The Genius Waitress

Tom Robbins is without a doubt my favorite contemporary author. My dad gave me "Still Life with Woodpecker" for Christmas when I was about 18 or so, and since, I have read almost all of his novels, save one or two. Talk about goddess worship! This man understands and appreciates the strong, sexual, gypsy-like female protagonist like no other. I used to joke around that my parents raised me to be a "Tom Robbins female protagonist", encouraging my wacky, independent, quasi-evil gypsy magic side. Or maybe I was destined...

On a recent trip back to Chicago/home, my dad left me with "Wild Ducks Flying Backwards", a collection of his short writings we'd been talking about and he'd been meaning to lend me. It's travelogues and articles and short stories, and also tributes to stuff he thinks is laudable, more of his counter-cultural commentary side rather than spinning his own hippie-ass tales.

I believe in the power of coincidence. Books and words often come to me when I need them most. You could even say that words and language are the means by which I experience the divine. I'll pick up a book or glance at a newspaper or a random article and it perfectly encapsulates my situation or thought process. It completely illuminates the door behind which I feel stuck, and the words bring me the thoughts to open it. That, in some weird way, is God to me, if that's what we're calling it.

Anyways, this particular essay found me on my break at my job at the bakery and it was exactly what I needed:

"The Genius Waitress

Of the genius waitress, I now sing.

Of hidden knowledge, buried ambition, and secret sonnets scribbled on cocktail napkins; of aching arches, ranting cooks, condescending patrons, and eyes diverted from ancient Greece to ancient grease; of burns and pinches and savvy and spunk; of a uniquely American woman living a uniquely American compromise, I sing. I sing of the genius waitress.

Okay, okay, she's probably not really a genius. But she is well-educated. She has a degree in Sanskrit, ethnoastronomy, Icelandic musicology, or something equally valued in the contemporary marketplace. Even if she could find work in her chosen field, it wouldn't pay beans--so she slings them instead. (The genius waitress is not to be confused with the aspiring-actress waitress, so prevalent in Manhattan and Los Angeles and so different from her sister in temperament and I.Q.)

As a type, the genius waitress is sweet and sassy, funny and smart; young, underestimated, fatalistic, weary, cheery (not happy, cheerful: there's a difference and she understands it), a tad bohemian, often borderline alcoholic, frequently pretty (though her hair reeks of kitchen and bar); as independent as a cave bear (though ever hopeful of "true love") and, above all, genuine.

Covertly sentimental, she fusses over toddlers and old folks, yet only fear of unemployment prevents her from handing an obnoxious customer his testicles with his bill.

She doesn't mind a little good-natured flirting, and if you flirt with verve and wit, she may flirt back. Never, however, never try to impress her with your resume. Her tolerance for pretentious Yuppies ends with her shift, sometimes earlier. She reads men like a menu and always knows when she's being offered leftovers or an artificially inflated souffle.

Should you ever be lucky enough to be taken home by her to that studio apartment with the jerry-built bookshelves and Frida Kahlo posters, you will discover that whereas in the public dining room she is merely as proficient as she needs to be, in the private bedroom she is blue gourmet virtuoso. Five stars and counting! Afterward, you can discuss chaos theory or the triple aspects of the mother goddess in universal art forms--while you massage her swollen feet.

Eventually she leaves food service for graduate school or marriage, but unless she wins a grant or a fair divorce settlement, chances are she'll be back, a few years down the line, reciting the daily specials with her own special mixture of warmth and ennui.

Erudite emissary of eggs over easy, polymath purveyor of polenta and prawns, articulate angel of apple pie, the genius waitress is on duty right now in hundreds of U.S. restaurants, smile at the ready, sauce on the side. So brush up on your Schopenhauer, place your order--and tip, mister, tip. She deserves a break today.

Of her, I sing."
-Tom Robbins, Playboy, 1991

Thank. You. I officially have a relevant contemporary social archetype. The genius waitress is another contemporary example of the "sacred prostitute." The coffee girl, behind the espresso bar at the temple of energy and wit and warmth, ready to warmly smile and remind you that there is cheer and spunk left in this world. There are so many turns of phrase in this essay that chill my bones and cut to the core of my spirit, much like his novels have lit sparks inside my brain. And I LOVE that it was published in Playboy, the only magazine that openly worships women and publishes bold pieces like that. How incredibly validating it is, indeed.

It is sort of funny that I moved to Seattle, having no (conscious, adult) idea that he lives around here and writes about the area frequently. Rumor has it, he also shows up in "the city" periodically, and I have randomly hung out in La Conner, the Skagit Valley town he resides in. I have been to the same bars, have seen the same things and people. I feel like we're kindred spirits. In a non-Fatal Attraction/schizophrenic way, I wonder if I'll ever run into him in person. In the scheme of things, we're like, 1 degree of separation away. It's freaky, I feel like I'm gushing about my grad school professor or something. I'm not into older men, but I feel like if he wanted me to be his concubine/temporarily pampered muse-of-sorts, I would not say no. Just so we could hang out for awhile. The things that guy would do inside my particular head...

Ok, that's creepy, but seriously, Tom Robbins, what's up, and many many props to you. Call me.