Mr. Testicles Saves the Day

“Here kitty, kitty. C’mere! I have some dinner for you!” I sweetly cooed as I dangled fatty pieces of brisket over the cat’s head. I was standing on the front porch of the barbeque restaurant where I had been waiting tables for a few years and attempting to play with the stray orange tabby who had appeared a few days earlier. “Yes, isn’t that delicious! Do you want more?” I adoringly asked the cat as he scarfed down the meat.

“We need to name him!” my friend Meredith exclaimed as she came outside and saw me with our new restaurant cat. “Yes we do! But, what should we name him?” I asked her. I picked up the kitty to have a better look at him. He was a beautiful tabby cat – the kind whose markings look like rings on an old tree. Holding him was a bit of a challenge, though. He was fat and fidgety and obviously feral. He quickly wiggled out of my grasp and started walking away from us. He held his tail straight up as he went, signifying contempt for being held.

“Oh! Don’t go!” I whined with pathetic desperation to the cat – ultimately, to no avail. I watched as he sauntered down our wheelchair ramp and headed for the crawl space under the restaurant. As he walked away, I noticed something funny sticking to his back leg. I followed him a bit and crouched down so I could get a better view of what it was. And, it was from this position that I was capable of perceiving what was perhaps the cat’s most striking, and as of yet unnoticed, feature.

“Meredith! Come here! You have to see this!” I yelled. “Look at his testicles! That cat has the biggest testicles I have ever seen!” I could not contain myself and I erupted into a cackling laughter. For some reason, a tubby cat with huge dangling balls was just too much for me. A few minutes later, I was finally able to compose myself. I wiped the tears from my eyes and had a stroke of genius. His noteworthy anatomy was inspiring and, in that moment, I knew exactly what his name would be. “Let’s name him Mr. Testicles!”

News of the cat’s new name and of his remarkable genitals quickly spread around the restaurant. Soon Mr. Testicles was everyone’s favorite cat and we all delighted in feeding and encouraging him to spend time on our patio. Mr. Testicles appeared every afternoon on the restaurant patio. Within minutes of his arrival, someone would be feeding him a few pieces of pork or brisket. He had us well trained. In return for food, he graced us with his presence every day and allowed us to pet him.

I decided that Mr. Testicles, who was now Mr. T for short, would be our summer mascot. Summer was our busiest and craziest season. The entire waitstaff becomes manic for three months during the summer every year in order to survive the fully packed house every night and rushes that make your head spin. During this mania, all kinds of absurd things happen – usually involving various restaurant staff sleeping with other restaurant staff. So, given the stress of the season, a well-endowed cat was the perfect addition to our hectic shifts.

About a week later I was back at the restaurant working a Saturday opener shift. Day shifts could be particularly brutal in the summer, as they usually last from 10 am until 6 pm. While this seems like just any other eight-hour workday, it is an insanely long time to be constantly running on your feet. This Saturday, there was a festival at a nearby park and the restaurant was slammed for lunch more than usual. I whirled through the rush like a Tasmanian Devil and at around 4:30 pm the restaurant had finally emptied out.

I was incredibly grateful for the calm of this moment because on this particular Saturday I had yet to eat anything during the day. But, just as I sat down to eat whatever food it was that I had secretly “borrowed” from the kitchen that day, I heard the dreaded front door open. And then my worst nightmare walked in.

“There’s six of us. Two adults and four children. We’ll need a booster for one and a high chair for another. And could you bring us some crayons and something for the kids to color on? They’re really wound up,” the mother said as soon as she got through the restaurant front door. Ugh.

Although I was dying on the inside, I tried to not let the exasperation show on my face. I am a total suck up and perfectionist when it comes to waiting tables. Even though it is the most fun job I have ever had, I took it really seriously. I felt like it was my responsibility to provide the guests with exceptional customer service and the best restaurant experience possible. If people were going to spend $24 for a rack of ribs that they could make for a fraction of the price at home, it was important to me that all of their dining needs be met. Plus, as a server, you have a unique opportunity to be a brief but incredibly positive part of people’s days if you chose to.

Despite my strict server ethics and best attempts at disguising my frustration at the family’s arrival, I am sure my overly expressive face betrayed me somewhat. Four kids?! I would rather wait on four Jaba the Hutts than four kids all under the age of seven. Kids are such high maintenance customers. As an initial matter, they barely speak English and they usually have a battery of special needs. Kids are, in a nutshell, the worst.

As I led this large family onto our empty patio, I prayed that these particular children would prove me wrong and set a new precedent for waiting on children. But, spoiler alert, it was just a matter of time until they didn’t.

When the family got out onto the patio, I gave them their choice of tables. The mom pointed to the picnic style tables at the far end of the patio signaling their desire to sit there. The picnic style tables were a good choice for this family. The tables are both long and roomy. One side of these tables is essentially a long picnic bench. The bench has a tall reclined back to it that comfortably stops around your shoulders, if you’re an adult and goes just past the top of your head, if you are a little kid. Guests often used the top of the bench, which was about a foot and a half wide, to hold extra drinks or plates that did not fit on our overcrowded tables.

After I got them settled into their table and I had laid out their menus, I got their drink order. Six lemonades – totally easy. Maybe this table won’t be too bad after all. But, by the time I returned to the patio with their drinks, the children had already rendered nil any brownie points I had given them for all ordering the same drink. The family had not even ordered food yet and their table was already a total mess. Broken crayons were strewn across the table and it appeared that one of the four little monsters had tried to eat the red crayon. The boys were climbing all over the back ledge of the picnic bench and somebody had spilled the bottle of barbeque sauce all over the patio floor.

“Sorry! Kids!” the mom said to me with the expectation that I would somehow understand or relate because I am a girl and, therefore, I love children and have bottomless patience for the little assholes. Obviously this mother did not know that as a child, I used to decapitate any and all baby dolls that I would receive as Christmas or birthday presents.

If I were not working, I would have made those little monsters clean up the mess they had made at and around their table. But, because it is my job to be their slave, essentially, I said “no problem” and grabbed a rag and the broom.

After I performed my maid duties, they appeared to be ready for me to take their order. “Damnit!” I thought. I did not get a chance to give the parents extra time before ordering! When waiting on a table with little kids, it is imperative to always make the parents wait an extra three to five minutes before taking their order. This is because parents need the extra time to figure out what their kids will be eating and, if they don’t have this extra time, the parents will be tempted to have the inept kids try to order for themselves – which is the worst.

Little kids are horrible at ordering for themselves. Plus, I don’t like to be taken hostage by the mom and forced to participate in the child’s hooked on phonics lesson. “Tell the lady what you’d like to eat…” the mom prompts the child. “argslfhasdalfsjdflskjfsf fasdlfjsdfjsaldfk” says the kid. “No, use your words now. Tell the nice lady what you would like to eat.” “pmullld fork smamchich?” the kid garbles out. The worst part of this little dance is that moms expect you to think the whole exchange is darling. Most of the time, that just is not the case with me. “Congratulations, your child is challenged,” I usually think.

This time, as expected, because I did not give the parents extra regrouping time, we went through the long song and dance of trying to have every child order for him or herself. It was an exercise in patience for me. After about five minutes of standing over their table, the last kid finally spit out “ribs” – a word I was pretty sure a fetus could pronounce on the first try.

About 15 minutes later the family had their food and the four little heathens were barely succeeding in eating. They all had beards of barbeque sauce and meat grease stains on their t-shirts. I went over to check on the family to make sure they did not need anything midway through their meal. Just as arrived, though, one of the little misfit boys pegged his little brother in the face with a piece of his pulled pork sandwich. I had to stifle my laughter. This apparently traumatized the little girl, who immediately burst into full on wailing tears. I fantasized about throwing pork in her face to shut her up.

Given the melt down occurring at the table, the parents soon asked for the bill. As I was walking back inside the restaurant to print out their bill, Mr. Testicles appeared in the doorway. A visit from Mr. T always made the day better. I knelt down to pet him and promised him that, after I dropped off just one check, I would be back with some food.

But, when I came back out to feed Mr. T just a few moments later, he was not in his usual spot by the back door anymore. I set the small bowl of brisket down and looked around the patio to see if I could spot him. I could not find him anywhere. But, while looking for Mr. Testicles, I happened to notice the family had placed a credit card on the table and appeared ready to leave.

As I approached the table, I braced myself for shit storm number three and wondered what trouble the little asswipes had caused while I was away this time. I was expecting to see a nightmare. But, as I approached the table, I did not see a nightmare at all. Instead, what I saw was the most glorious thing I had ever seen in my life up until that moment. There was a God and he loved me and he decided to show me this afternoon by presenting me with the most wonderful image. I noticed in awe that Mr. Testicles had laid down on the top of the bench directly over where one of the little kids (a girl) was sitting and resting her head. And while she was resting her head on the bench, Mr. Testicles was resting his testicles on her forehead.

“Oh wow” I couldn’t stop myself from saying out loud. “Umm…could you excuse me for one minute? I will be right back to pick up your check, but I need to just grab the phone in the restaurant” I explained to the family as I approached the table. I quickly turned around and scurried into the restaurant. “You guys! You must come and see this! Mr. Testicles is tea-bagging the little girl at my patio table! It’s amazing!” The kitchen staff was soon peaking through windows in the restaurant to get a good view of the patio and said tea-bagging for themselves. The laughter was uncontrollable.

After what seemed like forever, I finally was able to compose myself enough to pick up their check. When I came back out to the patio, Mr. T was still there – in all of his tea-bagging splendor and the girl, and her parents, somehow, were still completely oblivious. “Wow. This was so worth it” I thought. “I would have waited on twenty of these little kids to get the chance to see Mr. Testicles dangling his nuts on your daughter’s forehead.” I thought to myself.

I was in a much better mood now. I was revitalized and chipper as I brought back their credit card and receipts. “You guys have a great rest of your day!” I said as I left their table for the last time. Thank you Mr. Testicles.

And that is the story of how Mr. Testicles saved me from an epically bad late afternoon at the restaurant. Mr. Testicles’ tea-bagging soon became infamous among all of us. Servers don’t often get to exact revenge against difficult customers. When we do, it usually happens right before we get fired. But, Mr. T went to bat for me and sought retribution on my behalf. These days, I seldom see a young red-headed girl without thinking about cat balls being dropped on her face. And for that, and for the sweet memories, I am indebted to Mr. T forever.