Request For a Woman
I was watching as the waiter came with
menus to the nearby table.
Tall and slender and dark he was, a
little shy I thought. And foreign. Polite
too, you could tell. The kind someone
might take advantage of, or not say
the right thing to.
The man there at his table looks
him over and says:
I like for pretty women to wait on me.
I swear those were his exact words and
right out loud in that restaurant and
his wife right there with him.
So, I observed this man because I
sometimes look at pretty women too, but
never requested one from a waiter before.
His frowning face was not the
kind to charm a pretty woman. It
showed his many complaints
about the bad turns his life had
taken. The wife who often hears about
those things sat still and starring.
But the man likes pretty women and
has now requested one.
I figured he drives a big American-made
car with custom plates and many
bumper stickers and has never voted
Democrat in his life. Scorns those
imported cars and imported people too.
Throws trash out the window if he wants
and says a lot about the deadbeats on
welfare, yeah. Plays golf Friday
mornings and cheats when he can.
And hasn’t kissed his wife a real
kiss in many years now.
So anyway, there stands this
waiter with his puzzled face and
menus, beginning to realize how
hard a question he’s just been handed.
What on earth can he suggest?
Sir, I don’t know how to answer your
question but I could bring the manager
over and see if he can help.
Or
Sir, I believe the prettiest woman here
is working in another section but
should I see if I can call her over?
Or
Sir, we have no pretty ones
here, but there’s a place in town
where they dance topless for
a nice tip. Want the address?
But I don’t believe the waiter knew
what to say and so he never said
anything on this difficult subject.
He must have thought more
about it though, and how he
might have answered. And he
must have wondered about this
man he’d served.
Some man. His wife spends up
most of his money and nags him
about the rest. His one daughter
never married all these years,
but’s lived with three strange
men in some order, and spends her
time often drunk with a bunch of
misfits and rejects. Son divorced
and never calls except when he
wants help. And a woman who
refuses to speak in a civil way if
she speaks at all has custody of
his only grandchildren. That’s
the way his life’s gone.
Then of course there’s his leaky
bladder, his sore back, his bad
knees, his high blood pressure, and
all those pills and doctor appointments.
World’s crazy these days. Too
crazy for even the prettiest waitress
to help all that much. But still he
thinks about it. His imagination
wanders hopeful.
Look up in some wide blue eyes
and hear old-time music being
played. Band music that is. Nice
young girl with a tan and a pretty
sun dress on. Drive by to pick her up
and head downtown for a soda. Red
convertible with white sidewall tires,
yessir! Something about showing off
a sharp car and a pretty girl all together.
Fellows there in front of the drug store
all turn and stare. Some wave.
Ahh, yes!
But instead, he must take that boring
old woman across his table to a damn
birthday party with people he doesn’t
like. He’ll have to still stand there and
sing happy birthday. Happy for who?
Not for him. No pretty women
will he see there either.
His waiter, who is young, knows nothing
of all this.
His chances with pretty women are at their
lifelong best.
Why, he may sit with his arm around one just
hours from now and tell about the dirty old man
he waited on today. They may joke about what
that man would do if he really got the pretty
woman he asked for. Old age is when
you get stiff in all the wrong places, right?
And stretched out at home with his third
beer and favorite team playing lousy on TV, his
day’s most notable customer sighs heavy as he
thinks along the same lines. They do have pretty
girls in all those commercials, but what good is
that to me? What good?
And there, all settled with his own girl, the
young man stretches his arms over a full
head of hair and smiles his wide smile
as if this, for him, will go on and on forever.
And I, whose own years fall somewhere between
those two, will finish my breakfast and leave
alone, feeling a little sad for so early in the day.
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