Giving Children The Bird

Tails from a former Red Robin mascot. And before you go thinking I've spelled "tales" wrong.....

The Red Robin mascot’s name is Red. Last name: Robin. Isn’t that disappointing? Maybe that’s why the chain is closing locations and threatening bankruptcy. Maybe if their mascot’s name was something more kickass, like Brutus or Frenchie (to reference their famous French Fries whilst simultaneously giving a nod to the American classic, Grease), they wouldn’t be in this situation. But alas, we’re stuck with Red. The name of the restaurant. What a missed opportunity.

For a very brief but impactful few months of my sophomore year of college, I was Red for the downtown Spokane Red Robin. If you could trace my decision to not have children back to a specific memory, this might be the one. In fact, every person should have to work at a “family friendly” restaurant before having children. If the noise and the mess doesn’t bother you, you’re good to go. If your reaction to having your tail pulled is joy, you get a green light to procreate. I got a red light.

My foray into restaurant business began at the front of the house as a hostess. The job was, on paper, very simple. Place the customers around the restaurant by size of party and server availability. Don’t sit two tables back-to-back in someone’s section. Vary a two-top with a six-top. You get the idea. Easy peasy.

And it would have been easy if the restaurant weren’t staffed with sleep-deprived psychopaths hellbent on taking out their sundry of frustrations on the hostess. It was an absolute cesspool. The bartender was sleeping with a server who was at least ten years younger than him, which wouldn’t have been so weird if his ex-wife wasn’t also a server. With whom he had at least one kid. The three of them would act like a big, blended family one minute and be at each other’s throats the next.

Then there was the back of the house. The cooks were selling weed out of the kitchen and the manager flirted with all of us. He’d eye every new co-ed he hired with an obvious hunger, as if he thought maybe this would be the girl who finally agreed to sleep with him.

When the servers were mad at each other, I couldn’t do anything right. I’d sit a two-top in Melissa’s section and a four-top in Heather’s. Melissa would say I was sabotaging her tips. Heather would bitch that I was over seating her. Then Kyle would come over and tell me to stop creating drama between his girlfriend and his ex-wife, as if I had control over their most recent spat about unpaid child support. I could not win. I hated it.

And look. If you want to gamble away your paycheck and sleep with your co-workers, by all means. Who among us can judge. But if you take it out on me, there are going to be consequences.

The manager and I had numerous “chats” about my attitude and how I needed to be more mindful about the flow of the restaurant and take the servers’ feelings into account when seating customers. So instead of doing that, I started deliberately trying to piss them off. I’d heard Melissa complain about how she didn’t like to serve teenagers because they never tipped, so I’d fill up her entire section with them.

I’d put three or four tables back-to-back in a section, overworking one of them and starving out the other. One wouldn’t get tips because they were too swamped to give good service and the other wouldn’t get tips because there was barely anyone in her section. There truly is no quicker way to tick someone off than by messing with their money.

Kyle hated serving college kids (they’re too loud and get too drunk) so he asked me to stop offering them the bar seating. “Roger that!” I’d enthusiastically responded. Conveniently enough, his ex loved serving college kids because they drank and flirted with her. So I put college kids in the bar with Kyle and families in Heather’s section. This made them both furious, killing two birds with one stone (pun intended). I acted like I didn’t know what I was doing, feigning ignorance and apologizing. Just a dumb cheerleader who can’t grasp the concept of hosting a restaurant.

“Oh geez, sorry about that. Things just got so busy and I panicked.” Suckers.

But after a few months of purposefully creating chaos, the manager told me that being the hostess wasn’t working out. Good, I thought. He’ll finally upgrade me to a server and I can make more money.

“We’re going to try you at Red.” I was confused, not getting the reference. “The mascot. You’ll get to entertain the restaurant. Since you were a cheerleader, I thought you’d like that.”

He was right. I fucking loved it. Except for the tail pulling. I’d of kicked every kid who pulled my tail if it wouldn’t have landed me in jail.

The Red costume was made up of bright yellow tights, clown-sized shoes, the big round body, the head, and the blue vest.

Most people complain about the heat when you’re wearing a mascot costume, but I reveled in it It was so nice to not be cold. And if I did get hot, I just went outside. And outside was jumpin’. Music played loudly on the outdoor speakers, enticing customers to come inside. The playlist was banging: all my favorite pop songs. Michael Jackson, Mariah Carey, N’Sync. Fuck yeah.

They paid me to dance. Give high-fives and hand out stickers. I would moonwalk down the isles, threading my way between tables backwards, delighting in the smiles and laughs I got from my audience. And that’s what they were: my audience. No matter that they had come into Red Robin just to eat. With a few twirls and whirles, they were eating out of my hand. The restaurant transformed into a stage.

To capture the male audience members, I channeled my Dad and did the lawnmower and the sprinkler. A lot of running man. One time I got in trouble because I managed to get the patrons to do the wave in the middle of a packed dinner shift. Again, the servers were pissed and I was delighted.

If you were really lucky, I’d bust out the worm. Everyone loved the worm. I’d learned how to do it in high school, during a hip hop dance class. It was hard to pull off with the helmet on but I managed it okay.

Twice a week, I put on a four hour one-woman performance as Red. The only way I got through it was my “crack” concoction that I took before basketball games: a Five Hour Energy poured into a Red Bull. zoom zoom.

But it was short-lived. Being the mascot was much more fun than being a hostess but the people still sucked and the money wasn’t enough to keep me happy. I quit after a few months into my run as Red, leaving the position to an unskilled employee who wasn’t nearly as talent as yours truly.

My college roommates and I would go there to eat and I was always disappointed in Red. Very basic dance moves. Low enthusiasm. Stingy with the stickers.

I never worked in a restaurant again. I had enough drama in my life - I didn’t need to put up with chain-smoking 30-somethings who got trashed every night, gambled away every last cent of their paychecks, and slept with each other. Plus, they didn’t deserve my talent. Like a Broadway show at the end of its original run, they could never replace me as Red.

Being irreplaceable is my cross to bear. It’s lonely to be at the top of your game in everything that you do. If you ever find yourself triumphantly staring down the mountain at those struggling to make it, don’t forget to shout down to them. Make it something encouraging like, it’s okay to stay where you are! Not everyone can be me! Or: How’s the weather down there, sucker?!

Remember, stay difficult and always question authority.