Holy Shit!

I ain’t nobody’s fool but for sure I’ve been stupid a time or two. Especially when there was a man involved.

Like the time Marcy and I headed for Las Vegas on a dare. I was already in my uniform headed for the bowling alley to serve up burgers all night and hot fudge sundaes to the drunks who poured out of the bar at 2:00 a.m.

Marcy always got the good shifts. The breakfast crowd of moms and retirees, league bowlers in their matching shirts, dragging along a kid or two. They didn’t tip much but at least they were sober most of the time.  

So, how come she always got days and I got stuck with nightshift. And that jackass cook Charlie who’d come out of the kitchen gnawing on a hunk of rare sirloin like it was a Dunkin Donut, freaking out my customers so’s I was lucky they stayed around long enough to pay the check, let alone leave me a decent tip

Marcy was so used to getting everything she wanted that everybody—and I mean everybody—just caved in. We couldn’t both work days cause someone had to be home at night to watch the kids. Man, she had it made. Most of the time she slept through her share of the baby sitting. If she bothered to sleep. Came home one morning at 3:00 am and she had a fucking three-piece band in the living room. She always did go for musicians. Didn’t care what they played or what they looked like, just so’s they were musicians.

“Hey, Joe, you got that cornbeef up yet? This guy ain’t got all day.”

So, like I said, it’s a Thursday night and I’m getting ready to leave for work and up drives Marcy with these two jokers from the carpet place over on Lyndale. Bernie and George. They ran the place for their uncle, this old guy from Brooklyn.

Next thing I know we’re all on a plane for Vegas and I’m still in my white blouse and black skirt and Bernie’s saying “Don’t worry, Baby Doll. We’ll get you a nice dress.” And it’s the first time I’ve ever been in a plane and I’m looking out the window and seeing all those lights and thinking “Holy shit.”