My Days As A Young Waitress
Growing up in the suburbs in the late 1970’s, I wanted a job that paid more than the $1 per hour I earned babysitting. The best option for a 16-year-old girl seemed to be waitressing. Two family restaurants nearby hired girls my age at a wage of $2.50 per hour plus tips, which could boost your earnings to $5 or $6 per hour. But there was a steak and chop house in the next suburb over that was swankier and more expensive, serving steaks and alcohol, where you could make $10 per hour or more with tips. You had to be 18 to waitress there and serve liquor, but two of my classmates already worked there—all you had to do was say you were 18 on the application. Nobody checked.
I applied, interviewed and got hired. Two of my friends applied but didn’t get hired. I wondered why until they gave me my uniform and I saw the other attractive waitresses, then it made sense—they preferred girls to be slim with bigger breasts since our black polyester mini-dresses had plunging necklines, and my friends were A or B cups and couldn’t fill them out. Showing your cleavage was part of the job, push-up bras required.
Times were weird back then. We got sexually harassed constantly but didn’t think much of it at the time—drunk men would pinch or slap our butts, squeeze our breasts, kiss us, proposition us, say lewd things. Especially during bar rush. We’d play nice to get a good tip. The waiters, who didn’t have to show any skin, were spared the grabby hands that we waitresses had to put up with nightly. I had one regular customer who liked to tip me by tucking a folded $5 bill down my low neckline and into my bra, copping a feel. It was nuts.
One time, I got to be the harasser when the youth pastor at my church came in with his wife to celebrate their anniversary. A lot of us in the youth group hated him because he was so self-righteous and constantly telling us we were going to hell for dancing to rock or disco music or celebrating Halloween, so I’d quit going. They were seated in my section and I had much fun making him squirm by leaning over real far when taking his order, serving his food, refilling his coffee, showing him my bare white breasts up close, just inches from his face. He turned beet red and tried to avoid the temptation of looking, but he snuck a few peeks, anyway, while his wife seemed unhappy with me for some reason. Wiggled my ass at him in my short dress each time I left. Wished them a happy anniversary when I dropped off the check, batting my eyes. Bastard didn’t leave me a tip, just a note that he would pray for me. It was worth it.
