I am an Artist Dammit!

I like to believe that every time I put pencil to paper or paint to canvas, in some small way, my dreams come true. My Masters of Fine Art degree allows me to call myself an artist. And my job as an adjunct community college professor allows me to call myself a teacher. But, neither one allows me to call myself wealthy. Happily, I am able to make a few art sales once in a blue moon to make studio rent and with Ebay auctions of my shrinking toy collection I am able to 'almost' afford a few luxuries like power, internet, and art supplies (you will notice that heat in the winter is not listed). Winter heat in the studio is something that my degree and teaching position never has been able to provide. They have also never been able to quench a very personal dream I've had for quite a long time. No afternoon spent painting or day at the lecture podium has ever been able to give me my dream, my passion, that has been Hooter's girls.

Well, maybe not the girls themselves. More precisely, Hooter's girls and the really shiny pantyhose they wear. The hours I keep as an artist and the few days I'm scheduled to work at the college allows me to enjoy quite a bit of time and my local Hooter's eatery. Their chicken wings are to die for, but the fried wings are not the attraction for this chubby little man. Nope, it would have to be Peavey brand high gloss pantyhose that encase every nimble leg of each Hooter's girl. Many an afternoon I have spent, usually in a back booth, gingerly waving down a Lycra Spandex armored serving goddess. "Can I have a little more iced tea?". "I think I will have an appetizer". "Oh, be a dear, I dropped my fork". I can't help trembling as they walk towards me, watching their legs move beneath what appear to be excruciatingly tight orange shorts. Every coy request is completed with a smile or some sort of warm compliment. If i'm lucky, and I sit a certain way, I can get them to brush my knee or bump my hand with their nyloned thigh as they walk by. It's those epic days that make my hard earned Masters Degree wilt.

Every afternoon I spent indulging in polite conversation, strategizing new ways to make tender contact, imbibing countless gallons of iced tea and ending my visit with a painfully large tip, drove me closer to the realization that my actions were not getting me any closer to my one true dream. There had to be a better way to achieve what I desired. A way that did not include unwanted calories that were destroying my slim boyish figure or ways that did not balloon my already enormous credit card statement. What if I could be paid for living my dream? I know it can be done, I'm an artist damn it. My usual day at work starts by surfing porn and then throwing paint on the wall. Why not combine my lust for Hooter's girls and my need for winter heat?  My version of the American dream would be spent hanging out at Hooter's, surrounded by a plethora of young women sporting pairs of Nylon Spandex covered legs, and getting paid for it. I'm still young, I've had a somewhat disappointing life, why should I not have my most personal and precious dream fulfilled? Why should I be denied heat in the winter and the luxury of being surrounded by shiny tan toned female legs?


Up until this year, I never thought I would be working at Hooter's. I know it sounds crazy, but I knew that even with my limited work experience, Hooter's would be fools NOT to hire me. Hooter's has a wonderful internet based job search page. Within a few minutes I was able to find that the very Hooter's eatery that I frequent was indeed hiring. Daydreams of becoming a Hooter's manager and receiving 'special' favors from the tender waitstaff goddesses in return for scheduling them during prime hours flashed into my head. Could I really manage a Hooter's. Did I have the clock weights to be a boss? The answer to those questions would have to wait to be answered as that only positions available, outside the realm of becoming a Hooter's girl, was that of a dishwasher. There were no million dollar boss jobs listed. Could it be possible that with a Masters Degree from an accredited University and experience working as a community college professor that I would be deemed over qualified?  Would the hard work I spent earning the right to call myself an artist and teacher dash the very dream that kept me awake at night abusing myself?

A Sea Of Nylon Spandex

The online application was pretty straight forward. I found it odd that I was not asked to upload PDF files of my transcripts. It meant that any boob could apply for a job at Hooter's and say they had a Masters Degree since they had no real means to check, or were not interested in knowing. I did list my jobs at the local community college and my summer working at Kroger's as experience and hoped that they would make my application shine. My hands flew along my laptop keyboard stitching together every bit of employment and personal experience I could muster for the posted job. Soon it was time to click send and allow the waiting game to begin.

The days waiting for a response consumed me. During my time at the podium, I found myself wandering into uncomfortable corners. Half of one class was spent showing my students how to complete a drawing of a female leg. Every sinuous leg ended up sporting a white tennis shoe and tight shorts. My art appreciation course fared no better. Two weeks was spent on contemporary art and pantyhose. I still have no idea how I was able to fill 3 hours of class time and find 34 slides of modern art that included pantyhose as a theme. My art suffered too. I had not touched the painting I was working on for months and every 5 minutes I would be drawn into checking my email or looking to see if someone had called my cell and I had missed it. I could not bare the suspense anymore, I needed to know if my dream had even a sliver of a chance to be fulfilled. Hooter's needed to be contacted and my dream needed to be brought to fruition.

I still don't know how I was able to dial my cell phone. My hands were shaking so hard that the first number I dialed was some black guy. I couldn't understand what he was saying and he had no idea what I was asking for. It was a perfect storm of two diverse cultures meeting. Thinking the gentleman on the other line was the manager of my local Hooter's and not wanting to tarnish my hopes for employment, I remained on the line for as long as possible asking probing questions about the job I had applied for. Several obscenities later, by the gentleman, the line went dead and the call ended. It was then that I realized that I was one number off. A three had taken the place of a five. Damn those tiny buttons and my fumblingly large manly hands. One more attempt and bingo, it was ringing. Three rings and Dave answered. Dave sound like a very nice guy. I told him about my application and he stated that Hooter's was very interested in me as a team member, it's just that they get so many applications that it is hard to contact everyone within four day's time. He appreciated me calling and asked what day would be good to come in for training. I told him, that as an artist and a community college professor, my schedule is pretty lose and that my calendar could accommodate a Tuesday morning meet at greet. Dave liked that idea, told me to dress casual, wished me luck and said he looked forward to meeting me. I swear that I almost wet my pants, I was so happy.

The day I learned that my dream would be coming true was a Thursday. I was not scheduled for training till Tuesday. The time seemed to drag. By Friday night I had already laid out what I was going to wear. I know Dave said casual, but this was my golden ticket. There was no second bite at this apple, baby. I planned to dress to impress. I had a pair of classy woolen dress slacks and a stainless lime green polo shirt that still looked smart. It had been some time since I had the opportunity to wear the pants and my many afternoons spent devouring Mr. Hooter's fried chicken wings had earned me a few more pounds. But, the fact is they did fit and I looked fabulous in them. Impress indeed!

I thought Tuesday morning would never come. I awoke early, enjoyed three self made golden pancakes, diet RC cola and left for my new life. Arriving a few hours early gave me the chance to case out the joint. Hooter's had yet to open, but I wanted to see where the best parking places were, watch my fellow team members arrive for work and memorize what type of cars they drove. Slowly the parking lot began to fill and one by one people began to enter the establishment. To my amazement, it appeared that the female team members did not wear their Classic Hooter's uniform to work. I was shocked and a little disappointed. I was so hoping to begin this day with a glimpse of a tanned nyloned leg moving gracefully under breathtakingly tight orange shorts. The realization came that I would have to start my new workday if I wanted to partake in my dream of enjoying a buffet of Hooter's legs. So, begin my work day I did.

Knotty Pine Heaven

I entered my Hooter's and took a seat at its golden knotty pine bar and immediately noticed that there was not a single Hooter's girl on the dance floor. But somehow I felt right. It was as if, for the first time in my life, I was finally driving in the right direction. It was at that very moment, sitting at the bar, I remembered why it had been a very long time since I had worn my woolen dress slacks. The pants made me itch as if there were a colony of ants doing the mambo under the shade of my loins. My upper thighs were on fire. Then came, "I'm sorry we are not serving yet.". Looking up from the hell that was embracing my thighs, I saw Dave. I knew it was Dave from his Hooter's name plaque on his plump man breast. The plaque was gold toned and in black engraved letters was Manager and Dave. In my most confident voice, I mustered  a "Hello, My name is Chris and I am your new employee". I use 'Chris' sometimes because some people are uncomfortable around 'Topher', plus it sounds more professional. Dave informed me that employees are not invited to sit at the bar and that we should go in the back, behind the swinging aluminum double doors, to begin our journey together as team members. OK, he did not use those exact words, but that is how I heard it. I rose from my bar stool furiously scratching the fire that was raging under a thin layer of fine domestic wool, nodding to Dave's inquiry, "Are you OK?".

Dave's office looked comfortable. A small beige steel desk and matching file cabinet neighbored a modest leather chair and a spartan plastic chair. Dave motioned me to sit while maneuvering towards his leather seat. He began by explaining that today will be the beginning of a training period for both myself and Hooter's. This very Tuesday we will both have the opportunity to get to know each other and see if we are a 'good fit'. I explained to him my dream was to be a member of the Hooter's family and that he need not worry about not fitting with me and that I was sure that this would be a wonderful marriage. I again nodded to Dave's, "Are you sure you're OK?". At this point, I was not even aware that I had been still scratching out the fire that was consuming my upper thighs. I stopped scratching long enough to extend a warm hand shake and pronounce my gratefulness for Dave to allow my dream to come true. "Great, let's get started then", He said standing and guiding me out of his office and into the common back room.

"Hi Dave" pranced past us a Hooter's girl fully gowned in classic Hooter's armor. She headed through the double doors, out of view and into the front of the eatery to begin her day. My wool pants were uncomfortably becoming tighter as three more women passed us. "Dave!", "Hi, Dave", "Mornin', Dave". Focus dammit. "Chris?", it was Dave. He had been explaining where my 'station' was and I had not not even heard a word he had said. The sight of an entire gaggle of Hooter's chicks took every ounce of my attention. "Yes!", I blurted, hoping that it would cover my cerebral drift. Dave informed me that my station would encompass three areas of the back room, the dish washing machine and sink, the drying racks and the dish storage area behind the food prep area. The buss staff would bring me tubs of dishes and return to the floor with a clean empty tub. My duty would be to sort and rinse the dishes in the large stainless sink, and then load the washing machine. All uneaten food scraps would be dropped into a 50 gallon plastic can that I would have the responsibility of emptying when full. When the loaded dishwashing machine's orange light turned to green, it was ready to unload. Dishes would then be placed onto a large wheeled rack and moved towards the food prep area for reuse. It sounded very simple.

Dave then introduced me to Jayden. Jayden was a thin young man in his late twenties and still wrestling with what looked like a painful case of facial acne. Dave informed me that I would now follow Jayden and learn from everything Jayden had to teach me in the realm of dish washing for the Hooter's family. Dave then turned and exited through the aluminum double doors and left Jayden and myself to exchange pleasantries. We spoke for a few minutes and I learned that Jayden was not enrolled at the community college I was presently teaching at and that he really was not interested in my complex admiration for women in Hooter's style Peavey brand footless high gloss pantyhose. While Jayden seemed to be at the top of the game of washing dishes, he lacked a certain polish. I began to feel that his salty language may be coming between him and the female members of the Hooter's family. He in return explained that my leather dress shoes may have not been the best choice for my new job, and I agreed with him as I could now feel that my navy dress socks were now soaked to my skin. It also became apparent that , via Jayden inquiring several times if "i was all right", I had completely quit attempting to try and hide the flames engulfing my upper thighs.

The lunch crowd was just starting to come in and the 50 gallon drum quickly filled with uneaten Hooter's fare. Jayden elected me to empty it into the steel dumpster in the alley and I was happy to take a short break from the work. The fresh air helped me place my dream in focus and strengthen me. It also brought to my attention that I had drank a quart of RC diet cola for breakfast and that my bladder was now screaming from within a cacophony of barbed wire wool. Jayden pointed me to the restroom. Having relieved myself and washed my hands, as per company sanitation rules, I found myself drawn to what was my favorite booth as a civilian. It was empty and I felt I deserved a break. The Naugahyde bench was a cool welcome and the table top hid my incessant scratching. Soon 'Beth' came to my rescue. "Hello" Beth chirped. Before I could express a hello in my best 'Don Draper" voice, Jayden came through the double doors. "Dude, you gonna work?" he interrupted. A look of disgust flowed upon Beth's face as I tried to voice a noble "Yes". She turned, I stood and we both parted. I returned to my station. Four tubs of dishes had accumulated since my excursion and Jayden ordered that they needed to be attended to. He insisted that I would work alone as he watched. Washing dishes was baby crap for a Masters graduate and my attention began to wander towards Beth. I could see her walking past the circular windows of the aluminum double doors and felt that our meeting did not go as planned.

Hello Beth.

I had hoped to introduce myself as a new member of the Hooter's family and discus the comfort of her Nylon Spandex costume. Jayden had inadvertently squelched my entry into Nylon Spandex conversation with a female expert. The water from the stainless sink soaked my woolen pants and my crotch was now going super nova. I could now see the concern in Jayden's eyes regarding my clawing hands. Jayden asked me if I needed help. I told him that I needed to use the restroom again. His only response was "Dude, go". I went.

I entered the second stall, dropped my woolen slacks to my ankles and scratched for what seemed like and eternity. I was able to kill, for a very short time, the army of ants that were waging war with my testicles. The pants went back on, I washed my hands as per the rules, and I re-entered the Hooter's family homestead. My regular booth was still empty and after my conquest, I felt I deserved a small break. Besides, I thought, maybe Beth would sit by me and we could share stories about our shared Hooter's family. Beth made darting eye contact and I smiled coyly. I moved to my left, expecting her to sit. But, she walked by, through the double doors and into the back room. Within a minute, Dave came through the same doors. With a stern look upon his face, he informed me that members of the Hooter's family are not allowed sit at customer reserved areas during work hours. I retorted that I was on break and if Beth was returning.

You know that time during a forth of July fireworks celebration, that point that you know that the beautiful display of exploding gunpowder flowers are coming to an end? Dave's words, "I don't think we are a right fit", were the end of my fourth of July dreams. I reiterated my dream of being surrounded my Nylon clad Hooter's girls, he recoiled and I was informed that a check would be sent to me for the two hours I worked. I think at this point Dave expected me to stand leave the establishment. My idea was that I could finish my morning with a fine lunch of chicken wings and the company of Beth the Hooter's girl. But, Dave let me know that former employees were not welcome to enjoy the company of  former Hooter's family members and the authorities would be contacted if I returned. My dream was dashed.

I remember screaming something through my tears and two Hooter's girls laughing as I left. I spent the remainder of my afternoon working on the painting that I had been neglecting and preparing for my Wednesday courses. Through the tears, I realized that the grandest dreams are sometimes left unfulfilled. An unfulfilled dream allows us all to treasure what could be and not what has been. I would like to think that my Hooter's experience has allowed me to grow. My passion for common waitresses wearing shear hosiery has been replaced by strong professional women wearing full fashion Cuban heel stockings.