A Very Precise Procedure

This week was Movie Night with T, a double feature on Wednesday. As part of this, we decided to pick up some wings. Well, I know that I cannot do KFC. I get sick there. And, I guess Wingers just does not quite match up to...(drum roll please)



Being the magnanimous one, I decided to brave it and pick them up (the wings), even though it would be much closer for T to get them. I guess I did not really think about it at the time, but this makes me look really bad. Oh yeah, I am really magnanimous, going out of my way to pick up chicken wings at a place populated with tip-hungry babes in tight tank tops and shiny orange shorts hiked up to their armpits.

This place is kind of taboo in this particular state with this particular culture, so one can imagine the anxiety of approaching the building. I see a guy smoking in the parking lot and I want to acknowledge him and have him give me the nod of approval to somewhat signify that we are all in this together. But he doesn't. The place just seems like a stripper bar from the outside. There are no friendly open windows. There are some that face the west, but they are all shaded and darkened (mainly because that direction faces the sun for the better part of the day during the summer), but still...

I walk in and I am immediately intimidated. I don't want to be. I want to just get my wings and go. I have nothing to prove here. But there the staff are, all bunched up together waiting for the evening rush to start. They look like a chick clique from high school. Or college. Absolute control on their part. I hate that!

One of them is friendly and asks if she can help me. I told them I was there for take-out and I had called in.

They then needed to call Monica, who I guess was the one who took my order over the phone. I remember her name, because the beyond belief fake-boobed chick at the counter kept calling her "Mon! Mon! Monica! Mon! Hey Monica!" This really threw me off. Why could this other girl not just ring me up? Why did Monica, who was apparently busy with something else in the back, have to ring me up? Unfortunately for Monica, it was not until much later that I figured out the reason.

So, I sign for the receipt and it came to $14 for a 20 piece meal. Since I called in, I figured not much tip is really necessary, so I left a buck, making it an even $15. I grabbed my wings and left.
Some may say that this is not a very big deal, but upon reflection, I realized a couple things. First, this is Hooters. The whole idea of it is to have big hootered women serve guy-type meals to dudes. The women are made to look athletic with not too many clothes on. They act extraordinarily friendly, even flirtatious as part of their job. So, all of that comes in a complete package. Each person who orders gets their own special Hooters girl. So that goes for when one comes to sit down or if one calls in. Monica was my Hooters girl and I gave her a dollar tip.

My wife says so what. When someone calls in one expects that there is no tip necessary. But, I feel bad. Whether one likes the system or not, there is still the Hooters experience. Sure, my Hooters experience was only a couple minutes, but the girl did everything she could to make it Hooterized. She dropped the wings in a little before I got there. She smiled and had on the outfit. I think that going to Hooters is a little different than going to Denny's or Outback or Fuddrucker's. More is expected of the customer.

Even if the system is not part of one's standard procedure, one should still respect it. I may visit another church and as they pass around the collection plate, it is only courtesy to drop in some money. Or, if my cousin does the magazine drive shakedown from her school, I should at least pick up a subscription to France Weekly.

If I am willing to go to such lengths for other situations, then why should I not give more money to some girl who is essentially selling her body to make a living?