Read Smart Mouth Waitress for Free Online Page B

better. Comedy would help me get through meeting someone named Britain, I hoped.
    I finished filling up the mini creamer pitchers and did a once-over around the tables, picking up some stray crumpled receipts left behind from the previous night's closing shift.
    The sound of the traffic outside muted ominously, and seconds later our first group of the day walked in: three guys with paint-flecked overalls, probably doing a renovation in the neighborhood.
    When it comes to tips, a group of all guys is the best you can get, provided the group's not big enough to hide one scammer who offers to throw in last and uses the tip money to cover his own lunch. There's a special place in Hell for people like that.
    A group of women with fake Luis Vuitton purses and ridiculous manicures is going to be the worst for tips, especially if they get a shared bill, because if one is a generous tipper, surely another will insist she take some money back, as though she's doing her friend some special favor, and not taking my hard-earned cash out of my hands.
    I know some waitresses who aren't very cute, and they don't do well with tips from guys, but the women are a little more charitable with them. Gorgeous waitresses, however, have it the worst, because despite the good tips, guys are constantly hitting on them and the guys' girlfriends are always giving them the dagger eyes. If you're stunning, you should probably be working in a club, where you can get the bigger tips, and not wasting your time in a diner with people like me and Courtney.
    By the way the three painters were looking around, I knew they hadn't been in before, so I was charitable and gave them the lowdown.
    “Welcome to The Whistle, guys, where bad behavior is not just tolerated, but encouraged. If you want something and can't catch my attention, feel free to whistle and someone will be at your side to change your diaper in a hot minute. The cook doesn't whistle because it's unhygienic over the food, so he pushes a doorbell that makes a sound like a locomotive engine. If you don't like our coffee, which is dumped and fresh-brewed once a week, minimum, you can bring your own in paper cups from down the street, but I'll warn you there is a dollar surcharge, a dollar twenty-five if it's Starbucks.”
    The three painters stared at me with frozen grins, their brains processing all the information. That particular moment, before the light of understanding blinked on, always gave me a sense of compassion for my high school teachers and how it must have felt to stare into similarly confused eyes, day after day.
    “Are there menus?” the oldest of the group asked.
    Oh, but I was ready for him. My previous day of being nice and flirty to everyone, and the subsequent poor batch of tips, had taught me a lesson— no more nice waitress today .
    I tossed three laminated menus on the table in front of them. “That's what these rectangles with the squiggly lines are. If you get stuck, sound the words out letter by letter. Now, who's brave enough for coffee?”
    They looked back and forth at each other until one of them guffawed, breaking the awkwardness. “I'll try some of that coffee,” the big guy declared, beaming, and the other two asked for some as well. In a minute, they were all laughing. The ice had been broken, and we were all going to have a nice time, with them enjoying the entertainment and me enjoying their adulation. Our relationship would be reciprocal. More things in life should be reciprocal.
    I put the order in to the kitchen and got comfortable behind the bar counter, parking the edge of my bum on the lower counter. We waitresses aren't supposed to congregate in the area, but we do.
    There's a feng shui to workplaces. If you walk into any restaurant or retail store, you can spot the most comfortable area for staff, usually behind the barrier of a counter. Groups of staff will congregate there with relaxed posture, drinking their waters and gossiping, as though they're