Remember that character from Saturday Night Live that was named Pat? No one was ever sure if it was a guy or a girl and every sketch was about people trying to decipher the clues of sexuality? Well, he was in my station this week. I'm sorry. She was in my station. It was in my station? I went up to table 24 ready to take an order. I hadn't made eye contact yet because I feel that when you do that it only encourages customers to talk to you and we certainly don't want that now, do we? My head down looking at my pad, I said, "Hello there, do you know what I can get for your sir?" I stammered on the word "sir" because I noticed long willowy fingers and perfectly shaped nails. "Sir" turned into "sssso I can get it for you right now." I assumed it was a man since every other customer that night was a man who had come to see the singing debut of a bartender/dick dancer here in New York City. The room was full of older gay men and I thought table 24 was too. Or was it. I looked at the shoes which were clunky snow boots that could belong to a man or a woman. The shirt was plaid flannel which could belong to a lesbian or a hipster from Williamsburg. I was confused. Maybe it would become obvious when the order was placed. A beer without a glass= man. A fruity martini= gay man.
He spoke. She spoke. They spoke? "Can I please have a cup of hot tea with milk and honey?" The voice was high pitched but I am pretty sure there was an Adam's Apple bobbing around the neck. Hot tea could be man, woman or anything. All I knew was this check was going to suck because a hot tea is the cheapest thing on the menu. I went to get the hot tea and stopped by the host stand to look at the reservation book. Maybe I could see a name. I needed to know, not just for my own curious nature, but "sir" or "ma'am" naturally comes from my mouth being raised in the South. I needed to know. The reservation book said Clay. Ah ha, a man! Oh wait, that's the last name. Damn. I went back with the hot tea and set it on the table. He/she drank with the pinky extended not helping me at all because this was a room full of gay men. Pinkies were waving all over the place like amber waves of grain. By the time I took the second hot tea to table 24, I had given up. The check was paid with cash so no credit card to study the name.
After the show, I saw him/her go downstairs toward the bathroom. If I had time, I would have followed just to see which room he/she went to. No time though. Moments later I saw my good friend Vague Clay coming up the stairs. I looked at the crotch looking for a bulge, a panty line, a tampon string-anything that would clue me in. Nothing. The customer left the club with me confused. The mystery shall remain unsolved. I look forward to the next time the dick dancer does another show. Clay will likely be right back in the front row again and next time I have a plan. I will simply drop the hot tea into the lap of Clay and when I am patting the crotch dry, I will subtly slip my hand into the pants and see what I find. Maybe a penis. Maybe a puss. Maybe something in between. It really doesn't matter either way. I'm just a nosy bitch that's all.
Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.