Part-time waitress, full-time grrrl?

I was sitting at work, moderately busy with the dinner rush, scribbling notes about what makes a good waitress, and whether I was one or not. I was recalling all the examples of my shaky server instincts, like timing, something that makes a bad waitress-the poor man who scalded his throat because I asked him how his food was right when he was spooning in some freshly heated soup. Or of how you can't fool some customers with shortcuts, that there really is a difference between Coke and Diet Coke(who knew?!?) as I found out tonight by a horrified diner. Sigh. The night wore on, and towards the end, this couple came in, and turned my night upsidedown.

I am not one to judge on appearances, in as much as my socialization allows me. Yes, they stank of already consumed booze(or perhaps they bathed in it?) And yes, they did look like the stereotypical inhabitants of a mobile home facility. But it's just my way to treat everyone with a little graciousness unless proven wrong. Sure, they were suspect, the man paid for his coffee with a roll of nickels, and they both kept pretending to take calls on cellphones that didn't appear to be ringing. And yes, red lights flashing, the man seemed a bit off when he went to the back to look at some empty jazz cd cases. I kept a watchful eye, made sure he knew I was watching him, and listened patiently as he told me of his mother being in the hospital with a short time left to live(really? I'm very sorry) and of his frequent trips to our bathroom because of his kidney stones(yes, they can be quite a nuisance, can't they!) But, for the most part, I let them be. Because I didn't want to be that kind of person. Mistrustful because they weren't dressed like 'downtown' folk.

But as they were leaving, something didn't feel right. All my senses were heightened, each one calling on the others to man all stations, batten down the hatches, call the captain. It was the oddest thing, but from all the way at the back of the restaurant, I heard his fingers in my cash jar. I heard two coins clink together, and I knew. I just knew. I got out of my seat, and the woman came up to me trying to distract me, "Ok, so we're all paid up? Oh don't get up, take a rest, we're fine", but I ignored her, ran to my cash jar and saw all the bills missing. I don't really remember any thought process taking place, don't remember any swirl of colour or inner rage rising like a tidal wave. I just ran. Ran after the man and screamed at him. "Give me my money back. Give me my money back, I know you stole it." He looked at me blankly, and I repeated my instructions, adding a few salty words my mother would blanche at if she heard me. He reached into his fanny pack(I mean really, who wears a fanny pack for Pete's sake!) and pulled out some bills, they floated like smoke in the cold winter air, and fell to the ground. "All of it," I hissed, "Give me all of it, every last dollar." He reached in and more money fell. I told him to get out and never come back again, not before I wrung the wad of money in his face and said "I have to work really hard for this money!", (which isn't entirely true, because most of the time, the restaurant is empty and I'm doodling in my notebook) I firmly ushered his lady out, and stood there, clasping my money, shaking.

I was prepared to hurt him. I was prepared to throw a soup can at his head, like in Crocodile Dundee(don't pretend you didn't watch the movie!), to behave like the inner banshee we all subdue most of the time. I didn't think for one second that he could have a knife, or that there were two of them against me. All I could think was "No. I've had enough." I was pushed to that place you never want to push the quiet ones to, because even we don't know what rage we're capable of. Women aren't really taught how to manifest anger, we're taught to tame it, to knit it or bake it or yoga it away. And that's wrong. We have to learn how to be effectively mad, we have to learn that sometimes, there is no room for docility, there's no time to wait for someone else to save us.

And so, miles away from caring whether I'm a good waitress or not, I've realized my voice isn't always too quiet to be taken seriously, and that sometimes, beyond rosy cheeks and wide eyes, I am a force to be reckoned with.