This is a story I must tell for the sake of my own conscience, and for the sake of anyone who thinks it’s harmless to hit on a Hooter’s girl.
For my own protection, I’ll go by Lola for the purpose of this story.
I had a brief stint as a waitress at a Hooters in the Deep South, and I am now stricken with paralyzing fear at the mere sight of a Hooters—or even a moderately attractive woman in a tank top and short shorts.
I needed a job, and at the time, I didn’t care if it meant getting gawked at by hungry creeps.
Waiting tables at Hooters was better than stripping, though it didn’t pay as well.
Things started out fine. I was scheduled for the slow hours on the off days, and I thought I was handling it pretty well.
The routine was simple—take the customer’s greasy orders, giggle and smile at whatever they say, and collect your tips.
Week two was when things took a turn.
My manager—whom we’ll call Shannon—tasked me with waiting on a regular—whom we’ll call Clayton.
Immediately I knew there was something off about this guy. He sat alone, slouched at a high top in the back corner, underneath a burnt out light bulb.
Even from that distance, he was staring dead at me with piercing, sullen eyes.
Nonetheless, I got to it—those tips don’t earn themselves.
But once I got close, I started to doubt if he’d even have the cash for the check.
He looked like a bomb about to part from the land of the living—and his stench preceded him.
I pushed through it. I wouldn’t get reprimanded over this guy.
I began with the trademark hospitality:
LOLA (in memory):
“Welcome to Hooters, darling. Would you like to start with a drink?”
CLAYTON:
“I’ll have a tall glass of you.”
LOLA (V.O.):
Oh come on. You’re a regular. You know better than that.
Clayton then gave me a taste of his wretched halitosis, leaning in far too close for comfort.
CLAYTON:
“How do you know I’m a regular here? I haven’t seen you around. Them other girls been talking about me, huh? They tell you how good I am with women? They’re just showing me the ropes, theory. You ready for that drink yet, huh? Playing hard to get, I see. Yeah, whatever—I’ll have a cup from your freshest pot of coffee. And make sure it’s fresh.”
LOLA (trying to stay composed):
“Sure thing. And are you ready for an app or an entree, or do you need another minute?”
CLAYTON:
“I’m ready for my meal. I’ll have a sloppy feast between them cheeks.”
LOLA (V.O.):
I was nearly fed up. I turned away to storm off.
CLAYTON (calls out):
“Hold on there, sweet cheeks. Get me a burger. Shannon knows just how I like it.”
LOLA (V.O.):
Hamburger. Got it.
As I finally walked away, I thought I’d get a break…
But then he slapped my butt.
Jerk.
I thought—you just crossed a hard line, bucko.
I marched up to the bar where my manager was pouring a pint.
LOLA (to Shannon):
“Shannon, I’ve made a mistake. I’m—”
Shannon hushed me. The customers were always eavesdropping after all.
SHANNON (whispering):
“Now hold on, sweetie.”
She leaned over the bar and whispered into my ear:
“I know what you’re going through. Since you’ve done so well so far, I’ll go ahead and forgive your little outburst. In return—because I’m such a nice gal—I’m gonna let you in on our little secret for handling our more unsavory patrons.
I just need a favor from you.
There’s a shed behind the restaurant. I need you to invite our nuisance back there for a little private session.
You feel me?”
LOLA (narrating):
“Shannon, I will not—”
SHANNON (with a smile):
“I said… do you feel me?”
I should’ve quit right then and there. I should’ve just bolted out the door and never looked back.
Unfortunately, my bank account wouldn’t let me walk out just yet.
I sighed… and obliged.
Returning to Clayton’s table—getting him to follow me was a breeze.
At the mere suggestion of a close encounter with yours truly, he hopped off his stool and shadowed me like a dog.
I can almost hear him panting behind me.
I’m not going to lie—I felt pretty powerful in that moment, having such complete control over this fool.
Still… I was trembling internally about what lay ahead.
My guess was as good as yours.
I was hoping there’d be muscle waiting at the back door to beat him into a pulp and teach him a lesson.
But when we got out and there was nothing but an open field to greet us—that hope vanished.
Since battery was literally my best case scenario, I was having serious regrets about going along with this.
I swallowed my fear and continued to the dilapidated shed where Shannon waited for us with a keychain in hand.
CLAYTON (laughing):
“So this is the love shack, huh? Looks just like the place I had a threesome back in ’93.”
LOLA (flat):
“I’m sure it does, Clayton.”
Shannon was still placating him.
Then she unfastened the padlock and yanked the chain off the barn door—pulling it open with one slow, creaking motion.
It was broad daylight outside, but the interior of the shed was engulfed in shadow.
A smell like spoiled beef wafted outward.
But Clayton did not take heed.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me into it—deep into the dark.
I wriggled free of Clayton’s grasp and waited anxiously for my eyes to adjust.
Sounds unfolded all around me.
The rummaging of Clayton undressing.
The door squealing shut.
Wicked giggling.
Footsteps.
Then—Shannon turned on the light.
In that moment, Clayton and I suddenly related on something: utter shock.
As we took in our new surroundings, this was no ordinary shed.
A single old-timey light bulb hung from a chain, casting a sinister orange glow on the shelves—cluttered with human bones, rotting guts, and the tools of torture.
Everything was coated in blood, splattered from barbaric wounds.
Dried urine spilled by victims who couldn’t hold it in from all their fright.
And so much other filth I don’t even want to mention.
In the center of it all was an examination chair straight out of a psych ward—complete with the add-ons of a demented sadist.
That room…
I see it in my nightmares every single night.
Poor Clayton didn’t even have time to run for the door.
I watched in terror as Shannon clubbed him over the head with a meat tenderizer—sending his half-nakedness clattering to the squalid ground.
Shannon heaved him up with surprising strength—fastening his body into the torture chair with death-stained leather straps, strangling all his pressure points.
SHANNON (calmly):
“Now do you see, Lola?”
Shannon stared into my soul with eyes of pure lunacy.
“This is how we handle the stress brought on by waste of flesh like him.”
I had no words.
Shannon still held the meat tenderizer with white knuckles in one hand…
Holding out a rusty chef’s knife in the other.
SHANNON:
“Would you like to make the first cut?”
I stuttered like an idiot.
LOLA (shaking):
“I… this… this…”
Suddenly—Clayton came to.
CLAYTON (gagging):
“Don’t—don’t do this! I’m a cop! You’ll fry for this!”
Shannon struck him in the face with the tenderizer—multiple times—turning his face into a mess like a bloody waffle.
SHANNON (mocking):
“I can’t believe I forgot to gag you.”
She went searching through the shelves for a diseased cloth to shove in his mouth.
While she had her back turned—I saw my opening.
And I burst out the door.
I fled for my life—sprinting with more speed and stamina than I’d ever mustered before.
I wasn’t about to get involved in this demonic release.
And I wasn’t about to meet the fate of a brainless horror film floozy.
I wasn’t feeling the generosity of heroism or responsibility.
I entered unconditional self-preservation mode and skipped town.
I left everything behind.
Since then—I’ve changed my name, my hair, my whole wardrobe…
And moved to an entirely different region of the United States.
I’ve tried as hard as I can to forget about everything I saw…
And keep myself from the crosshairs of the law.
And that honking Hooters serial killer.
As far as I’m concerned, they all deserve to be abandoned to their fates.
I just… I just can’t move on.
That’s why I’m putting the story out into the world.
In hopes that people on the edge of catastrophe will hear this…
And think twice.
If you value your life whatsoever…
For God’s sake—don’t hit on the waitress.
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