Southern Utah Bastard--No, Really

I was out with my wife in celebration of our 19th wedding anniversary. I was thinking--I'm 37 and I've been married over half of my life. But also my wife and I were both craving taco salads. Lots of lettuce, grilled chicken on a freshly deep fried tortilla and mixed together with sour cream a guacamole. Damn yes.

My wife had a glass of wine with her meal. We were too full for dessert. We sat hoping to digest enough to get dessert but we had other places to get to before we returned to the homestead and our little half bastards (born within wedlock to a full blooded bastard = half bastard). During our optimistic sitting two moms and a whole bunch of children walked in. They were not the empowered lesbian minivan family. This was two separate moms with mean creases in their faces. They sat down and spoke openly of their very, very limited budget. One of the smaller babies threw a handful of chips onto the ground. I saw our server wince.

"They are not going to tip her shit." My wife said quietly for just me. Utahns are not known as generous tippers in the first place but she has been in the business for awhile. She has the eye of the server. She had worked in Nevada where servers would fight over who had to wait on the people about to come into the restaurant from the car with the Utah license plates.

We got our check and she nudged me. "You should give her something extra." She was telling me because I had the cash in my pocket. The card I paid with was the account both of our checks went into.

I put two five dollar bills with my card and we paid. We were full, in good spirits and in the mood to spread the wealth. Our server ran my card and looked at the cash in confusion.

"Did you need change?" She asked.

"Nope. All for you." I smiled.

"It's our anniversary," my wife said.

"Are you from around here?" Our server asked.

I laughed. I had been in born and raised in southern Utah. My wife and I met in high school.

"We are. We've both worked for tips, though."

I looked over my shoulder where one of the mothers was jabbing at the menu one of her small children was holding--he was getting one enchilada, not two. "It can be rough." I tapped my heart with my fist.

My wife wished her luck and on the way to the car we joked about what a compliment it can be to have people thing you must not be from around here.

Dollar for the Bastard

I could not hear the dude over the DJ's bass happy tune. He was Australian and had been here for hours and he was having a great Friday night. I had not seen him before but he had been laughing and joking all night.

He wanted to tell me something, though. He was grinning and motioning me to lean in over the bar. What choice does one have?

"I'm John! Wha's ya name, mate? Eric? Good t'meetcha! Do you know what we call your job in Australia?"

What did they call the dude fetching new bottles of liquor, stocking the beer freezers, cooking food when the fancy struck a patron? I had no idea.

"Piss pig!"

I laughed. He laughed. He handed me a dollar and told me I was alright.

When I got home and was musing over the busy Friday night I got curious and did some light internet searching. A piss pig around here is also a fan of pee. To what extent, I'm not sure, I clicked none of the provided links. If you're more curious than I, though, you know what to google.

Busy as a Bastard

"What have you been doing all this time, Bastard?" asks no one, ever.

For employment I've been working at a boarding school for almost six years. Sometime in early June it'll be six years even. I joke about tracking down my exact hire date and then quitting the day after word. I'd call the ensuing book Six Years and a Day: My Life with Their Kids.

Catchy, no?

I've also recently gotten a second job at a bar. I am a bar-back. I have the pleasure of cooking food (using the term loosely), fetching new liquor bottles, slicing limes on the fly and of course--I wash the dishes. "Bar-back" is often "synonymous with "bar-bitch."

I stroll in around 7p. If it's busy enough--and it usually is, I walk out with the bartender and the closing bouncer. This means every Thursday night I go home knowing I have to be to work at 7a. Well, 7ish--I run the shift and my staff know what I signed up for and though it was quite willingly they cut me slack and don't say anything if they don't see me until fifteen after the hour. I've never let the shift suffer because I'm tired.

It's more than safe to say I've been collecting stories I hope to share and I have to say bouncing from one social institution to the next is quite the contrast. I don't mind going from "Don't ever say fuck!" to "Could you say 'fuck' more? You're making us fucking uncomfortable."

I'm Feeling Mouthy

I'd say buckle up but if you're reading this in a situation that allows for buckling up, well, I hope you've already mentioned me to your friends.

Soon. Soooon.

Ho ho ho!

Does anyone have a Santa suit I  could borrow?

Just so we're upfront--I'm going to walk around scowling at children, shaking my head at them and then jotting something down in a notebook before I storm off.