Death of a Clown

Just before my clowning days, I worked most nights as a server at Big Texas Saloon in Houston. I was nearly invisible in that dark, cavernous space, if not for my hot pink translucent serving tray. That tray had a special glow to it, even without the presence of a black light. People ordered drinks that came floating to them on this pink tray from across the club—excuse me, Saloon. The transaction ended with a payment, very little interaction, and that was that.

It suited me. It felt good to be a ghost.

I shimmied unseen whenever a song I liked came on. I hung out with the other ghosts in the break room. Most people barely acknowledged our existence.

Move through the shadows of a place like that long enough and you'll notice the things people do in the dark. No—not that. I'm talking about cocaine and whatnot. Turns out, several of my coworkers played in the snow, the manager had been dealing in the parking lot, and one of the bouncers casually mentioned the place had already been raided once before.

I decided to find work elsewhere.

A classmate helped me land an interview where he worked as a cook: Hooters on Tomball Parkway.

The manager didn't ask me a single interview question. Instead, he set an empty pitcher on the bar, handed me an ice cube, and said, "Spit this into the pitcher from where you're standing."

I missed.

The cube ricocheted off the edge of the bar, shattered on the floor, and the pieces slid to a pathetic stop. Well… shit.

"All you had to do was try. You start tomorrow."

Hooters was significantly less serious than Big Texas. I'd never served food before, but I figured the job was simple enough: carry wings, refill drinks, smile. Apparently, there was much more to it than that.

This location was full of Hooters calendar girls—fit, fake boobs, tans, you get it. They had their own inside jokes and their own hierarchy. I never quite fit in. One of their favorite bits involved intentionally dropping a huge stack of wooden serving plates during the dinner rush. The crash echoed through the whole restaurant. Customers looked alarmed for a second. That was it. No one laughed. Then the dishwasher would have to clean all the plates.

Maybe I just wasn't the target audience.

I did my best, but I was terrible. I'd forget to ring in orders. I ran myself ragged because I hadn't yet learned how to consolidate trips between the kitchen and my tables. The commute to Tomball was miserable too.

Not long after starting, I left to try welding. That decision made perfect sense on paper. Welding matched what I was studying. Then my paycheck arrived. Eight dollars an hour. Criminal.

One month later I drove straight from the welding shop to another Hooters location in Spring, Texas. I walked in to apply wearing an ember-burned white T-shirt, dirty jeans, work boots, a soot-covered face, and black boogers in my nose. 

The Spring location was the most fun I'd ever had at a job. We learned dances and performed them in the middle of the restaurant. Copperhead Road. Footloose. So much bouncing, like, way too much bouncing.

Whenever Billie Jean came on, I'd strut down the center aisle like Michael Jackson.

For the first time, it felt good to be goofy. It felt good to be seen.

The dancing wasn't random—it made the restaurant feel alive. We played musical chairs and paper football to decide sections or who got cut early. We pulled customers into the games. We sang happy birthday before collectively realizing none of us knew the birthday person's name. We signed calendars. We posed for photos.

The job wasn't just serving food.

The job was entertaining people.

Years later I worked at the Hooters in Laurel, Maryland. A corporate store. No choreographed dances. No restaurant-wide games. I missed the franchise in Texas. But we still found ways to entertain.

Shauna, who also cheered for the Ravens, could hula hoop while climbing an absurd staircase she'd built out of chairs and a barstool. Every time she did it, I pictured a circus seal balancing a ball on its nose—not because she looked ridiculous, but because she committed to the bit with confidence. The customers loved it.

Ashley had a regular who liked tossing dollar bills onto the floor so she'd bend over to pick them up. He tried it with me one afternoon. I grabbed the extended dustpan and swept his crusty money into it. No bending whatsoever. I loved acting confused when he didn’t enjoy my version of the game.

It’s obvious that the Hooters brand caters to men. Yes, sex appeal is part of the schtick. Yes, it’s tacky. But a good Hooters Girl isn't just eye candy. She's supposed to make people laugh. She's the attraction. At the end of the day, she's a clown.

Despite the neutered fun of the corporate store, I still very much enjoyed my work… until Cinco de Mayo 2010. Cue the ominous music.

Stephanie brought sombreros and thick stick-on mustaches for everyone. Were fake mustaches and sombreros culturally insensitive? Probably. Was anyone at Hooters conducting nuanced cultural analysis? Absolutely not. 

We were too busy having a blast. Then the general manager called all of us into the back. A customer had complained.

"He came here to see pretty girls," the manager told us. "Not mustaches."

The mustaches had to go.

I've dealt with sexual harassment.

I've been threatened by men.

I've had customers mistake friendliness for an invitation.

None of that surprised me—

this did. 

Because it wasn't really about the mustaches. The mustaches made us ridiculous. For one afternoon, we looked more goofy than attractive. Yet one customer's demand crushed our fun. No contest. Women having fun? Not on his watch. A troupe of vibrant Harlequins, reduced to mannequins. Something changed in me after that.

I stopped joking with my tables.

I stopped looking for reasons to be silly.

When Billie Jean came on…

so what.

RIP Suzi the Clown. May 5, 2010.