Everyone except me. Because I'm a cocktail waitress. And Friday is a work night.
It's not that I have a particular aversion to working while the rest of the world is playing. Quite the opposite, in fact; I throw a party for a living, and a damned good one at that. So good, in fact, that often my guests will try to hit on their host. Me. While I'm working.
See, here's the thing: while the dudes from the office upstairs are cutting loose on the company gold card, I'm the one bringing the drinks. And bringing the drinks. And bringing the drinks. And not drinking the drinks, which is perhaps where the confusion comes in.
Look, I get it. I'm a redhead with natural C's, wearing cut-off shorts at a surf bar, bringing round after round of rum punches. My appeal is twofold: aesthetic and alcoholic. But as charming as I can be -- and believe me, after a couple pitchers of Trader Vic's Punch and some banter, I'm RILL charming -- I'm still, at the end of the day (er, night) just doing my job. And that means he's not getting my phone number.
Dudes who ask for the waitress's number give me the willies. There's literally no more captive audience: I am:
a) at work
b) therefore obligated to be -- at worst -- civil and
c) totally unable to leave the bar if a guy is skeeving me out.
After 13 years of slinging drinks, I have a firm policy that no one, not even Derek Jeter in full uniform with front-row Rolling Stones tickets and a three-carat diamond, is getting my number.
But. BUT! That doesn't necessarily mean I'm not interested. (I'm a girl. We reserve the right to be confusing as calculus.) So, would-be Casanovas, heed the waitress's advice and grow a set. Leave your number on a cocktail napkin instead. It's a slick, confident move. And I might even use the thing as more than a recepticle for my used chewing gum. Assuming, of course, that that other critical slip of paper -- your credit card receipt -- carries an appropriate tip. After all, it's Friday night, and this girl works hard for the money.