Wednesday, February 22, 2006
by Ospite. 
The 3top saunters in around 9pm and requests a particular table. Thankfully that table was open and I had someone in that section. Two very well-dressed and beautiful girls I guaged to be around 19 and 22 along with a gentleman in his 50s with no ring. This of course causes a stir amongst the wait staff whose job it is to stand around and assume extravagent situations involving our patrons. Within 2 minutes, there is a bet concerning the actual relationship between the man and the girls. (We do not bet money in our establishment, but sidejobs. These are duties each employee must do before cashing out for the evening.)
Giovanni has this table in his section and I consistently walk by and gather small bits of information that will help my odds in this on-going pot of chores. Their conversations involved fine food, travel, sex, money, cars. Nothing at all hinted to his relationship. In fact, he didn't talk down to either of them the way a father does to a daughter. Sugar Daddy. My immediate assumption. But I was not going to enter my bet until I was more informed.
After 40 minutes of carrying myself sneakily past them with my evesdropping ears, I decide to place my bet: Father who divorced her mother, her being the blond next to him. Another 40 minutes go by before my bet was proved to be reality.
"Well, when your mother and I got divorced..." ..bingo.
Needless to say I haven't done my side jobs for 3 days, nor will I for the rest of the week.
Meanwhile Giovanni was working his magic. He had a goal of retrieving the blond's phone number right under her father's nose. The man is good, and I was interested to see HOW good he really is. At the end of the vening after they paid and retreated to the Mercedes S500 outside, Van, as we call him, wandered over to me. I went first.
"Sorry about that bud. High hopes, I know." A grin swept over his face. He held up a tiny slip of paper, opened his waiter pad and copied the number into it. Without saying a word, he strolled on by.
Now, being a bit of a blogger, I was also swept into the world of MySpace. While perusing a friend's band page I found a face I found rather familiar. A face I couldn't place immediately. You will learn here that I have a thing with faces. I am horrible with names, but faces I remember always. It was her. The Blond.
I clicked her profile and opened it finding rather intriguing information. ...She was 16... Now, there are girls who far surpass their age in looks, but never had I met one like this. But sure enough, the face, body, eyes, and manerisms based on her writing matched exactly. I could not wait to see Van again.
The next evening as we were prepping the floor for our second rush, I pulled Van aside.
"You remember that blond...what happened when you called her?"
"Nothing man, I copied her number wrong. Why?"
I described how I found her on MySpace.
"Guess how old she was.."
"umm..18?"
"16."
"Daaaaaa*n...holy sh*t...F**k...sh*t..wow. Talk about a blessing in disguise. Well, at least I know I've still 'got it.'"
Giovanni has this table in his section and I consistently walk by and gather small bits of information that will help my odds in this on-going pot of chores. Their conversations involved fine food, travel, sex, money, cars. Nothing at all hinted to his relationship. In fact, he didn't talk down to either of them the way a father does to a daughter. Sugar Daddy. My immediate assumption. But I was not going to enter my bet until I was more informed.
After 40 minutes of carrying myself sneakily past them with my evesdropping ears, I decide to place my bet: Father who divorced her mother, her being the blond next to him. Another 40 minutes go by before my bet was proved to be reality.
"Well, when your mother and I got divorced..." ..bingo.
Needless to say I haven't done my side jobs for 3 days, nor will I for the rest of the week.
Meanwhile Giovanni was working his magic. He had a goal of retrieving the blond's phone number right under her father's nose. The man is good, and I was interested to see HOW good he really is. At the end of the vening after they paid and retreated to the Mercedes S500 outside, Van, as we call him, wandered over to me. I went first.
"Sorry about that bud. High hopes, I know." A grin swept over his face. He held up a tiny slip of paper, opened his waiter pad and copied the number into it. Without saying a word, he strolled on by.
Now, being a bit of a blogger, I was also swept into the world of MySpace. While perusing a friend's band page I found a face I found rather familiar. A face I couldn't place immediately. You will learn here that I have a thing with faces. I am horrible with names, but faces I remember always. It was her. The Blond.
I clicked her profile and opened it finding rather intriguing information. ...She was 16... Now, there are girls who far surpass their age in looks, but never had I met one like this. But sure enough, the face, body, eyes, and manerisms based on her writing matched exactly. I could not wait to see Van again.
The next evening as we were prepping the floor for our second rush, I pulled Van aside.
"You remember that blond...what happened when you called her?"
"Nothing man, I copied her number wrong. Why?"
I described how I found her on MySpace.
"Guess how old she was.."
"umm..18?"
"16."
"Daaaaaa*n...holy sh*t...F**k...sh*t..wow. Talk about a blessing in disguise. Well, at least I know I've still 'got it.'"
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