him walking up to me and biting me THROUGH MY CLOTHES hard enough to leave bruise for a week, The Boy was concerned. I blamed the dog. However, after The Boss (who is apparently REALLY into BDSM) got his hands on my neck and shoved his thumbs under my jaw hard enough to leave what looked like hickies and slapped my ass enough to leave a mark, The Boy forced me to confess.
And then he found his baseball bat and started walking to the garage.
So, I told him that I would make it stop without him busting my boss' kneecaps. I did. The next time he did it, I pulled him aside and said "I don't appreciate this attention, and now that I'm sporting marks, neither does my boyfriend."
It did totally stop after that, but so did my income. All of a sudden, he starts telling everyone that I'm not a very good server, despite the fact that I am still the dining room captain. He gives me only the two tops that look like they aren't going to spend any money, and seats me half as often as everyone else.
I went from clearing $300 on a Friday/Saturday to clearing $60 all weekend.
Of course, the backlash also means that none of the back waiters want to work with me because no matter what, they aren't going to make any money. If I make $60, they're making $40 for a weekend. Bullshit! So that means I get the dumbest, slowest and least motivated assistant EVERY SHIFT, so I have to do twice as much work making 20% of what I was making before.
BULLSHIT!
I confront the boss, and he tells me that since I "can't handle the volume." I have to be in the low-volume, non-VIP section until my service improves.
BULLSHIT!
So, even though as a condition of my hire I established that I DO NOT EVER work on Sundays unless it's a required holiday, like Mother's Day AKA the Apocalypse; I was scheduled for the Sunday dinner shift.
It's notoriously slow in high-end restaurants on Sundays because people usually go pick up grandma from the facility, comb their brats' hair and take everyone out for Sunday dinner. And, when the average price on a meal is $40 and there is no children's service, people don't generally opt for the steakhouse. The people who do don't usually know how expensive the place is, and so they buy the cheapest thing on the menu and tip like crap.
I took two tables before his horrible horse-faced wife walked in with her stupid inbred waitress friend and sat themselves in my section. Up till that point, I felt sorry for her, and we had always been friendly with each other. It would suck to be married to The Boss, and she seemed like a genuinely good human being- the kind that takes in stray cats and goes on bike rides. However, it seems that in spreading all kinds of horrible rumors about me, The Boss gave The Boss' Wife the impression that I'm worthy of contempt.
She chats with her friend and refuses to even acknowledge me, even though I am standing about 2 feet away, trying to take her goddamn order.
"What do you think, Tammy; should I have the Filet Oscar, or the Crab? I don't know if I am hungry enough for the crab- I mean, the Oscar is only a 6oz portion." TBW says, still refusing to address me. I tell the ladies to take their time and go back to the kitchen.
On Sunday, the kitchen closes at 9pm and it was 8:50 when when waddled in. Chef L. snarls at me and asks me what is taking me so long to get the order.
I stare at them through a window where they can't see me, and as soon as they put down their menus, I walk in to take their order.
"Where have you been?" TBW snorts. I flushed and was shocked- she's never talked to me like that, and there couldn't have been more than a 5 second delay between when their menus were put down and when I was at the table.
"I didn't want to rush you ladies. I saw that you were still examining the menu, and I didn't want to seem as though I was trying to push you." HA! This stupid bitch helped write the menu, she knew full well what we have!
"Did you serve any crab today?"
"Yes, it did look very good- and Chef L. has been experimenting with a blackening technique if you are interested."
"You're just saying that because you want a bigger tip." She hissed, flaring her nostrils. I smiled graciously and told her that the Oscar had the very same crab on it, and I could have the Chef do something interesting with that crab if she thought the legs would be too much.
She rolled her eyes, ordered the crab, and her companion ordered the chicken and some bruschetta.
OF FUCKING COURSE. It is now 10 minutes past closing and these bitches finally order, and they need multiple courses after both complaining that they weren't that hungry! I'm thinking of murderous rampage.
They literally took 25 minutes to eat half of the bruschetta. Then, their soup/salad course took another 15 minutes. If you're a waiter and know general cook-times, you can guess it is now 55 minutes past closing and these bitches haven't even gotten their dinner, yet.
They get their dinner at exactly 10pm, the chef has now left the building and so it is just me, the dishwasher and the asst. manager.
"Um, F.Y.I I wanted the Steak AND Crab." She whined. I turned white.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I thought you had ordered just the crab legs. I would have asked you for the temperature on the steak had I thought-"
"You didn't think, did you?" She interrupted, and her foul companion chortled.
The blood returned to my face full force and I felt myself flush.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am. I'll check to see if Chef L. is still here and I'll get a steak for you right away." I tried to hide my anger.
"I saw him pull away, already." She responded sternly. "I'll just eat this."
They slowly picked through their food and I finished up all the cleaning duties. I had sent my back waiter home before TBW showed up, so I had everything to do. They hemmed and hawed through their meal and I kept tabs on them.
I went back when they had both placed their napkins on the table and were leaning back- classic "I'm done" sign.
"Ladies, may I wrap these for you?" I asked, gesturing toward their half-eaten plates of food.
"Um, do we look done?" TBW seethed.
"I'm sorry. Ladies, please continue." I returned to the kitchen and checked the clock- 10:45.
Not 2 minutes later, while I was walking past with a tray full of glasses to be re-stocked, TBW grabbed my jacket.
"Could you be bothered to wrap this?" She inquired- sarcastically.
I smiled, agreed to return, and quickly put down my tray at the server station. I drop a hot napkin for TBW to wash her hands (since she had just eaten crab legs), and picked up the plates.
"What is this?" She snarled, pointing to the napkin.
"It's a napkin lightly soaked with warm water to wash your hands after eating the crab legs." I smiled, internally seething.
"Does The Boss know that you're wasting his linens? Do you know how expensive it is to have these things washed?" She pushed.
"I haven't asked him. It's standard practice in high-end restaurants to allow guests to wash their hands after a potentially messy meal." I began.
"Just wrap the food. We have a bathroom if people wanted to wash their hands." She retorted, rolling her eyes. I ran back and wrapped the food as quickly as possible. I returned the boxes, asked the ladies about dessert, and they thankfully decide against it. No after-dinner drinks, no cocktails, no dessert, no coffee- I'm almost out!
I grab the assistant manager and ask him if TBW gets her meal comped. He tells me "no." So, I drop check. 15 minutes later they finally get their cash straight. It's a total of $75 for both women, and they put 4 $20 bills in the book. I get the manager to cash it out and I bring the ladies their change.
"No, that's all your's." She said, smiling. It was probably the most gracious thing she said to me all night. I smiled, bade them a pleasant evening and ran to the back to finish cleaning. I gave those bitches the benefit of the doubt that, after keeping me 2 hours past closing, they'd leave a little more cash on the table. 15% of 75 is just over $11, 20% is $15 even. Maybe I'd find another $10-$15 on the table when I went back.
NOPE!
For the math challenged, that was a tip of 6.67%
2 hours after closing
And I waited on them hand and foot
And took their bullshit.
This, my reader, was definitely a set-up. She MUST have tried to mislead me about her order. If she wanted a steak, she would have, you know, ordered a motherfucking steak. Or at least said something like "and I'll take the filet medium rare." She went out of her way to make my night a living hell, and then financially rape me when it was over.
So, I quit that job.
I have to turn in my uniform (http://www.ambassadoruniform.com/shopexd.asp?id=593).
Her family-style restaurant is just down the street. So, I think that when I return my uniform, I'll go over to her restaurant and return the $5. Clearly, that family is in more financial trouble than me, so I better do the right thing and let her know that I believe in charity, and I'll give her the fiver back.
And, out of the kindness of my heart, I'll find a way to summon the courage to tell her that her husband is cheating on her with one of the back waitresses and that the bruises on my neck, nipple and ass are from her husband, too. Such a poor and unfortunate wretch needs to know what's going on behind her back.
So, it occurred to me that while at that restaurant, I was doing sexual favors for money. If I let The Boss use me and abuse me, I made money. If I cut him off sexually, he cut me off financially.
He didn't hire me to be a server. He hired me to be a prostitute.
So, if you got through everything, I have a poll.
I took pictures of the damages to my body and have documentation that as soon as I stopped allowing The Boss to harass me, I stopped making money. I know that there is at least 1 other waitress currently receiving the unwanted attention, but she allows it after seeing what happened to me. Do I press charges? I haven't told his wife about anything, so I'm thinking maybe I'll press charges and let her find out the hard way. Although, I'm poor, I have no time for anything, and I don't want to think about this scumbag anymore.
What do you think?
posted by iconoclastical at 11:50 AM
1 comments
