Your mom walks into Hooters. She’s wearing the famous spandex uniform. She’s 19. In her wallet is a Mensa membership card, which she knows is distasteful and wouldn’t show a soul but carries to remind herself that she knows a thing or two—a point that’s easy to forget and harder to share in necks of certain woods. When she’s a little older she’ll consider the ironic elements of the costume: The tank top’s wide-eyed owl, symbol of wisdom she’s possessed since birth, stretched across round breasts she herself sometimes admires; the nylon shorts’ neon hue, “safety orange” as the hunting garb she sometimes wore around the family farm to keep from getting shot. But right now she’s thinking about her body. Does it look good?
“What do you think, Billy?” the skinny manager, Bones, says to the squat, wolfish assistant manager. They’re both looking at her crotch. (The two men are also roommates, and Bones just handily won a debate about pubic hairs on bars of soap. Billy: “Soap cleans itself.” Bones: “You’re an idiot, Billy.”)
“Turn around,” Billy tells your mom. Her heart races as she pivots awkwardly on her white high-tops. “Shorts are too big.”
“What?” she says, playing dumb. She’s five foot three. She knew the smallest available uniform size would be required to achieve protocol, but she gave it a shot—not because she wouldn’t be seen in shorts shorter than her ass but because she’s genuinely worried about how her ass looks.
“They’re too big. You need the smallest size,” Billy says, rubbing his hand along his short black beard.
“I don’t think so,” your mom says, her voice firm. Her hair is blonde, as in any good joke. “These are good.”
“Maybe she’s right,” Bones says, looking your mom in the eye.
But Billy orders her to put on smaller shorts. She smiles on her way to the backroom so as to not seem difficult or defeated. Your mom is here to make however much money a “Hooters Girl” might make without flirting or tolerating abuse. She’s tired and unimpressed and knows that plenty of jobs are worse than this one.
Your mom’s previous summer job involved weighing wheat trucks, wearing a hard hat, and hauling feed sacks into the volatile mill of a rural grain elevator just after an elevator down the road exploded and killed seven people. When she was a child, her carpenter dad took a second job transporting industrial chemicals and, after fumes leaked into the cab of the truck, foamed at the mouth in an emergency room. Her uncle died when his tractor slid off a muddy bridge and pinned him to a creek bed. Her great-grandma was raped while closing a small Wichita hamburger stand. Her grandma chased and counseled felons as a cop and probation officer (but was shot at home by an ex-husband with her own gun). Your mom’s mom spent many summers under a hot tent (with your tiny mom), in a field whose stubble was sometimes on fire, unloading and peddling Chinese fireworks that are now illegal. There were many other dangerous jobs, homes, and men. Taking all this into account, your mom—the accidental daughter of a very smart and rightfully angry teenager—decided early to do things differently than everyone around her. That meant she would not drink, smoke, have sex, or get any grade but an A until she had a job and a home where she was safe.
“What do you think, Billy?” the skinny manager, Bones, says to the squat, wolfish assistant manager. They’re both looking at her crotch. (The two men are also roommates, and Bones just handily won a debate about pubic hairs on bars of soap. Billy: “Soap cleans itself.” Bones: “You’re an idiot, Billy.”)“Turn around,” Billy tells your mom. Her heart races as she pivots awkwardly on her white high-tops. “Shorts are too big.”
“What?” she says, playing dumb. She’s five foot three. She knew the smallest available uniform size would be required to achieve protocol, but she gave it a shot—not because she wouldn’t be seen in shorts shorter than her ass but because she’s genuinely worried about how her ass looks.
“They’re too big. You need the smallest size,” Billy says, rubbing his hand along his short black beard.
“I don’t think so,” your mom says, her voice firm. Her hair is blonde, as in any good joke. “These are good.”
“Maybe she’s right,” Bones says, looking your mom in the eye.
But Billy orders her to put on smaller shorts. She smiles on her way to the backroom so as to not seem difficult or defeated. Your mom is here to make however much money a “Hooters Girl” might make without flirting or tolerating abuse. She’s tired and unimpressed and knows that plenty of jobs are worse than this one.
Your mom’s previous summer job involved weighing wheat trucks, wearing a hard hat, and hauling feed sacks into the volatile mill of a rural grain elevator just after an elevator down the road exploded and killed seven people. When she was a child, her carpenter dad took a second job transporting industrial chemicals and, after fumes leaked into the cab of the truck, foamed at the mouth in an emergency room. Her uncle died when his tractor slid off a muddy bridge and pinned him to a creek bed. Her great-grandma was raped while closing a small Wichita hamburger stand. Her grandma chased and counseled felons as a cop and probation officer (but was shot at home by an ex-husband with her own gun). Your mom’s mom spent many summers under a hot tent (with your tiny mom), in a field whose stubble was sometimes on fire, unloading and peddling Chinese fireworks that are now illegal. There were many other dangerous jobs, homes, and men. Taking all this into account, your mom—the accidental daughter of a very smart and rightfully angry teenager—decided early to do things differently than everyone around her. That meant she would not drink, smoke, have sex, or get any grade but an A until she had a job and a home where she was safe.
by Sarah Smarsh, TMN | Read more:
Image: Tim Samoff
