I always feel a special kindred spirit to any stories that I hear about black women. And there is actually a scientific reason for this.
The debate will rage until the end of time as to whether gay men are born gay or if their environment makes them that way. I’m firmly in the born that way category. My mother tells me, with a certain amount of barely hidden glee, that I used to traipse around the house in her shoes and jewelry doing little shows. At age 4.
But there will always be those religious politician types caught with rent boys who then repent and are saved by Jesus and cured, which of course takes us down the temptation/redemption category.
However, one thing we do know absolutely for certain is that every gay man has a sassy black woman inside of him just waiting to bust out at the earliest opportunity. It doesn’t take much for any ‘mo you know, to drop into full finger-swishing Botecia mode as he mouths a loud, “Mmmm-kay!”. There are YouTube studies to prove it.
So imagine my delight when a friend of mine, hungover as all get out, walks into his local Popeye’s and sees this tale unfold.
Popeye’s is a chain restaurant here in LA; picture McDonald’s in red and beige serving fried chicken, biscuits and gravy. This is the stage and these are the props for another example of why black women are the funniest people on the planet.
My hungover mate was waiting in queue; there was a black woman in front of him and a black woman serving behind the counter. The customer stares at the board, the register girl waits.
Customer: Ok, I want…ah…15 fried chicken wings, 15 biscuits, you can get me a side of gravy with that, and two ice teas. Mmm hmm.
Register Girl punches all this into the register, then without looking up says, “Ok, is that for here or to go?”
The Customer stops. She looks Register Girl dead in the eye. Her hand goes up by her face, an index finger points to the heavens, head tilts, lips purse, eyes go wide, hips go to one side.
“Bitch!” she cries. This is the code word for, “I challenge you to a duel”. She carries on cutting the air with that index finger like it’s a rapier. “Do you think, I am gonna sit here, and eat all this shit, by my-self?!”
The Customer has thrown it down. Everyone stops in mid bite and turns to the counter to watch the mounting verbal carnage. You can hear the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of a siren somewhere in the distance. Even the babies have stopped crying and are watching now.
Register Girl is oh so cool. This is not her first day on the job. But it could the customer’s last. Register Girl takes her time. She draws a breath, eyes go slightly wider, lips pucker, she leans forward slightly, hand on hip.
“Girl,” she says as she gives the customer a withering once-over, flips her wrist dismissively and then delivers the death-blow, “I don’t know your life.”
A slight shake of the head, then a bored look to the side, that lands on one of her finger nails, which she inspects because it’s more interesting than the customer.
There is no comeback from this. The customer is about to say something when the whole restaurant erupts into a cacophony of , “Oh my God,” “Oh no she didn’t,” and, “Girl, you got done.”
My inner black woman wanted to be Register Girl so bad.
Welcome to Popeye’s, where the customer is always bitch-slapped.