A thousand sassy tongue lashes at the Joint

So Sis works part-time as a waitress at a 24-hour place in the tourist-filled Wholesale section of downtown. We'll call it the Joint. And by tourists, I include Northsiders and residents of HamCo. To be honest, they are something all together different. And they think this is Broad Ripple, where they can act like sweaty, drunken frat-rejects, vomiting and fighting all over the place.

Nay-nay. We run a much more classy and mature set downtown, y'all. Get it together or you're losing some cash. And/or teeth. And or the lining of your lungs (you know who you are--always getting tear-gassed at the dance joint down the street).

So last night's story is this: Sis calls me in to work as hostess because Red Dragon can't be there. Boy's gotta crack habit to take care of. I decline because I have a school project to avoid, and I'm down the street at Juicy's house watching Borat anyway.

Oh, how I wish I could've been there!

So Sis gets a banned "Canadian." Not to be disrespectful to our neighbors to the north, but this breed of customer has different cultural values that do not include the importance of tipping. And more often than not, generally does not understand you shouldn't be an asshat to someone who has control over the following:
A. The police officer working security at the door who will plant his foot into your backside.
B. The timeliness and temperature at which your food will be served.
C. A sassy, razor-sharp tongue that will cut you off at the boottops because, hey, this is her second job anyway where she comes to relieve the stress of being a corporate yes woman. She will dare you to f*ck with her.

"Canadians" is apparently used widely in the food service industry to refer to black people of a certain socio-economic class. To clarify for future reference, Canadians at this establishment only fit the criteria that they are rude, nasty for no reason, are taking a bad day/night/life out on a waitress/waiter, and are obviously value shopping for food at the wrong place. If you want cheap, go hit the vending machines at the Greyhound Station. So this can apply to white people, hispanic, asian, or middle eastern just as easily as black, and suprisingly often to Christians on their way back from church on Sunday mornings.

Back to the story:
A banned Canadian, after a night of hardcore half-price drinking at the clubs, cuts the line at the door and comes up to my Sis at the counter. Sis tells her she's not welcome. Think Edina from Absolutely Fabulous, but even more pathetic. She's a tourist from the Northside. But Sis bites her tongue when Edina says she wants it to go. Ok, Sis will play along.

Of course, Edina owns a modeling agency, and according to her, she. knows. everyone. Sis gives her her to go order. The next time she turns around to look, Edina's mowing down on her greasy diner hashbrowns and eggs at the end of the bar, and says, "You know, you're banned. The only reason I took your order is because I thought it was to go. And I told you that when you ordered."

Edina feigns surprise."Well, why am I banned?"

Sis lays it out for her. "Well, apparently you have been a total bitch to waitstaff here several times. And now your name is on the list."

"Let me see that list!" Edina demands.

Sis pulls the paper down off the board and shows it to her. Her name is not only on the list, but has been highlighted. Ooooh, you've been especially naughty, Edina. They all hate your guts.

Edina is shocked. Shocked! "Well, I own a modeling agency." Whoop-dee-dee-doo."I must have told one of the girls here 'No', and that's why I'm on this list."

This is the moment every shift Sis waits for. To put a subtle slow burn on an asshat. "No. You obviously don't know any of the people that work here if you think for a second that's the case." Get a clue, lady. Large, culturally attractive cities have aspiring actor-model-singers working as waitstaff. In Indianapolis, waiting is an actual job (full or part time) or something you do until you finish your Masters in English Lit and land that dream job teaching at a university in a culturally attractive city where aspiring actor-model-singers work as waitstaff.

"Well, I don't know who I told 'No' to," Edina prattles on, "but I will make sure none of my clients and none of my girls EVER come down here again."

Sis just rolls her eyes. Edina, even more infuriated, bellows,"I know Jamie Foxx's people. He's in town, and I'm going to make sure they don't come here. That they never come here."

Sis just smiles. "Are ya sure? 'Cause that large group of people in the back there," she waves her hand over a group of about 15 people,"are Jamie Foxx's people."

Defeated and too drunk to really argue anymore, Edina picks up the rest of her chow in the styrofoam and marches out, still braying, "I will never come here again and neither will my girls..."

The Bear and the Homie, friends of ours outside of work who toil the steamy and seemy side of nightlife along side with Sis at the Joint, come up to Sis after Edina makes her Grand Exit. "You were too nice to her," they say.

"Well," Sis is a contemplative person with a philosopher's soul (sometimes),"she's gonna come to tomorrow and will be like 'That f*ckin' bitch just burned me.' And I will be at my corporate job, far away from her making a scene to the Boss, who's not going to do anything for her except tell her to leave because she's obviously on that list for a reason."

The Bear and the Homie nod at this wisdom. "Ahh, subtle, yet effective," sayeth the Homie.