Just before my clowning days, I worked most nights as a server at Big Texas Saloon in Houston. I was nearly invisible in that dark cavernous space, if not for my hot pink translucent serving tray. That tray had a special glow to it, even without black light around. People ordered drinks and the drinks came floating to them on this pink tray from across the club - excuse me, Saloon. Then, the transaction was closed with a payment, very little interaction, very simple. It suited me and it felt good to be a ghost. I shimmied unseen when a song I liked came on. I hung out with the other ghosts in the breakroom. Most people barely acknowledged our existence.
Move in the shadows of a place like that long enough and you'll notice the things people do in the dark. No - not that. I'm talking about cocaine and whatnot. Many of my coworkers played in the snow, it turned out, and the manager had been dealing it in the parking lot. One of the bouncers told me the place had been raided in the past and I decided things were too serious for me there. Where else could I work as a full-time student that would be just as easy? My incessant venting of these concerns prompted a classmate of mine to set up an interview for me where he worked as a cook, Hooters on Tomball Parkway.
The manager seemed nice but he didn’t ask me any questions. Instead, he set an empty pitcher on the bar, handed me a cup of ice, and said, “spit an ice cube into that pitcher from where you’re standing.”
I went for it, but I missed the pitcher. The ice cube ricocheted off the edge of the bar, broke when it hit the floor, and the broken pieces slid to a pathetic halt.
“All you had to do was try. You start tomorrow.”
Hooters was significantly less serious.
This location would be my first of three. It was the only one where I would work with Hooters Girls who had appeared in the calendar. Fit, Fake Boobs, Tans, you get it. I ultimately decided they were uncool because they were so cliquish. What a shocker. They ran gags I didn’t understand. One girl would grab a large stack of woven wooden plates, then she would trip and fall on purpose. The plates would crash all over the floor. Customers looked concerned for a few seconds. No one laughed. She only did it during the rush and I guess that was part of the joke? I never cared for slapstick or inside jokes and it only added extra bullshit work for the dishwasher; cleaning all those plates.
I didn’t understand this place. I'd never served food before and there was much more to it than just serving food, it seemed. Would I ever understand? I could only guess at how much these girls made. I decided I would stick to the basics. In the training manual, the official role of the Hooters Girl is to be an “All American Cheerleader.” Hair and make-up are mandatory. One must be Picture Ready at all times. No visible tattoos. The uniform cannot be worn outside of the building unless fully covered or for a sanctioned event.
Ok so, be pretty, serve wings, try not to piss off these unfunny, cliquey calendar girls who happen to be running the show, got it. I did my best at the time, but I was terrible. I sporadically forgot to put orders in and I ran myself ragged because I didn't know how to consolidate my trips between the counter and the tables. The commute to Tomball was terrible too. Shortly after starting, I took a hiatus from Hooters to weld.
Welding was a logical choice because it was related to my schooling at the time. Logical until I got my first couple of paychecks, $8 an hour is criminal. Hooters paid $2.15, which is worse and infuriating, but the tips were decent. One month of welding for peanuts was more than enough. I drove straight from my welding job to the much closer Hooters location in Spring, Texas. Even if I didn't jive with these girls, the commute was only 10 minutes from my apartment.
I walked in asking for the manager in an ember-burnt plain white tee, dirty jeans, boots, soot-covered face, and black boogers in my nose. This moment felt like a far less entertaining 5-minute knock off of Flashdance. Anyway, another strange interview occurred where I was asked what kind of tree I would be. To this day I wonder what the fuck that has to do with anything. What kind of insight could an interviewer possibly glean from that question?
All in all, the Spring location was THE most fun I’d ever had at a job. There were a handful of dances we all learned and performed in the middle of the restaurant; Copperhead Road and Footloose come to mind. Lots and lots and lots of bouncing. I didn’t care, I love dancing. Whenever Billie Jean came on, I strutted down a specific aisle of tables like MJ. Not only did I shimmy in full view of everyone, it was encouraged. To be honest, it felt good to be goofy and to be seen.
It wasn’t at all like the Tomball location. This all made perfect sense to me. Having fun because it cultivated a fun environment for the customers. We played different games like musical chairs, paper football, and trivia to pick out our sections or to see who would get to go home early or “get cut” as they say in the Food & Beverage biz. The more you involved your tables in these games, the better.
We sang Happy Birthday and fell silent when we all remembered that no one knew the person's name. We signed Hooters calendars with fun messages and took pictures with people on request. We tied crawfish to balloons so they could “escape” - this was an awful thing to do, but they were going to be boiled alive. So I guess they just froze in the atmosphere instead? I'm not really sure what fate awaited them once the balloons ascended into tiny dots in the sky.
A few moves, jobs, and years later, I was living in Maryland and got hired at the Hooters in Laurel. Dancing wasn't permitted at this location. No Texas Wing Franchise shenanigans like in Spring, but we still managed to have fun. Some of the girls had developed their own party tricks, so to speak.
Shauna the Hooters Girl, who moonlighted as a Ravens Cheerleader, had a trick where she would back two chairs against a barstool into a step-pyramid. Then she would continuously hula hoop from the ground, step onto the chair, then onto the stool, then come down onto the other chair, then to the floor on the other side. Every Time I saw her do it, I pictured her as a seal, clapping and barking as she went. Not because I thought she was ridiculous for doing it, not at all. She did it because she knew the customers enjoyed it.
Ashley the Hooters Girl, started a game with a certain creepy regular who tossed dollar bills on the floor. She would bend at the hips to pick them up. He tried the game with me one day while she was out. I used the extended dustpan to sweep his crusty money into it. What a legitimately fun game, now that I think about it; fun on my terms. Hooters in Spring and Laurel were always fun on my terms - Tomball can suck it.
At Hooters, the atmosphere was always meant to be unserious. The brand caters to men, sure, but the Hooters Girl is meant to entertain, to be silly, to serve sub-par wings and make people laugh if she’s doing her job right. Eventually, I came to understand that Hooters Girls are clowns and they’re clowns for men. They are the Hooters brand after all, which means they are the attraction.
Then, one fateful day in 2010, Stephanie the Hooters Girl brought in sombreros and thick stick-on mustaches for us all to wear in celebration of Cinco de Mayo. Was it culturally insensitive to wear mustaches and sombreros? Interesting question. Except, this was Hooters so maybe lower your expectations, aight? Anyway, we were all having a blast in our celebratory hats and mustaches until the general manager called us all to the back.
Once back there, he told us that a customer had complained. The customer said he was, “there to see pretty girls, not mustaches.” The manager then decreed that we were to de-mustache, permanently.
Never mind the various bouts of sexual harassment or misogyny-based death threats I’d casually encountered at Hooters and elsewhere, small beans. This was outrageous. How fucking dare you take my mustache you pathetic piece of shit.
But he did and we all had to comply. It gutted my spirit. It poisoned my soul. Women having fun? Not on his watch. With one self-absorbed skid mark's demand, our exuberant Harlequins were reduced into little more than walking mannequins. It was the beginning of the end for me at Hooters. My fun was ripped away from me. Instead of joking with my tables, I started pondering existential bullshit with them. The devastation of my stolen mustache proliferated throughout my heart and soul in so many ways. I still don’t know the true extent.
I went from a ghost delivering drinks to a silly dancing Hooters Girl, comfortable in the spotlight. Then, suddenly, to an angry and bitter recluse. How abrupt.
RIP Suzi the Clown. May 5th, 2010.
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