My best friend and I moved to a new state and had to find new jobs, so we applied for every cocktail waitressing job we saw in the paper. After all, the money was great in New Orleans.
We quickly interviewed and got positions with a big function hall/nightclub, bought our required tuxedo shirts and bowties (I'm forever buying tuxedo shirts and bowties and throwing them away, praying I'll NEVER need them again), and began our first shift on singles night. Or as we refer to it, Old Person Meat Market. OPMM featured disco lights, easy listening and disco light music, and an enormous and nearly empty dance floor. Even better, it was overrun by vain bearded men in mock turtlenecks, blazers and gold jewelry (they took the admonition to "dress to impress" very seriously) drinking gingerales. By the way, gingerale = no tip and no refill. Best friend and I took our collective $9 in tips home and never went back.
But the specter of OPMM haunts my nightmares still.
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