A Slippery Nipple
I dressed scandalously because exposed flesh earned tips. Every Thursday at 7 p.m. I picked out my outfit and applied enough makeup to be mistaken for a drag queen in daylight. I was not a stripper, but I could have been for all the times I asked a middle-aged gentleman if he wanted a drink and laughed off his response, "No, but could I buy a lap dance?"
As a cocktail waitress, less meant more: more customers, more money, more harassment, more lines like, "I know you're beautiful, and I bet customers hit on you all the time, but let me tell you why you should give me your number?"
Every shift I wore the lacy red bra top and black are-they-underwear-or-shorts? because I liked the money I received in return. My conservative Indian father would have had a seizure if he ever caught me at work. He didn't see slinging cocktails while flaunting my tits at a "trashy nightclub" as a respectable part-time job, but it earned me enough money to pay for rent and living expenses while leaving time for school work. My parents paid my NYU tuition, hoping that while I studied journalism, I would end up with a PhD. As I started to pry myself from their financial grip, I felt more comfortable making my own choices regardless of their expectations.
Beyond cash, I loved my aura of the hot, bitchy cocktail server that glowed when I was at the club. "You've developed an edge working here," Katie, another waitress, noted. "I like your attitude."
Growing up, I was never aggressive. I was the meek girlfriend who refused to choose the restaurant or movie, afraid of asserting myself. Yet at work I had the power to make men give me the money they should have been saving, to throw anyone out of my section if they were not spending, or if they were too drunk or if I didn't like their shoes.
One Saturday I marched over to a group of rowdy Brits slurring their words over vodka cranberries purchased at the bar. They had somehow managed to take over the tables in my section.
"I'm sorry, it's waitress service only," I said to the loudest. (Each table had a table tent that said this; apparently they couldn't read.) "You and your friends will have to leave," I yelled over the techno music that was damaging my hearing.
His paisley-printed shirt, definitely purchased at Bang Bang, clung to his sweaty body. "Oh, don't worry, it's fine, don't worry," he (literally) spat back.
"Do you go to a restaurant and bring food?" I asked. "These are my tables, you can't bring drinks."
I threatened to call security, but the DJ came over to me and said, "I'm sorry, but these are my friends and sometimes that's just how it goes. You can't always make money."
His soothing British accent almost made his comment acceptable, but this was my job! It was how I paid rent and kept myself from retreating back to Maryland every summer. Club waitresses are saleswomen who reserve seats for big spenders and tippers. High sales result in money for the club, and tips determine the waitress' income. But the DJ was promoting the party that night and I didn't have a choice. He was the only reason anyone even came to our club.
As I retreated, the Bang Bang window display hollered, "By the way, our entire group is admiring your left breast."
I looked down. Pouring out of my little stringy top was my boob, nipple dancing in the disco lights. I glared, tucked my breast back into place and continued the night shamelessly, but feeling like he had robbed me of the ballsy aura I was so proud of.
I wanted to quit and debated my job. Any cute guy I found worth talking to ended up propositioning me for a threesome with his girlfriend.
Still, working three nights a week paid my Manhattan rent. I listened to lines like, "Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" and dealt with drunken foreigners who didn't understand the concept of the tip. Of course, the staff and music were amazing, and I was fabulous at coming up with innovative ways of making fun of bad dancers.
Cocktailing emancipated me financially and emotionally. The bank teller thought I was a stripper when I came in with wads of one-dollar bills, but a half-naked girl with a tray full of liquor has power.