Post by Louly Summers on Aug 30, 2016 23:33:53 GMT
Once a month, the good ole' Beacon Hills cafe allowed for a night where tips had the potential to rain down on you: street clothes night. The servers were allowed to shed their frumpy slacks and aprons for clothes from their own closets. This was Louly's first, and she had coincidentally come up with a similar idea as most of the other female employees: shorter skirt, subtle v-neck long sleeved tee, same company issued non-slip shoes. It was hour seven, with three more to go. She was stuck on a double after a few male coworkers ducked out of the fun, deciding it would be worth it to use a sick day. The girls were in their glory. Tips would be slim for them that day.
"Any hope of a break anytime this shift?" Louly tried not to sound too whiney as she crossed over to
the barrier between the kitchen and dining area to accept two more loaded trays of food.
"Hell no. The bar crowd's just rollin' on in!" A fellow server said, brushing a falling strand of hair back into her intricately nodded bun.
Another body joined the two, this one wearing a manager's pin. "Delia, that goes for you too...and when I say 'street clothes,' I don't mean you need to dress like you work on the street." She winked and nudged the girl, and the three laughed. Louly cut her laughter short, having to tune in her focus to accepting a heavy tray of drinks. "Lou, you've gotta regular at table five. Take care of that." She added, taking back the tray from Louly and flashing her white teeth in her most hospitable smile.
Louly nodded and turned, sliding her hand into the less puke green apron she was allowed to wear on occasion, picking out her notepad and pen as she approached the table, a familiar head of curly hair telling her who said "regular" was before she'd even made it into her section.
She made her way to the front of the table and smiled a close-mouthed smile, using her bright eyes to show her forced enthusiasm. "Welcome to Beacon Hills Cafe...what can I get'cha started with?" It was hard to snap out of repeating that, even if she knew the charming boy well enough to be more casual. Her slightly smeared eye make-up and oil dotting her t-zone showed that she had most definitely been on her feet for hours.