I stare at him. Dumbfounded. Does this man not understand that I am carrying my body weight in dirty dishes? Is he trying to start small talk? And what kind of a vague, half-assed question is that?
"Well, I'm going to school to become an RN."
For fun, I also wait on inconsiderate pricks not intelligent enough to realize that I am at my place of employment.
"Why on earth would you choose that career." It was a statement. Clearly not a question. His friends stifled their laughter.
"It's easy." I replied, with a sarcasm he wasn't mentally advanced enough to catch on to.
"I know dozens of nurses that would shoot you for that one."
"Do you." I replied. It was a statement. Clearly not a question. I began to walk away, still weighted down with my spoils from the other tables that were beginning to look around the restaurant because they obviously needed me to, you know, continue to serve them.
"You know, I hire nurses based on how hot they are."
"I better hope I don't get sick then."
"Guys feel better when a hot nurse is looking after them."
"Does that mean I get a hot doctor."
"Am I hot."
"Scorching. Can I get you gentlemen anything." Clearly not a question.
I pause, waiting.
"How about your number. You can write it on the back of the check. You can let me know when you want that job."
That's when I started laughing.