A Wince and a Smile

Some outfits are harder to remember than others.

When I was in college, waitressing at the Bankers’ Convention was one of the best ways to make money. For two weeks each July, my campus was transformed from a messy sea of frisbee-throwing, flannel-shirted boys and peasant-topped-girls, to a clean-cut landscape of Izod and khaki. Bankers flew in from all over the country to attend seminars and lectures. And three times a day, to eat in our dining hall.

Waitressing was good money and all it required was a white top, a dark skirt, and lots of energy. I had one of those things, and borrowed a navy skirt and white blouse from my roommate. The only skirt I’d seen myself in, until then, was denim, embroidered with daisies and hung low on my hips. Standing in front of the mirror in a sleek skirt and silky blouse, I couldn't help but be thrilled with the way I looked. Professional. Grown up. Like a junior executive, in New York, I thought, although I had very little idea what that meant.

Breakfast and lunch were served buffet-style, so my main responsibility was keeping the chafing dishes full. But dinner was another matter. We set the tables with cloth napkins and served chicken piccata or beef stroganoff with two sides.

I felt like I was preparing for a wonderful party as I set my long table, making sure the bread baskets were centered. At six o’clock, we stood at our stations, like actors before the curtain rises. My adrenaline rushed when the doors slid open, and the room filled with a chorus of “Hi Bob’s” and “Hey Bud’s.”

I quickly learned how to hustle while looking calm, how to smile at what are now called dad jokes, how to time it, so my orders went in halfway through the salad course and to clear and stack plates without making a racket. Little did I know how well these skills - tolerance, timing, the illusion of calm - would serve me in advertising.

Once our charges left, we’d drink whatever wine was still in the bottles and make fun of the way their name tags said things like “Buzz” and “Red,” but I couldn’t help liking my bankers. By the end of the two weeks, I knew most of their kids’ names.

On the convention's last night, things got fancy. The lights were dimmed, and candles were lit. We wore mascara and served a soup course before the iceberg salad. A podium was set for speeches, and as they dragged on, we waitresses huddled near the wall and vowed never to go into banking. This last night was the only time the bankers asked for extra wine, and who could blame them.

When the last speaker finished, we took dessert orders. I stood with my pad, feeling important, as I jotted tick marks next to “apple pie” or “ice cream.” When I looked to the guy in the middle for his order, he smiled. His cheeks had gone rosy from wine.

“Well first, I want to say something… on behalf of all of us.” A couple of the guys glanced at each other, smiling. I smiled too, touched with the realization that he’d been nominated to thank me for serving them. I knew it wasn’t real waitressing, but I had done it well, and I was proud. I had a brief panic over what I'd say if they offered a tip, since that was forbidden.

“We decided,” he said, as I smiled expectantly, “that of all the waitresses, you have the best breasts."

I stared at the air above their heads, trying to think of something – anything – to say to this man who, only yesterday, had shown me a picture of his daughter, chuckling over a missing front tooth. After a painfully long second, someone said, “Can’t take this guy anywhere” and everyone laughed, including me.

Especially me.

I turned to get the desserts, still laughing. But as I made my way to the kitchen, my smile froze, and I had to blink back the tears that threatened to ruin my mascara. Later, as we cleared, drinking wine from near-empty bottles, we laughed, making fun of the speakers, but I kept returning to that moment and wincing.

I still wince when I think about it. Just as I wince over my responses to bigger louts in better restaurants, after I moved to New York and waited tables while taking classes at SVA.  And to certain bosses after I started working in advertising.  I wince at times I’ve shown grace where none was deserved. I wince about the pride I’ve felt at doing a job well, and at the shame of letting someone take that from me.  I wince because of all the times I’ve laughed.

To be clear, I can’t bear people who don’t know how to laugh at themselves. But there’s a difference between laughing good-naturedly and laughing when nothing’s funny. Between laughing so hard your cheeks hurt and laughing so hard your soul hurts. That kind of laughter comes at a cost and it can make you go broke. 

I returned the navy skirt and white shirt to my roommate, after getting them cleaned so there was no trace of Russian dressing or gravy. But I couldn't wash away the sting of that moment. I still can't.