Uniformly Embarrassed

In the service industry as far as uniforms go you basically get a choice between matronly or slutty; there’s never much of a middle ground. Once in a while you’ll get one of those jobs where you get to wear all of the black things from your closet (as if you’re in morning for your life and the career path you seem to be on), but that’s pretty much the whole deviation.

My first gig included a knee-length black skirt (no pants unless you were the one male waiter on staff), a nasty mustard yellow collared shirt, nylons and a navy blue neck thing that Velcroed together (you could always tell who was getting some on staff because they’d wear the neckerchief wrapped around their throat like a choker, last night’s hickey blooming out the edges). The bane of my existence though was the nylons that we had to wear no matter the season. In the summer heat I got to learn what a yeast infection was. The older ladies imparted their age-old wisdom of cutting the crotch out of their pantyhose and I found myself burning myself in surprise on the coffee machine, the pot warmer leaving a perfect crescent moon inside my elbow—as they pulled up their skirts to flash the holes in their gussets at me.

After that job I’d gotten hired on at a steakhouse. I’d been without work for a few months in between so when I got told in the interview that I could be sent home if my skirts weren’t short enough or I wasn’t wearing enough makeup I hadn’t really thought about what that meant. I suppose it should’ve shocked me less that I ended up working with a bunch of overly-tanned retired strippers, the sort of women who make you think twice about breast implants because age has caused a strange sort of folding effect on their chests, the skin above their implants hanging like a perfectly turned-down top-sheet, but for some reason it all just seemed to fit.

I’ve finally gotten rid of the clothes from that time, a collection of shorts and tube tops and all of the things that a normal person would buy and designate as never to be worn for work. I remember flitting around in tiny mini dresses as the wind from the door blew right through me. One evening the heaters in the place went out and the oysters froze right to the buffet table because we were in the middle of a Canadian winter. Rather than close the place down I borrowed a jersey from one of the patrons and worked in air so cold that I could see my breath when I took orders. Later that night I was reprimanded for what I was wearing. The blue of my bare legs stark against the banquette seat where I found myself being berated. I got fired shortly after that. I don’t know why entirely, though I can only assume it was an act of god.

After that it was on to an Irish pub where they gave us what they called kilts, but were in fact a sort of expensive plaid napkin for your ass. Many of the girls on staff that I knew didn’t care too much and wore thongs to work, exposing both sets of lips when they bent over a table to wipe it. I wondered exactly what sort of hair the customers found in their food.

The odd part of it though was that we weren’t allowed to have exposed tattoos or piercings. I found myself shoving my septum ring up my nose and swallowing labret after labret. One of the kitchen guys, who had the same piercing, told me the jewelry would, “Show up again eventually, like the second coming of Christ,” as long as I was patient. I wasn’t patient or that desperate. Nor did I want to think about the guy flipping burgers rooting around through his stool at work. The staff bathroom was gross enough.

For those with tattoos on their arms, those with sewing skills fashioned long sleeves onto their uniform tops and everybody else wrapped tensor bandages around themselves so it looked like the staff were passing around a case of leprosy. I remembered one girl who had calf tattoos melting one summer afternoon as she stood in her knee-high socks on the patio. “Wool was a bad choice,” she said tersely to me.

When the pub got sold to new owners the staff were given some pity and the kilts were thrown out, though now we’d had to wear thin black v-neck tops. They were nice until you got a few washes in and had to play “can you see my nipples” with the other girls on staff. One of the girls, who clearly gave the least fucks, looked like she had gills in hers. We had to pay for the tee shirts and so most of us just let them fall apart, our sleeves falling into someone’s soup every now and then. 

After I quit I’d held onto the uniforms for a while, pulling the thin and now foul-smelling tops out every now and then. Shoving my fingers through the holes and remembering the time I’d dumped a beer on my chest and that one of the other waitresses wore two bras on Friday nights. I’d spent the remainder of that evening with my breasts in her bra, which she’d taken on in the middle of an order, sliding it out the sleeves of her tee shirt while asking whether the person she was speaking to wanted fries or salad. It was a fond and peculiar memory.  

That was the last uniformed job I had. I’ve waitressed and bartended since at gigs that required all black, something I’ve never minded, not having to really think about what to wear, just cycling through what was on hand. But I think I miss the uniforms sometimes, the ridiculousness of them that gave you a constant conversation-starter, as you tucked your tiny plaid skirt beneath you and sat down beside a customer at their booth saying, “It’s not really so bad. As long as nobody I went to high school with comes in I’m pretty okay with it.”