The Bitchy Waiter by Darron Cardosa

Author:Darron Cardosa [Cardosa, Darron]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sterling

WHAT I KNOW ABOUT THIS CUSTOMER: She does not have a weather app on her cell phone.

Si, Señora: Soy Mexicano

Although I’m not certain, I think I was verbally assaulted at work by a racist. One of my regulars, who we all know is pretty much crazy, is a performer and quite well known. But this time she is here as a patron of the arts instead of standing on the stage and screeching out notes that were in her range about a decade ago. She wants me to know that she has just enjoyed dinner at a Mexican restaurant and has already sucked down two margaritas. In my attempt to make small talk, I tell her that I, too, enjoy Mexican food. She seems surprised, as if Mexican food is her little secret in the culinary world, and she can’t believe that anyone else has ever heard of the exotic treat called a “taco.”

“Sure, I love Mexican food,” I tell her. “After all, I’m from Texas and I am half Mexican.”

This comment, too, seems to take her by surprise. I’m not sure which part of the statement is so interesting, although I certainly don’t appear to be your average Texan. I do not have a drawl, nor do I have a gun rack on the back window of my pickup truck.

“You’re half Mexican?” She says this after sucking in her breath at an alarming rate. “I had no idea.”

To be fair, you wouldn’t necessarily think I was half Mexican, either, because I have fair skin and light eyes, but my last name, Cardosa, offers a clue. That, and my clinical addiction to tortillas and tequila.

Crazy Lady continues. “I can’t believe you’re half Mexican. You don’t seem Mexican at all. You seem all regular.”

Wait, did this bitch just use the word regular to describe my race? Regular in the same way that “nude” pantyhose are considered “flesh-colored” by white people, and the way that crayons used to have a color called “flesh” that matched the skin of white people? Awww, hell no. I am about to reach into my pocket, pull out a handful of pinto beans, and rub them all up in her gringo face. Do not make me add another tear tattoo under my eye, because I may have to cut this bitch. (I will do the tattoo myself with a ballpoint pen, a needle, and lighter.) As I walk away, I hear her say to the table next to her, “Can you believe he is half Mexican?” So now my race is a topic of conversation among my whole section.

Growing up, I never knew which circle to fill in on the race classification section of various tests, which made the whole construct seem very odd to me. I never wanted to identify as White and disregard my dad or classify myself as Hispanic/Latino and ignore my mom, so I always checked the box marked “Other” and moved on. The next time I see Crazy Lady, though, I will

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