Best Pizza in a Cup Around
One summer, while in graduate school, I came home to live with my parents. Our neighbor put in a good word for me with the management at his country club and I found myself working there as a waitress.
The staff at the club was the usual assortment of crazies that a country club will attract: older bartenders that have worked there for years, young ones that aren't fast enough to work at the clubs, waitresses that are more than reminiscent of Flo, migrant bus boys, slutty golf pros, slutty swim coaches, slutty waiters, a line cook from New Zealand that used to save me twice baked potatoes, a sous-chef that was the nicest man on earth, alcoholic management. You know, the usual.
The bar "manager" had just started bartending about a year before. He was a svelt 250 lbs at about 5'8". He allegedly had a sister that weighed about 500 lbs. He was inordinately proud of his $60 black pants from Structure that he wore to work. He was beginning to bald, had no prospects in life and I suspect he was gay.
Of course, you know that means that he had a crush on me.
I knew no one in this town. Save my mother and father. Not a soul. So I hung out with these people. And I had absolutely nothing else to do. So we drank beer after work, played pool, broke into the pool after hours, drove around on golf carts in the dark. Passed the time.
Eventually, Sad Sack gets up the guts to ask me out. I think it was around my birthday. He'd been working up to it for quite some time--paying for my drinks when we were out, making a point of having to sit next to me, always wanting to be my partner in pool. And I suck at pool.
I feel sorry for him. And, like I said, I had absolutely nothing else to do. So, I said I'd go.
He was all excited. He wanted to take me to the pizza place in his home town. Approximately 45 minutes away by car. 45 excruciating minutes to look forward to. He's gonna pick me up at 6:30. Goody.
So I'm sitting with my dad at the kitchen table, looking out onto the street and our driveway. I'd made it clear to my parents that I was regretting saying yes. I wanted to call him and tell him I was sick. Or had moved to a foreign country (an excuse I once used with success). But, no. I'd made the committment. So I'd go.
I think my dad and I were drinking beer. And I seem to remember that it was Wednesday. I'm sitting at the kitchen table, moping. Seriously. Head in hand. Eyes on the floor. Any signs of life had fled.
"Hey, I think your date's here," my dad says.
Without even looking, I get up, drag my purse off the table, and start the Bataan Death March out to the driveway. I walk to the front door, open it and begin to walk outside.
Only to see the garbage truck sitting in front of our house.
My father laughed so hard he fell off his chair.
The guy did eventually show up and proceeded to turn his baseball cap backwards so he could add oil to his car in my parents' driveway. We then drove an excessive distance to eat pizza (with mushrooms from a can) at a place that had both kinds of beer: Bud and Bud Light. I gave him the leftovers and began dating one of the bartenders the very next week.
The staff at the club was the usual assortment of crazies that a country club will attract: older bartenders that have worked there for years, young ones that aren't fast enough to work at the clubs, waitresses that are more than reminiscent of Flo, migrant bus boys, slutty golf pros, slutty swim coaches, slutty waiters, a line cook from New Zealand that used to save me twice baked potatoes, a sous-chef that was the nicest man on earth, alcoholic management. You know, the usual.
The bar "manager" had just started bartending about a year before. He was a svelt 250 lbs at about 5'8". He allegedly had a sister that weighed about 500 lbs. He was inordinately proud of his $60 black pants from Structure that he wore to work. He was beginning to bald, had no prospects in life and I suspect he was gay.
Of course, you know that means that he had a crush on me.
I knew no one in this town. Save my mother and father. Not a soul. So I hung out with these people. And I had absolutely nothing else to do. So we drank beer after work, played pool, broke into the pool after hours, drove around on golf carts in the dark. Passed the time.
Eventually, Sad Sack gets up the guts to ask me out. I think it was around my birthday. He'd been working up to it for quite some time--paying for my drinks when we were out, making a point of having to sit next to me, always wanting to be my partner in pool. And I suck at pool.
I feel sorry for him. And, like I said, I had absolutely nothing else to do. So, I said I'd go.
He was all excited. He wanted to take me to the pizza place in his home town. Approximately 45 minutes away by car. 45 excruciating minutes to look forward to. He's gonna pick me up at 6:30. Goody.
So I'm sitting with my dad at the kitchen table, looking out onto the street and our driveway. I'd made it clear to my parents that I was regretting saying yes. I wanted to call him and tell him I was sick. Or had moved to a foreign country (an excuse I once used with success). But, no. I'd made the committment. So I'd go.
I think my dad and I were drinking beer. And I seem to remember that it was Wednesday. I'm sitting at the kitchen table, moping. Seriously. Head in hand. Eyes on the floor. Any signs of life had fled.
"Hey, I think your date's here," my dad says.
Without even looking, I get up, drag my purse off the table, and start the Bataan Death March out to the driveway. I walk to the front door, open it and begin to walk outside.
Only to see the garbage truck sitting in front of our house.
My father laughed so hard he fell off his chair.
The guy did eventually show up and proceeded to turn his baseball cap backwards so he could add oil to his car in my parents' driveway. We then drove an excessive distance to eat pizza (with mushrooms from a can) at a place that had both kinds of beer: Bud and Bud Light. I gave him the leftovers and began dating one of the bartenders the very next week.
posted by Miss Head at
7:25 AM
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