A tale of two Garths. Chapter 40. “Do you have any Mexicans back there?”


“Do you have any Mexicans back there?” the woman sitting by herself at table 8 asked me.

“What?”

“Do you have any Mexicans back there?” she repeated her question.

“Yes, we have a couple.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Do you think you could ask them to spice this up a bit? You know, work their magic,” she said to me as she waved her fingers over her Tostada Salad. What did she expect me to do? Walk back in the kitchen and tell the Mexican guys I worked with every day that they weren’t being Mexican enough? Maybe if we had border patrol chase them around the kitchen while they cooked her food, she would have been a touch more impressed.

“Suuurrre. I can totally do that for you,” I told her with an innocent smile on my face. You want Mexican? I’ll show you Mexican!

I took her Tostada Salad around the corner to the service station where we kept all the condiments. I then grabbed the little red bottle of tobasco and proceeded to put a couple of dashes of the spicy red sauce on her salad. No, not Mexican enough. I thought to myself as I added even more dashes just to prove to her that our Mexicans were not imitation Mexicans, but were indeed the real thing. Then I made sure to cover my tracks by adding just a touch more lettuce and salsa to the top of her salad. As I sauntered back out to her table I was just so pleased with myself.

“There you go.” I said to her as I set the fiery concoction down on her table.

“Enjoy,” I told her as I walked away. I think I’m starting to not like my job very much.

After setting the woman on table 8 on fire, I went to the bar to pick up my drinks for my other tables. As I stood there looking utterly dissatisfied a nice looking blond woman sitting near the service station struck up a conversation with me.

“Excuse me,” she said. “You’re really pretty.”

“Thank you,” I told her. Wow, that was really nice. I should have her come around every night.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” *Sigh* Here comes the gay question. Look lady, I’m totally flattered but if you’re not Drew Barrymore you’re not getting any.

“Go for it,” I told her,” expecting to be hit on.

“How much money do you make in a night?” Now I was just confused. She was really well dressed and I could tell by her Prada purse and her shoes that she didn’t need a job at Stanley’s. And if she did, she must have done something REALLY bad at her other job to resort to waiting tables.

“Not much to be honest. Somewhere between $70 to $100 depending on the station I get.” I told her.

“Where I work you could make a couple grand in a week,” she told me.

Color me interested.

“Reeeeaaallly?” She had my attention.

“Oh yeah, I make a ton of money,” she went on. As she was talking to me I noticed my bartender Sam listening in on the conversation. He had his eyes down but there was a hint of a smile starting to creep across his face.

“I could get you a job there if you want,” she told me.

“Um, YEAH!” I was so in. Hello, a couple grand a week! I’m not stupid! “Where is it?” I asked her.

“Do you have a piece of paper?” she asked. Sam grabbed a cocktail napkin and a pen and handed them both to her so fast you would have thought it was him that was going to start the new money making job. I just stood there imagining the grown-up size refrigerator I was going to buy for me and Garth with my new found fortune. I had visions of an ice cube maker dancing through my head. After she wrote down the address she handed me the napkin. I was so happy. I looked down at the address.

12147 Victory Blvd, North Hollywood. Hey that’s not far from my house! And then I looked at the name of my potential new employer. VIP Showgirls Gentleman’s Club. And that’s when it dawned on me.

“This is a strip club isn’t it?” I asked her.

“Its not just any strip club,” Sam piped in. “It’s an all nude strip club,” he added like he had just answered the final question on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. Now this wasn’t the first time I had been offered a job in a strip club. The first time was back in college. I had been offered a job as a cocktail waitress and I actually considered it for about a half a second when my phone got turned off and I couldn’t afford to pay rent. And come to find out this wouldn’t be the last time either. The next offer would come two years later. But I would be offered a bartender’s position that time. An offer I actually thought about for way more than half a second. Those girls make a LOT of money. And I wasn’t judging Miss Prada for her choice of professions. If she wanted to open up the petals of her flower and show it to all the men in North Hollywood as well as the surrounding vicinities, who the hell was I to judge? But me? I planned to keep my flower as private property with harsh punishments for any sort of uninvited trespassing.

“Thank you so much for the offer,” I told her, trying my best not to offend my new friend in any way. “But I don’t think that would be the right job for me. I’m a little on the shy side.”

“Well keep the address if you change your mind,” she told me.

“Will do,” I said as I smiled at her and put the napkin in the pocket of my apron. I then grabbed my drinks, while visually flipping Sam off and went back to my nice normal job with my nice normal pain-in-the-ass customers.

“So how’s that salad treating you?” I asked table 8 as I came around the corner from the bar.

“Just great,” the woman mumbled, face red and sweat starting to bead down her forehead.

“Can I get this to go?” she asked me.

“Do you want me to have one of the Mexicans in the back wrap it up for you?”

“Yes. That would be fine,” was all she could get out as she grabbed her water glass and drank the whole thing down in one gulp trying to extinguish the tobasco induced flames that were currently dancing on her tongue. I was extra nice to her as I wrapped up her food and gave her the check. I may have hated my job but it was a hell of a lot better than taking my clothes off for a living. At least for me it was.

Later that night I took my measly $87 in tips and went home to my empty apartment. Garth was out of town again working on another commercial. I had a glass of wine and watched movies until midnight. I didn’t have to work again until the next night so I planned on spending my morning sleeping in and maybe even walking down to my favorite hippy restaurant for a tofu burrito and flax seed ice tea. I was happy, relaxed, and completely oblivious to the note that was placed on my car in front of our building.

The next morning I woke up to a knock on the door. I opened the door to see a rather large, scruffy, irritated looking man.

“Can I help you?” I asked him looking at the clock hanging on our wall. Is it just me or does that clock say 7am?

“Yeah. Do you own the red Pontiac Firebird parked on the street?” Not really. You see my boyfriend kinda took my keys a year or so ago, and I’ve been driving his piece of shit Volvo ever since.

“Yes. That’s my car. Why?”

“Were shooting a movie in this street today and there had been notice on your car for a week now telling you to move it or we’ll tow it.”

“I’m so sorry. My boyfriend usually drives it but he’s out of town shooting a commercial, and please don’t tow it. I’ll move it. Just don’t tow it okay.” I blurted out looking around for the Pontiac keys.

“I’ll give you about an hour,” he told me. His attitude was much nicer now.

“Thank you so much,” I said as I frantically searched the apartment for MY keys. But no matter where I looked I came up empty. I’ll just have to page him. I paged Garth with our home phone number followed by a 911 to let him know this was an emergency. Considering this was MY car getting towed I don’t think I was overreacting.

About 20 minutes later he called me back.

“Where are the keys to the Pontiac?” I asked him.

“In my hotel room,” he told me.

“You’re…where are you like Minnesota or something? Why do you need the keys to the Pontiac when you’re not even in California?” I asked raising my voice. “They’re shooting a movie on our street and they’re going to tow the Pontiac!”

“But I needed the keys because they had the house key on them…”

“Well next time you go out of town LEAVE ME MY CAR KEYS!” I yelled into the phone. I was beyond irritated at this point. I had to do something and hanging up on Garth seemed like a good idea at the time.

Think Stacy. You have to move that car before they tow it and impound it. How can you move that car? You can push it. No you can’t. And do you know why? Because you would have to be able to get into the car, and you can’t get into the car because you don’t have the damn keys! Okay…smoke a bowl. Calm down. So I took my own advice and smoked a bowl. Seriously, at this point what the hell else was I going to do? And then it hit me, Triple A. It was like a little light bulb went off in my head. They have to tow me for 7 miles for free. I’ll get them to tow me around the corner and put my car on the next street over. So I made the call. The woman at triple A was none too pleased about my genius idea but considering I was all paid up on my membership there was really nothing she could do about it. Membership does have its privileges after all.

When the Triple A guy came out he was laughing so hard he asked me if I wanted him to come back the next day to tow it back. I told him I planned to save my remaining 6-½ miles for next time my boyfriend went out of town and took MY keys to MY car with him. So much for sleeping in.

To be continued….

Love it? Hate it? Let me know! Send questions, comments, brownie recipes or random brainfarts to: mrsdiagnosed@yahoo.com

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