There was an interesting clothes-related incident last Saturday night, involving Teh BF and myself. Here it is now, for your reading pleasure...
S came to see my show on Saturday, and because he didn't feel like waiting at the space for me to finish putting stuff away, we agreed to meet at Burgers and Cupcakes for dinner.
Of course, Burgers and Cupcakes was closed.
S walked up 9th Ave, and found a place called The Door. Aside from a guy carding out front, nothing about the place seemed amiss. He ordered a beer, sat a table, and read his book.
I arrived about 40 minutes later, and the vibe of the place was starting to mutate.
Even though he had picked the table himself, S looked merely relegated to his corner, alone with his glass of beer and his book. Other patrons seemed to studiously avoid him, as he was in his Mad Scientist best. (Black slacks, and black waffle-fabric long sleeved shirt.) I didn't feel very welcome either, looking like Dyke #1 in my giant purple coat, bright green scarf, multi-colored hat, grey fleece, shapeless blue sweater (what? it was fucking freezing Saturday night), black Levis, and stompy, ugly snowboots.
Desperately craving a whiskey, I flagged down the balsa wood specimen of a waitress.
"Knob Creek on the rocks, please," I ordered. She looked vaguely confused, then said, "Ok," and headed to the bar. I watched her looking at the whiskey shelf for about 30 seconds before I went up to her.
"You don't have Knob Creek, do you," I asked. She still looked confused. I looked at the whiskeys myself, and sure enough, there was no Knob Creek. I said nevermind, and ordered a different whiskey.
She brought me my drink, but with a frustrating slowness usually associated with draft Guinness, not hard liquor over ice.
I managed to flag her down again, saying, "We'd like to order some food, please."
She took my order, and turned to walk away.
"Excuse me," I said, "But he didn't order yet." She looked at S with a thinly-veiled look of displeasure. You mean I have to talk to him?!?!
S ordered his sandwich, and she made a hasty retreat. I eyed her as she poked our orders into the computer system at the end of the bar. Her tip was dwindling by the moment.
The waitress looked nothing like this.
Over the next 20 minutes or so, S and I enjoyed each others' company, all the while noticing that the clientele were getting more and more "Beautiful" by the minute, and that our attire, and appearance in general was decidedly not de rigeur.
Finally, I realized that it had been over 20 minutes, and our sandwiches were still not out. We hadn't ordered complicated dishes, and no one else around us seemed to have ordered food recently.
I turned to S.
"There's a really great diner a few blocks from here. Want to cancel our sandwiches and go there instead?"
"Yeah. Good plan."
I got up and went to Ms. Balsa Wood 2007, standing haughtily by the computer.
"Hi. We'd like to cancel our orders and I'd like to pay for my drink, please."
I could see the gears turning in her head.
"Oh! But your sandwiches are ready."
Then why aren't they at our table, bitch, I thought uncharitably.
"Ah. We'd like to cancel them."
With that, I turned on my heel (not an easy thing to do in my snow boots), and went back to my table. No sooner had I sat back down when Balsa came running back to me with the fear of God in her eyes. I could practically hear her thoughts. People who aren't Beautiful shouldn't feel entitled to good service! Omigod!
"Miss? Your sandwiches are all ready. Do you still want to cancel your order?"
"Yes. And please bring me my tab for my drink." She still looked terrified.
"Oh. Okay." And then she slunk back up towards the end of the bar.
I smiled at S as we watched her confer with three other employees over the turn of events.
A few moments later, she brought me my bill for my whiskey.
I tipped her $2 for showing fear.