Customer Serveless

I think some higher power is trying to to tell me that I need to cook more.

Saturday evening my husband and I participated in a local redneck event that involved mud and big tires. After an evening of driving through the woods, mudslinging, and dodging other drunk rednecks, it is a redneck tradition to go to an all-night breakfast establishment. Since the trusty Waffle House was in the opposite direction, we decided to go to IHOP (despite the dire consequences it always leaves my husband in).

So we walk in, appropriately camoflaged, and take a seat. And wait. And wait. And wait. The server I assume was neglecting us was over six feet tall with perfectly plucked eyebrows, a large black man with perfectly coiffed hair a la Prince (the Purple Rain edition). He was obviously service-challenged at the moment, because his section was full of pink & black spandex-clad teenage dancers chatting away on their cell phones. At first, my heart went out to him. These Woodlands mini-yentas were rude, demanding and snide. However, I could tell by looking at their tables that they finished and awaiting their bills. SO I afforded him the patience he deserved; I, too, spent eight years in the service industry, so I had a great deal of empathy.

We continued to wait. And wait. And wait. Prince never acknowledged us. He strutted past us on three seperate occasions without a single glance. I started to grow annoyed. I know I LOOKED like an annoying redneck, and nothing irritates an already irritated drag queen more than a redneck, but I am an EXTREMELY generous redneck when it comes to good service. However, Prince's tip was quickly diminishing in my head.

We waited some more. And waited. And waited. At this point, I realized the manager had glanced at us over half a dozen times. Now I was just plain mad. Other servers passed by us without so much as a "Go-to-hell-redneck" look. Absolutely nothing. Prince was rolling his eyes by the cash register, deep in conversation with another shemale. (Who knew IHOP was the day job for so many Houston transvestites?) I'm not the type to get rude with a waiter (they touch your FOOD), but I was extremely annoyed. For the first time in my life, I was mad enough to get up and walk out. So in the ultimate passive-aggressive gesture, we did just that.

And I left my purse sitting in the booth.

I realized it the next morning with that feeling of absolute dread. Not only did I have my social security card in it, I had my daughter's & husband's as well. My driver's license, two credit cards, a handful of gift cards and my prescription. An identity theft package rolled into one little leather-clad gift bag. I called IHOP and was greeted by another highly feminine man-voice.

"I left my purse there last night. Small, black bag. Has my name in it EVERYWHERE. Did somebody turn it in?"

Immediate answer. "Um, no."

"Are you sure? Do you have a safe your manager might have put it in?"

Another immediate answer. "Um, no."

"Could you PLEASE just double check with your manager?"

Big irritated sigh. "HOLD ON." Less than a minute later. "No, no purse. Sorr-reee." Click.

Growing ever more agitated with IHOP in general and shemales in particular, I climbed into my car and drove back to the restaurant. It was extremely busy, as it always is on a Sunday morning. I walked straight past the line at the door and asked the she-man hostess to see the manager (No kidding, I swear.) It rolled it's eyes and walked into the kitchen. A few moments later, a very large, sweaty man came out. I held my hand in front of me in an effort to be civil despite my growing agitation. He completely ignored it.

"Yes, miss?"

"I left my purse here last night. Has anyone turned one in?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Could it be in the safe?"

"No. Are you the lady who called earlier? I told you then that it wasn't here."

My blood began to boil. I know I was the irresponsible one sho left the damn thing, but they could at least afford me the ILLUSION of caring.

"I would like the name of the manager on duty last night, if you don't mind."

"Sorry, lady, but I told you, your purse isn't here. Maybe somebody took it, but it's not here." And with that, Sweaty Manager waddled back towards the kitchen.

And it is with that simple gesture that I swore to never set foot in an IHOP again. My husband is overjoyed.