Memphis, Tennessee. A cafe. The kind with vinyl booth cushions, all patched up with duct tape. I’m in town to make a speech.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
She is my waitress. Her name is on her nametag. She smiles at me after she asks how I want my eggs.
Her teeth are bad. Real bad. There’s probably a story here. I’d wish I knew the rest of it.
She is mid-30s. But she looks older, the way some waitresses do after earning a PhD from Hard Knox. I was raised by one such waitress.
“You want coffee?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Boy coffee or girl coffee?”
“Ma’am?”
“It’s what my daughters call it,” she says. “Girl coffee means cream and sugar.”
“I want man coffee.”
“Sorry. We only serve that to men.”
Rimshot.
The woman stops by a table of guys in police uniforms. The officers look ragged. I’m guessing they are just finishing up a midnight shift.
I have a friend who is a cop in a major city, who used to work the midnight shift. He said it was misery. I cannot, however, imagine what a midnight shift in Memphis must look like for law enforcement.
Recently, Memphis was ranked as the most dangerous city in the U.S. And yet, unlike other dangerous cities, Memphis is also a tourist destination.
Which means the Memphis downtown is always full of Midwesterners in Reeboks and Boy Scout troops, buzzing around attractions like the Rock ‘n’ Roll museum, the Peabody Hotel, or Graceland.
These guys work hard.
“How y’all doing today?” the waitress asks the peace officers.
Grunts from the table.
She smiles her broken smile at them. It’s the kind of warm face that brings grown men out of their shells. Although her teeth are missing, her face is cherub-like.
“Don’t grunt at me,” she says. “I asked y’all a question.”
The officers look at each other and laugh.
“We’re doing okay,” one officer says.
“And don’t lie to me either,” she says.
More laughter from the table.
They place their orders. I can see their moods have improved considerably. Still ragged. Still tired. But less so. Because of her.
Next, the server visits a table of young women. I overhear one of the women tell the waitress they are from tourists from Thailand. Students. Teenagers. Here to see Bluff City. This is their first time in the United States. They wanted to see Elvis’s house.
They have a lot of important questions for the smiling waitress. Where should they go? What should they see? Did Elvis really die on the toilet?
The waitress answers every query. She is the consummate tour guide. Speaking in fluent hand gestures. She tells them about Beale Street, Sun Records, B.B. King, and teaches them the correct way to pronounce “grits.” (Gree-yits).
And as I watch this woman bounce around the room, smiling at people, refilling coffee mugs, I can’t help but wonder about her teeth. How did she lose them all?
But I don’t have to wonder for long. I hear her explain her teeth to the table behind me. Something tells me she’s had to explain this to customers before.
“My ex-husband knocked my teeth out,” she says. “I was six months pregnant when he beat me up. He put me in the hospital. He’s out of my life now.”
Nobody at her table knows what to say to that, so they don’t.
“I know I’m ugly,” she adds. “I’ve hated the way I look for years. I’m sorry if I’ve made you lose your appetite.”
Silence.
“I used to be so embarrassed about my teeth. But I’ve gotten over it. It’s like I tell my girls, it don’t matter if you’re as hideous as I am, smiling still increases your face value.”
Nobody really knows what to say. So her customers remain quiet.
The waitress continues. She explains to her customers that a guy in her apartment is a dental-tech. The guy found a dentist and surgeon who agreed to provide dental work. Free of charge.
She is currently in the process of getting her teeth fixed. And the best part is, the dental professionals are doing everything, surgery and all, for free.
“I’m so excited,” she says. “Finally, for once in my life, maybe I won’t be so ugly.”
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Sean of the South: Memphis Belle
By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
Memphis, Tennessee. A cafe. The kind with vinyl booth cushions, all patched up with duct tape. I’m in town to make a speech.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
She is my waitress. Her name is on her nametag. She smiles at me after she asks how I want my eggs.
Her teeth are bad. Real bad. There’s probably a story here. I’d wish I knew the rest of it.
She is mid-30s. But she looks older, the way some waitresses do after earning a PhD from Hard Knox. I was raised by one such waitress.
“You want coffee?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Boy coffee or girl coffee?”
“Ma’am?”
“It’s what my daughters call it,” she says. “Girl coffee means cream and sugar.”
“I want man coffee.”
“Sorry. We only serve that to men.”
Rimshot.
The woman stops by a table of guys in police uniforms. The officers look ragged. I’m guessing they are just finishing up a midnight shift.
I have a friend who is a cop in a major city, who used to work the midnight shift. He said it was misery. I cannot, however, imagine what a midnight shift in Memphis must look like for law enforcement.
Recently, Memphis was ranked as the most dangerous city in the U.S. And yet, unlike other dangerous cities, Memphis is also a tourist destination.
Which means the Memphis downtown is always full of Midwesterners in Reeboks and Boy Scout troops, buzzing around attractions like the Rock ‘n’ Roll museum, the Peabody Hotel, or Graceland.
These guys work hard.
“How y’all doing today?” the waitress asks the peace officers.
Grunts from the table.
She smiles her broken smile at them. It’s the kind of warm face that brings grown men out of their shells. Although her teeth are missing, her face is cherub-like.
“Don’t grunt at me,” she says. “I asked y’all a question.”
The officers look at each other and laugh.
“We’re doing okay,” one officer says.
“And don’t lie to me either,” she says.
More laughter from the table.
They place their orders. I can see their moods have improved considerably. Still ragged. Still tired. But less so. Because of her.
Next, the server visits a table of young women. I overhear one of the women tell the waitress they are from tourists from Thailand. Students. Teenagers. Here to see Bluff City. This is their first time in the United States. They wanted to see Elvis’s house.
They have a lot of important questions for the smiling waitress. Where should they go? What should they see? Did Elvis really die on the toilet?
The waitress answers every query. She is the consummate tour guide. Speaking in fluent hand gestures. She tells them about Beale Street, Sun Records, B.B. King, and teaches them the correct way to pronounce “grits.” (Gree-yits).
And as I watch this woman bounce around the room, smiling at people, refilling coffee mugs, I can’t help but wonder about her teeth. How did she lose them all?
But I don’t have to wonder for long. I hear her explain her teeth to the table behind me. Something tells me she’s had to explain this to customers before.
“My ex-husband knocked my teeth out,” she says. “I was six months pregnant when he beat me up. He put me in the hospital. He’s out of my life now.”
Nobody at her table knows what to say to that, so they don’t.
“I know I’m ugly,” she adds. “I’ve hated the way I look for years. I’m sorry if I’ve made you lose your appetite.”
Silence.
“I used to be so embarrassed about my teeth. But I’ve gotten over it. It’s like I tell my girls, it don’t matter if you’re as hideous as I am, smiling still increases your face value.”
Nobody really knows what to say. So her customers remain quiet.
The waitress continues. She explains to her customers that a guy in her apartment is a dental-tech. The guy found a dentist and surgeon who agreed to provide dental work. Free of charge.
She is currently in the process of getting her teeth fixed. And the best part is, the dental professionals are doing everything, surgery and all, for free.
“I’m so excited,” she says. “Finally, for once in my life, maybe I won’t be so ugly.”
The woman is flat wrong, of course.
For there is none prettier in Memphis, Tennessee.