Waiting tables during the holiday season is one of the most sensational things that one can ever experience while being paid $4.34 an hour. Being a server is a unique experience in and of itself. Not because of the nature of the job, but the nature of the people that make your job possible. I must preface by saying that not all restaurant goers are terrible, far from it. But there are some that find ways to go above and beyond in terms of treating the wait staff at a restaurant like they are human garbage. Now, during the holidays these same belligerent patrons are out and about, hustling around, trying to find presents for their families. I assume after they grow tired of berating random retail associates, these vicious creatures need to take a break and get some food. I happened to work at a popular feeding spot for these monsters. It was a California Pizza Kitchen located in an affluent little mall in Colorado Springs, Colorado called the Promenade Shops at Briargate. And I think of one particular table of mine, from one particular lunch rush, every year around Christmas.  

We were absolutely fucking slammed. There wasn’t a server in the restaurant that wasn’t in the weeds up to their necks. And the hostesses were double seating us like that was their part-time job. I was running Sicilian pizzas and ramekins full of spicy ranch to people like it was life-saving medicine. One of my tables gets up and leaves, and as soon as the booth is open, it is immediately filled. Here we go again. I walk to the table and finally look up from my notebook and see someone who will remain nameless. This person and I went to high school together and had both graduated earlier that May. He was accepted into the Air Force Academy and was on the fast-track to being a pilot. I had picked up smoking weed, rock climbing, and playing these fun little games with my gas tank called, “How empty are you really?” and “Can I put $2.88 on pump 3, please?”. We were very different people, and we were both heading down very different paths.

We were never friends. We butted heads constantly throughout our high school careers. I immediately remembered why when he said to me, “Woah, man! Look at you! You work here?” As if my apron full of pens and straws was not indicative of that on its own. I replied with a grin and a “Yep, I sure do.” Followed by the kind of sarcastic chuckle that really sounds like, “I hope you choke on whatever you order.”  

Apart from his condescending personality that was like a cancer on any conversation had with this young man, there were other reasons he and I never saw eye-to-eye in high school. To put it simply, he was by the rules in the worst way. He was very much a “I’m telling” kind of kid. I was more of a “let’s not get caught” kind of kid. We were fundamentally different. And we both saw now where our different outlooks on life had gotten us. He was in college at a military institution. I lived with my older sister and all my clothes smelled like cheese and garlic because of this job. It was a real swift kick to my young ego. And he knew it because this situation only boosted his. He spent the rest of the meal making jabs at my job and being as condescending as possible. It turns out they’ll fire you if you explain to a customer that they are being a grade-a fuck face. So, I suffered through his bad jokes as our time together drudged on, because I needed money for Christmas gifts.

It was time for him to finally pay and get the hell out. And there must have been some Christmas magic in the air this afternoon. Because the chain of events that occurred in just a few short moments changed the whole dynamic of this afternoon. From the moment he said, “There’s a gift card. The amount is on the back, you can just keep whatever’s left for a tip, bud.” Everything that happened next made the half hour I spent being reminded that I graduated high school with a 2.3 GPA, and he didn’t, totally worth it.

I open the check book that has the ticket and the gift card. His total was, $24 and some change. The back of the gift card said, $25.00. “Fuck you.” I whispered to myself as I wished he had just left nothing at all. I swiped his gift card, and the screen in front of me told a different story. There was $50.00 on this gift card, and he had told me to keep whatever was left over. I was now thrilled to bring him a copy of his receipt.

I went up to his table and thanked the man like he was Oprah and I had just found keys to a new car in his check book. “Oh my God! Thank you so much!” I shouted loud enough for several other tables to hear. I sounded like he had just presented me with a publishers clearinghouse check. He was visibly confused. As he should have been. He knew exactly what he was doing when he tried to tip me a few cents as one last middle finger to me. I looked at him and said, “You have no idea how much this means. A $26.00 tip right before Christmas? Thank you, man!” Wide-eyed he says, “A how much tip? $26.00?” “Yeah, man thank you so much.” I respond exuberantly. Now, he could have gone and asked me to run the gift card back, but of course I made this whole scene in front of his girlfriend. No man wants to look stingy in front of their girlfriend. I really didn’t even have to make a scene out of this whole ordeal. I could have quietly pocketed my money and finished out my shift. I didn’t have to give him a real solid hug and pat his back so loudly that more people started paying attention to his unintended gratuity. But I did. And why not? Why would I deny myself something as sweet and as rare as experiencing a little dose of real poetic justice? He spent the last thirty minutes trying his damnedest to make me feel like I was beneath him as a person because I had a job slinging pizzas. This was insurmountably vindicating for me at the time. Not purely because I pocketed a relatively enormous tip from this pompous douche. But after being treated like dirt by so many customers and being able to do nothing about it aside from grind my teeth and curse their entire bloodlines as I smoked cigarettes by the dumpster out back. It felt indescribably peaceful to come out on top of a situation like that. 

We were busy for several more hours after that and I ended up leaving that shift with a nice little wad of cash in my pocket. Most notably coming from the Cadet’s generous contribution. After that shift, I went Christmas shopping for my family with that money.

Every year as soon as the holiday decorations start coming out, I think of that lunch shift. And it always makes me laugh a little bit.

But this year, that memory is accompanied by the realization that so may servers are going to be deprived of those kinds of days. Not days where they get to provide a high school nemesis with a healthy dose of humility, but days where they fight through the animosity and hatred of the “Christmas Crowd” and leave work with a stack of money and know that they have gifts covered this year.

Restaurants being restricted from having inside diners is going to be detrimental to so many servers this year. But there are ways to help these people out during this season of giving. First, order local. Get take-out from your favorite local spots. They need the help, the corporations don’t. Second, tip well. In order to keep your favorite spots around so they can re-open in the future, we have to ensure that they still have people on the payroll. Finally, just be nice to be the people that handle your food. Regardless of what time of year it is.

Merry Christmas,

The Second String Debate Team