Sometimes, these things happen.

Not for the first time in my life, I experienced bigotry. Hopefully, it's the last time I experience it in the work place.

Before I hurl myself in to a ranting story of what happened during the dinner shift at the restaurant in which I work, I must tell you, in case you weren't aware, that in the state of Texas, I can be fired for being a homosexual and I may not sue them for it. However, thankfully, in the cities of Houston, Dallas, El Paso, San Antonio and Fort Worth, I cannot be fired because I'm "different." (They passed individual laws protecting their citizens from bigotry like this.) This doesn't have anything to do with the story as my experience deals with a bigot "guest," as we're required to call them, and not with any of my co-workers.

In my place of work, I am a host. I greet people at the door, welcome them to our establishment, and walk the party to a predetermined table to wait to be fed like swine. I rarely engage in conversation with the patrons of the restaurant for one reason and one reason only: I don't care. I don't care about your movie plans, I don't care about the hurry you're in, I actually don't care that your clearly overweight child is "starving" and beginning to throw a fit because you've stopped shoveling food in it's mouth for five minutes. It's not my job to care. It's my job to pretend to care long enough for you to get out of my face and continue being the wasteful glutton you are.

During a particular bad rush one night, I was manning my post at the host stand, greeting "guests" happily, taking down their names and handing them black squares that vibrate and light up when their table is ready. In walks a large, serious looking man with an accent so thick, I almost didn't understand him....and I'm from Texas. He grumbles something about how long the wait is and as politely as I can, ask him "For how many?" (Side note for idiots: the larger your party, the longer you'll have to wait.) He mumbles THREE times to me a number after which his wife, annoyed at my inability to understand her knuckle-walker of a husband, steps up and shouts in my face "HE SAID SEVEN!" I take a step back, smile and write down their name and hand them a black cube. They step back about one giant step and stare at me as I continue to take names. In most locations of the restaurant that I work, the largest tables we have available seat 6 adults...slightly uncomfortably but in a rush, it'll due. And so as I'm seating people, I consciously keep from seating two of these 6 person tables so that the moment they're clean, I can pull them together and seat the neanderthal and his wasp of a wife.

I had quoted the party at just under 45 minutes and after half an hour, the wasp flits over to me. Her large head looked as if it were about to topple her entire body, or snap her back at the very least. "Uh...how much longer?" she asks, her giant head wavering back and forth with attitude. I explain to her that it'll still be at least another 15 minutes and that I'm trying to seat them as fast as possible.

In every hosts' life, there comes  a time when you have to skip over a large party to seat other smaller parties on the list. It happens. It's not our fault you decided to bring your entire fuckin family to a restaurant at 8:00pm on a Saturday. Anyway, so I skip over the family of 7 and seat a kind old couple in a tiny booth made for two people off in a corner. When I came back to my host stand, the knuckle-walker of a man was fuming, tapping his foot and giving me the quick up-down. I ask him with a smile, "Is there something I can help you with sir?" Here was his response....with reality added in parenthesis.

"UH, YEAH! WE WERE HERE A FULL HOUR AND A HALF (40 minutes) BEFORE THAT COUPLE! AND YOU SAID IT WAS GONNA BE 2O MINUTES (30-45 minutes.) WE COULD HAVE SAT IN THAT BOOTH (no they couldn't.) THEY SHOULD MOVE (continue eating their dinner in peace) AND SEAT US THERE, YOU FAGGOT (genuinely nice person who's just doing his job.)"

As difficult as it was for me, I smiled. I grinned like a fucking idiot. As if I didn't even hear what he had said to me, what he called me....in front of a restaurant full of people. As kindly as I could, I told the barbarian that I would go get the manager and see if he could rectify the situation. The man stomped back over to his wife who was beaming with pride at what her husband had just done.

I retreated to the back of the kitchen where I explained the situation and what had happened to the manager on duty. The moment I told him what the ignorant man had called me, the manager smiled and said, "I'll handle this." And led me back to the host stand.

I only WISH I could have heard the entire conversation that went on between the man and my manager but I was busy seating people and taking down names. I did, however, catch the end of the conversation. My manager asked the man repeatedly if he had, indeed, called me a faggot. After asking about 7 times, the man finally relented and said, "Yes, I called him a faggot. I mean, look at him." My manager did, smiled at me, and turned back to the man. I held my breath. Depending on what came out of my managers mouth next would determine if I was going to quit on the spot or owe a ton of gratitude towards him.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Needless to say, I'm grateful to have such a caring manager and one who's not afraid to stand up to bigotry and recognize that words like these should never be used, in any setting and in any company. You just never know who you're going to piss off. But I understand, that sometimes, these things happen....I just refuse to take them lying down.

-K