Dear Mary,
I am able to refer to you by your name because I have been waiting on you for almost five years now. You and your husband are my regulars and I know your names because you told them to me once and I made the effort to remember them. Isn’t that the point of telling someone your name? I have also told you my name, so why the fuck do you never, ever remember it?
I watched you come in and sit down on Thursday night, Mary, with your big, billowy coat and bigger, billowier hair, both of them flapping in the breeze as you glided past all the two-tops and made a beeline for the four-top. You were with your husband, Dick. When I came up to your table to remove the other two place settings, I greeted you both.
“Hello, Mary. Hello, Dick. How are you tonight?”
I watched you, Mary, scrolling through your Rolodex of brain cells trying desperately to recall my name and I knew the Rolodex was going to turn up empty because in five fucking years, you have never been able to say my name.
“Oh, gosh, what’s your name again?” you asked. You looked over at Dick who was pretending he was too engrossed in the menu to think of anything else even though we all know he’s gonna order the goddamn roasted chicken just like he does every single time. “I know you’ve told me your name, but I can’t remember it.”
It’s clear that “remembering” is not your strong point, Mary, since it appears that you have not remembered to run a brush through your hair not once this week. I wonder how many squirrels are making their home in there. I told you my name again.
“That’s right!” you said, as if I may have answered the question incorrectly. You balled your hand into a fist and knocked on the side of your head as if that was going to make you retain the knowledge. All it did, though, was create an echoing sound and I’m pretty sure I saw some dandruff float down and make its home on Table 15.
Mary, just admit. You don’t give a shit about me or my name and I’m fine with that. Can we just skip the whole scene where you try to act like you want to know my name? If you wanted to know it, you would have committed it to your memory back in 2011 when I first waited on you. You don’t care. Dick doesn’t care. I don’t care. Must we play the silly game every week just so you can make yourself feel better about trying to remember my name? I’ve seen you on the subway and at the grocery store and we even crossed paths on Thanksgiving once when we were both at the same event. None of those times did you recall my name, Mary.
The next time you come in, do me a favor: just say hello. Don’t tell me you want to know my name because you have already proven that you don’t. You and Dick can order your roasted chicken and your salmon and live in your little bubble of forgetfulness and I’m okay with it. If you do ask me again what my name is, I am going to call you out on it:
“Mary, you still don’t know my name? I just told you last week. Do you want me to write it down for you? Do you want me to wear a name tag? Do you want me to tattoo it on Dick’s dick? You don’t want to know my name anymore than I want to look at the rodent nest on your head. Let’s just do our thing: you ignore me, Dick will ignore you and I will ignore that fucking mop head of yours.
Mustard and mayo,
The Bitchy Waiter
Bekah
I would say different names every time she asked. One week you’re Ricardo, the next you’re Cam, it would at least be able to amuse you a little every time she said ‘Oh, that’s it!’.
Heather
You should give them a different name next time they ask and see if it throws them off.
Nik
oh, dear – as someone who is (distressingly) finding it (increasingly) harder to come up with names (and refusing to admit I am aging) – I apologize (in advance) – sometimes I truly cannot think of your name, and if it doesn’t start with an early letter (as I scroll through a mental alphabet to trigger a memory), it may take me a while . . . it doesn’t mean I am any less happy to see you, to know you – as I grow old, I also (increasingly) find familiarity comforting . . .
Adrienne
I would just never call them by their name. It’s still better than those creepy people who ask your name and then say it 20x before they leave. “Adrienne, can I have some ketchup?”, “Adrienne, may I have more lemon?” , “The food was great, Adrienne!” WHO ARE YOU? I’VE NEVER SEEN YOU. YOU’RE WEIRDING ME THE FUCK OUT! (Oh, and by them saying Adrienne, I really mean Andrea, Aundrea, Adrianna, Adrinna, etc.)
Raichu
oh my word I HATE that. It’s so creepy. Or they’d look at my name tag and say, “Hello, [my name]!” as though I’d known them for years. *cringe*
Cara haha
OMG YES I hate that I hate people calling me by name that I’ve never met creeps me the fuck out! I even take name tags from old employees and wear them so people don’t call my name.
Lisa
It’s time to stop calling them by name – just treat them like strangers, because that’s what they are!
Chris Chandler
How much does she tip? Isn’t that all you give a shit about?
The Bitchy Waiter
What the fuck is your problem?
Stephanie
Exactly! *love it*
Nance
“Someone didn’t get a valentines card this year!”
Joey B
What’s my na-aaa-aaaaame–Clash listen to this lil ditty What’s my name by Clash .Im a punk rocker .My name is Joanna .And the only way I remember is bcause it’s written on my checks and ppl call it all day….its on my name tag .I want to rip it off & call my Josephine .I hate when ppl call me Jojo –that’s one fucked up name