Thursday, February 01, 2007

Care Fo a Drynk?

I moved to Texas from the east coast when I was 12 and fiercely guarded my crisp language skills despite being surrounded by slow tongued, drawling natives. I must confess, out of curiosity I did introduce "ya'll" into my vocabulary and was shocked when it proved not only useful, but downright fun to say. But that was the extent of my language submersion. Until I was 18. One summer after returning home from college on break I applied for a waitress job at Chili's Bar & Grill. I got the job mainly because it was walking distance from my house and a good friend had worked there previously and recommended me despite the fact that I had no experience whatsoever.

It was an instant disaster. I was the kind of waitress who got her tips in the form of suggestions angrily scrawled on napkins by disgruntled diners. Most of the orders I placed were incorrect and my customers regularly stiffed me altogether. After a month I got to the point where I could handle three tables at a time but add that fourth table on and I was sure to be found at the end of my shift crying into the lemons in the walk in refrigerator. I came to realize that being a waiter was not an acquired skill. It something that you are born with and there was no possible way I could ever improve while missing this elusive waiter chromosome. Chili's paid $2.80 per hour plus tips. Many days I would go home having made only $8/hour which for any respectable waitress is ridiculously bad. A few of my natural born waitress co-workers could make $50 on a lunch shift and another $75 to $100 at dinner thanks to our hopping bar. I wanted to know their secret. So I watched them.

They oozed confidence and boobs. Every man who walked into the place was treated like the hottest guy on the planet and they shamelessly plugged alcoholic drinks while suggestively batting their eyes to indicate possible outcomes of buying said drink. The men ate it up. I knew I'd never have the guts to pull off this ruse. But I had to make money to go back to college in the fall so I picked up on the one characteristic of the good waitresses that was within my reach. The Southern accent. About 6 weeks into my job I came into work one day with my pockets empty and decided that I'd garble up my pure-bred New England accent so badly that people wouldn't understand a single word coming out of my mouth. My brisk, clipped dialogue would be replaced by long drawn out vowels, intermittent giggles and homemade variations of the compound words. I spent that day practicing my new technique and went home having made $15 an hour over the lunch hour. It worked. The accent doubled my wage. The inept, platter dropping waitress named Sarah had been replaced by a much more delightful girl, "Say-rah."

In a couple weeks I had grown comfortable with the wild Southern accent that I'd been so loath to assimilate in the past. I found the accent childishly demanded further accessory and had to also raise my voice a couple of octaves, sway my shoulders while talking and lean lazily on people's tables while chatting. It was everything I hated my waitresses to do but the Dallas crowd paid rapt attention and the tips kept getting better. It was no longer "Hello, my name is Sarah. I'll be your waitress today." Instead I became "Howdy, I'm Say-rah! You folks sure look like you need a drynk! How 'bout it?"

She was dynamite. Granted, our poor Say-rah was still a tad overwhelmed with more than four tables at a time, but those four tables were now very well taken care of. The accent remained inside the restaurant and at the end of my shift I'd trudge home a disgruntled, ketchup splattered Yankee who hated social interaction. But every day at work Say-rah would reappear. I didn't realize just how far I'd gone until one week I won the "Margarita Madness" award for having sold the most booze over the past 7 days. As my manager handed me my two movie tickets and passes to Wet N' Wild to the applause of my co-workers I realized that perhaps she'd gone too far. As a Mormon, I've never even sipped an alcoholic beverage because of our religious code and here I was lolling all over the tables to get frat boys sloshed daily. But there was something about slipping into her persona.

Say-rah was a much better waitress than I could ever dream of being, but she wasn't me. The real me could never have done it. I didn't win that prize, my curvaceous, thick tongued bimbo twin did. Like the jealous little sister I told myself she was a sell-out and soon grew disguised with her. Shortly thereafter I went back to school for fall term vowing never to be a waitress again.. Say-rah is still waiting for me inside the door of Chili's, stamping her little foot with impatience to re-emerge as the Margarita Queen of Dallas. But I don't admire her like I used to and avoid the restaurant when I'm in town. I'm proud to be a rude, prude, undertipped waitress - she wanted to take that all away from me. And I almost let her.

Bio of Sarah, this month's guest writer:

Sarah Flake is a mother and self-declared writer living in Los Angeles, California. Notable past achievements include: 4th place in a church chili cook off; 2rd place in a town pumpkin carving contest in the "Prettiest Pumpkin" category; and the coveted blue ribbon in a Limbo contest at an office Christmas party. She began writing stories for friends in 2nd grade and hasn't stopped writing since. Her primary format is the personal essay which she finds best able to accommodate her self-deprecatory yet cheeky style. You can read more of her essays ranging from politics to parenthood or contact her on her web log at http://hollywoodflakes.blogspot.com.

Go visit Sarah's blog to read her cool writing and read my own post!

1. A wonderful post.  Isn’t it strange how things like that can creep up on us and become so comfortable for a while.  I confess that I fall into a drawl quite a bit when I go south, usually without even noticing it.

   Rod  on  02/01  at  10:05 AM

2. I wouldn’t be caught dead saying “ya’ll” here in L.A. but drop it like it’s hot every time I go back to Dallas without even thinking about it.  It’s funny how our brain automatically adjusts to our surroundings and how little control we can have over it!

   Sarah  on  02/01  at  12:46 PM

3. Sounds like you worked your magic!  Wonder what people would think if you tried that in LA?  (The pizza guy who wouldn’t use your coupon might have softened up a bit).

   annie  on  02/01  at  02:43 PM

4. OH! Y’all are too cute!

   chronicler  on  02/01  at  07:57 PM

5. Assuming characters can be fun if you are in control, but a nightmare if done under pressure. Good for you for shedding the artificial skin and being yourself. My sister tried waitressing and I found her complete unwillingness to play the game endearing...her tables, not so much.

   amanda  on  02/01  at  10:56 PM

6. Y’all are the ones who have a strange accent! :>

   mike  on  02/02  at  02:03 PM
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