Often times butches or studs will come into the restaurant with their girl and as I take their orders (you tap the screen with your middle, not your pointer.) I'll notice their mannerisms and how, when they're sent away, when they're met with them, the cooks respond. And how it differs from their consistent response to me. and I sit and I watch and I think, well, okay. What is the difference between me and her?
Though I do put on a bit of a front at work, it's really only for customers, and even then, mostly for teenage boys and adult men. More masculine (duh), more lackadaisical than how I usually hold myself. I smack my gum (mint, or watermelon), I shift my weight (higher than I'd like), I roll back my shoulders (wide, my fathers), and slur my words (How y'doin? What can I getcha? Fer here'r tuhgo?) and with these words I've noticed I've stopped repeating the greetings and phrases I was taught by my waitress mother and millennial boss and started parroting the oldheads and young fathers and Soundcloud rappers I share the kitchen with. It seems to be working. I've gotten more sirs, mans, dudes, and bros hurled my way in one month than I have in my whole life. the cooks laugh once they leave, or hang up, laugh at the stupid, unsuspecting customer who needs to get their glasses checked because they fell for the ruse of the tranny dyke behind the counter.
I'm not too bothered, I'm not trying to fool them. I know they're too smart for that, know that once the lobby empties, they're the only ones who see any semblance of machismo wash away, the only thing left in it's place the 20 year old theater major who sneaks off to the girl's room with the broken lock to adjust her compression bra, who giggles on the phone, texting her girl-friends in the corner. She won't eat in front of you out of fear of seeming sloppy, draws on the napkins, and she's prone to panic attacks if it gets too busy.
Someone like that shouldn't be scraping off the spare winnings that easily, gnawing at the ankles of all the hard working men we serve, lapping up the testosterone laced sweat soaking the rims of their tube socks.
But for all they know, the butch on the other side of the counter might be pulling the exact same stunt. She pays for her and her girl's meal and takes the paper bag with a headnod but maybe when her girl places it by her feet on the passenger side of the car floor the butch is busy thumbing her cds for the right showtune duet for the two to croon all the ride home. Brother, we're on a joint heist, but there's no Bond music to signal the end. Man's demise will be backed by the soundtrack to Chicago.
