Cafe negligée


It must be every man’s dream. Roll out of bed, get your wits about ya, scratch and whatever else you do, and head to the kitchen for some hea…

COFFEE!

Unfortunately, in this imperfect world, the fantasy requires getting into your neon long-sleeve work shirt, or your Reyn Spooner reverse aloha shirt, and tooling on over to the skank cafe truck where coffee is served by beautiful women in negligées and not much more. I hear the little tap pants and g-strings don’t hide much, nor do the lacy teddies.

Do they conceal anything? Like, oh, I dunno, low self esteem? Or are these beautiful 20-somethings so luscious and hot that we’re certain that someone will discover them for a movie career or a spread in a pinup magazine? Maybe the pay is so great, they’re doing it to cover the expense of the weekend MBA program.

In all seriousness, I’d really like to know: Would you want your girlfriend steaming up the skim milk foam in a little demi bra in a roach coach on Kapiolani Boulevard? How about your best friend’s kid sister? How about your sister, auntie or cousin? Would you date a woman who works in a coffee truck at Campbell Industrial Park? Would you kiss her good bye each morning as she heads on over to punch in and tamp coffee grinds while wearing just a wife beater?

I guess this is all along the lines of topless car washes, Hooters chicks and pole dancers. All of them probably have to be beautiful, and they might make some good money at it. Unfortunately, the fabric of life includes all of our decisions, including those we’re not so proud of.

I doubt this particular job makes it onto any of these girls’ résumés. Can we have an intervention?

Author: lavagal

Hawaii Kai wife and mom. Melanoma Stage 3a Cancer is my new opponent. Writer, super sub teacher, triathlete, awesome cook, ocean girl with head-to-toe sun protection.

4 thoughts on “Cafe negligée”

  1. i wonder if skank truck is registered yet. or joe hos. perky cups. how much does it cost to set up one of those trucks? 😉

  2. in my working life i found myself in Vegas at least two times a month. like Jeffery Tambour said in Mel Brooks’ ‘Life Stinks’; “an office is no place to do business.”

    i’ve spent many long night hours in the VIP lounge with clients and women employees of the Paradise Club, and many hours on the golf course the following day with the same clients and the same women. the gals drove the carts and told the clients what a great shot that was.

    i got to know their stories. broken homes. mothers who always chose the wrong boyfriends. sexual abuse by mom’s boyfriends. boring hometowns in the midwest. they came to Vegas and stripped. some girlfriend who dropped out of high school would call and tell tales of the money to be made, the excitement of the town, the college educated men that came into Vegas by the charter planeload.

    most of them were making good money, five or six hundred a night, most of them made all of it in the club and not in the hotels. most had a rigid code of behavior. most were taking classes in hospitality management at UNLV.

    we play the cards we’re dealt. maybe your dad was a GS18 or an Admiral or a consular officer and you went to Smith. or maybe your mom’s live in was a tatooed, shirtless, alcoholic ex con, who beat both of you, and you gotta drop your kid off at the babysitter’s and grind on a pole at the Paradise Club till two am.

    i didn’t judge them and i never met one who didn’t have big dreams and a plan to get there. those strippers were tough soldiers with fighting pride in themselves.

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