Already by 27 years, I had 3 sons and had gone through 2 husbands (one more husband—a keeper—would come later). I still had good looks too for all that, but I only know this looking back at pictures.  At the time, I had so many neuroses their number was longer than my grocery list. It never occurred to me then that I was a hottie. Brought to mind is that cliché about youth being wasted on the young.

My cocktail waitress uniform showed off my good figure. This I did know. The restaurant’s cocktail lounge had live music, and I suppose it was considered a top-notch hang-out for the 30ish crowd. The restaurant was a favorite for seafood lovers, from locals to tourists, and it started out as a fun place to work, although I was always sad to have to leave my boys and make the drive to the waterfront some 20 miles from home. When it was busy, which was all summer, those work hours were no time for pining over missing the kids. I made good money. In some ways it was good to be around people whose conversations did not include, “He started it!” and, “Mom! Make him quit it!” At least most of the time it was good. In the beginning.

There wasn’t a day that my feet didn’t hurt. My back and legs ached all the time too. The music was loud and it was crowded. The band played the same sets night after night. Same songs, same order, same, same, same. Walk to a table, smile, take an order, run back to the bar, get in line to scream in my order. Garnish the drinks, pay the bartender for them, pile them onto my tray, squeeze my way through the isle to the table to plunk down the drinks. Plunking was what I wanted to do. In the actual sense, I carefully placed them, and of course smiling brightly.

Whining customer: “Where’s the strawberry for my strawberry margarita?” 

All the strawberries are moldy and soft you stupid bitch, or I would have put one on your stupid, fruity, lame excuse for a drink.

 “So sorry. The garnishes are not looking so good, but when they bring out some fresh ones I will be sure to get you a nice one.” 

And I’ll smash it right into your face. 

Here’s a sweet, strawberry smile for you in the meantime.

In those days, people could smoke in public places. The place filled with smoke and my nasal passages filled with scabs. My allergies kept me forever feeling sick. Some nights brought out the ugly in many of the inebriated customers. You know the type. Arrogant, can’t be pleased, think waitresses are a low form of life to be verbally and physically abused. The particularly rotten ones think waitresses are meant to be fondled. Shamelessly fondled. There is nothing like a drunk with octopus arms who fancies himself a Casanova, slurring his disgusting overtures in your face, reeking of the garlic from his dinner.  

I would drag myself home around 3AM, catch a few hours of sleep before the kids woke me with their kisses and their demands. I needed sleep, but instead I was Mommy on duty. Maybe I’d get a nap later in the day before making the trek back to work. Exhaustion would soon set in. My patience was worn so thin it snapped like dry kindling in a fire.

After a particularly stressful, busy night when nothing was going smoothly or right, a big party of young couples was drinking and whooping and hollering in my station. I’d been waiting on them for over an hour and one of the guys was particularly obnoxious. He couldn’t keep his hands off me and his off-color remarks were ringing in my ear when I went charging down the aisle to the bar. Without any hesitation and with concentrated purpose, I carefully loaded my tray with dirty glasses and filled them with soda,  splashes of coke for color, stir sticks, straws, and lots of garnish—cherries, limes, mint—I made them look like a fresh order, and off I went back to the creep who had met, and exceeded, his quota for tastelessness. 

It was easy. I fake tripped and all the glasses slid off my tray spilling down his chest and stomach onto his lap. Sarcastically as possible I said, “Oh my! I’m so sorry. Let me help you.” With that I produced a filthy bar rag and began dabbing his shirt. His entourage stood up and actually applauded me.  Mr. Big Mouth was silenced, and lo and behold there was a big tip on the tray for me when they finally left.  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought he’d said too much. 

The Reuben E. Lee Restaurant on Harbor Island in San Diego, CA, is where these cocktail waitress stories evolved. The restaurant finally became unsafe in 2004, and after being towed away to the San Diego Bay close by the Coronado Bridge it took on water and sunk.

. Read about it, if you like: https://www.sandiegouniontribune.com/sdut-iconic-reuben-e-lee-restaurant-sinks-in-bay-2012dec14-story.html