Continuation of Clash of Cultures.
Two of my coworkers were neighborhood men in their twenties: Zee Zee and George. (I’m not positive the guy’s name was George, and my mom can’t remember either. So, having no way to check for sure, I’m going to call him George.)
George was a ladies man, suave and debonair. George loved talking to the lady customers, and apparently the lady customers loved talking to him. But when no woman was around to hear him, he’d point to a girl or woman out in the table area or parking lot and give me a reading on them.
“She’s out looking for a man. She’s not even being picky. Look at the way she smiles at every man that looks at her.”
“Uh oh, that one. That one you should stay away from. See how she has her hand on her hip. She’ll cut you.”
He’d often make a date through the service window for a woman to meet him at the local dance club. He always went to the dance club after work.
In fact, a few times, he came to work already dressed for the club. He’d come in wearing a double-breasted, purple suit with a white shirt and a thin black tie, (this was the 80s), and work a full four-hour shift, and then go straight from the restaurant to the club. I never asked, but I always wondered didn’t he smell of hamburgers and fried chicken when he went to see the ladies?
I would never wear my cooking clothes anywhere after work. But it didn’t seem to matter for him. Maybe it worked for him?
One day, a couple of girls, (older than me, younger than George), came to the window and ordered some food. In talking with me and George, they mentioned there was a dance going on out in the parking lot of the restaurant. We could see the crowd gathered in a tight group, but we couldn’t see what was going on other than cheering and laughing.
The girls invited George to come out and dance. George declined, saying he doesn’t break dance, (was the craze of the 80s). The girls said the guys weren’t break dancing; they were doing a new dance called “The White Boy.”
George and I laughed, and he commented that maybe I should go out there and win the competition. I declined saying I don’t know how to do The White Boy. George said neither did he, “So I guess we can’t join this dance party.” Everyone laughed.
(This White Boy dance was mentioned a few times in my months working at the Chick-a-burger, but I never got to see what it looked like. I have no idea other than, judging from the comments on it, it wasn’t a flattering set of moves.)
One time I had one of my Dungeons & Dragons books at the restaurant with me. George saw me reading it and we conversed briefly about the game. Turns out he knew guys who played it when he was in the army, and had watched them play a couple of times. It’s probably ironic that his knowing and understanding what D&D was bumped up his cool level in my eyes.
But that was George: always friendly, always ready to smile.
Now, Zee Zee, was very different, but not in a bad way.
Continued: Clash of Cultures – Friending 2