"I'm only gonna say this once. Look at the catalog, order some shoes, and we'll deduct the cost from your paycheck."

That was the venerable GM of the wing joint, imploring us employees to purchase non-skid shoes. Fuck non-skid shoes, that's what I said. (mentally, to myself) I only buy shoes when my current pair look like fucked out gerbils.

On Monday night my silent bluster was revealed as ignorance.

I slipped and fell right next to a wet floor sign as I led customers to a table. I fell backwards, of course. I'm a fast walker, so my hungry parade was not near enough behind to rescue me mid-fall. Likely they would have, had the opportunity existed. Doubtless. I hit the tiles ass first, head second. Only my head bounced. The world wobbled.

Simultaneously horrified and concerned, the oldest of the three women bleated, "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY?"

"Oh Jesus Mary and Joseph I think I broke my ass!" Then I made some horrible pained noisegroan.

I hauled myself up spring quick, swayed slightly, and plastered my high wattage half sane customer service face back on.

"I don't know about you folks, but I feel like chicken tonight!"

Confused, their heads tilted, like undomesticated animals sensing danger.

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you. Quite fine. Nothing like a rap on the old noggin to sharpen the senses. Yeah? Keen. I'm fantastic. I'll be fine. Let's get you three tabled."

I blinked rapidly, smiled, bulged out my eyes like they were trying to escape their sockets, spun around, and strode off to our mutual destination.

They followed, whispering and clucking.

Tuesday I was fine. Wednesday, however, the massive bruising bloomed. I felt like the Jolly Green Giant had used my entire self as a butt plug. And he clenched a lot.

This is only the most recent humiliation I've suffered while waiting tables.

I enjoy each and every one. 1:58 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm