Hot Flashes

August 4, 2005

Audio By Carbonatix

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It's been one long, sweltering summer. But while it was 105 degrees outside, the temperature was even higher inside when we announced our citywide canvass for the hottest service employees in town. We quickly received dozens of tips on beautiful baristas, cute chefs, virile valets, haute hairstylists and pretty-boy pizza-delivery drivers. Reader nominations varied from short, no-nonsense summaries ("dark hair, green eyes, high cheekbones") to a handwritten love letter that was so full of longing we wondered how the young man was able to conceal his crush for the Safeway employee. "I just wish I had more time to talk with her," wrote the hapless suitor.

We know just how he feels.

Service employees are so ingrained in our daily routines, it's hard not to feel fondness for the ways these beautiful people dote on us. They prepare our food, mix our drinks, clean our floors, cut our hair and give us change for the meter. Without them, we'd be starving, filthy, pathetic little people with unpaid parking tickets and sex fantasies relegated to Friends reruns and Abercrombie & Fitch catalogues. Except infatuations like these aren't fueled by fame or glossy good looks; these flames are accessible, and they're ours to covet like burning pearls in the pits of our stomachs. Oh, lordy, how we covet.

Now, though, it's time to stop being selfish and share our findings with the world. Incidentally, it was much harder locating these heartthrobs than was expected. Upon investigation, a number of the reader nominations turned to have been fired, were moving out of state or never really existed. Plus, some of these hotties wouldn't even return our calls. We are looking at you, Baker from Racines, Travis from Vesta Dipping Grill and Amy from Costco. Do you all think you're too cool? That's not hot at all! Don't you think Westword has feelings, too? If you prick us, do we not breed? We exposed our intentions to Jennifer from Rioja, but after she saw our questionnaire, she avoided us entirely. Why do you fear our affection? Three weeks later, she e-mailed us an apology, but it was too late. Our fragile egos had been kicked like a bag of flaming dog crap and then pooped on by a bigger, meaner dog who has never felt the pain of rejection.

But we've moved on, baby. We've moved on like a motherfucker!

We found dozens and dozens of lovely service employees who were not afraid to be seen with us in public. In fact, they even shared some of their most intimate thoughts on subjects like "Cheetos or Doritos," time travel and the superheroes they respect the most. Take that, Michael from St. Mark's, you smug, sexy-ass bastard!

Two weeks ago, the smarmy questionnaires and photos of the twenty fetching finalists were posted on westword.com for readers to vote for their favorites. Online perusing had gone on for no more than two hours when we received a call from a very peeved girlfriend of one of the contestants. Tyler, a member of the local band Tigerlily Jumpstation, works as a waiter at Mona's Cafe. It seems that his photo -- shirtless, reclining, with a sultry, come-hither gaze -- had been submitted by an imposter. The faux hottie, Holland, one of the rocker's former bandmates, also filled out the survey with some answers that were displeasing to the real Tyler. (For the record, Tyler does not hate fat people and is not bi-curious.) The 23-year-old summarily requested that his likeness be pulled from the site. Fine with us, bro. We still have your risqué pic hanging in our office anyway, right next to a printout of a bare-chested Buddy Lembeck. (Now, there's a contest!)

Nobody has ever accused democracy of being an overly efficient means of decision-making. Nor is it predictable. As the hottie horse race made its way around the final bend, poll-watchers were shocked to see some unexpected underdog candidates taking the lead. We did suspect some ballot-stuffing, but the degree to which some restaurants came out to support (or not support) their hottie was stunning. But, hey, that's the body politic of service-employee statesmanship. As a wise man once said: Shake your moneymakers. Thus, for your pleasure, we present the two winners and the other eight top vote-getting service employees.

Don't forget to tip.

The Winners

The Commish, aka Joe

Age: 27

Status: Footloose

Where do we lust for thee?

Budget Trucks

Grindstone: Fleet manager

What makes someone hot?

"For me, it's intelligence and tenacity. I like girls that are smarter than me, which doesn't narrow things down at all. I like flair. If you're good at kickball, that really gets me going, too."

Commish, we really like you. No, for real. We're not just saying that. And it's not just your skill at renting us trucks, or selling us booze at that one liquor store, or frying us burgers back in the day as a cook at My Brother's Bar, or any of the hundreds of other crappy service jobs you've worked around town. Don't laugh. We really, really like you. Actually, well, you could say that Westword and its readers are, like, in love with you.

There. We said it. Take it for what it's worth.

It's not like it wasn't completely obvious, anyway. Ever since we wrote that article about you as the founder of the Denver Kickball Coalition ("Boot It," May 15, 2003), we have been unable to resist your extremely quotable hipster-ness. There you were, captured in photo, crouching on our pages like some strange tattoo. The mesh cap, the aviator glasses, whistle hung authoritatively around your neck -- and that big, bulging red ball propped on your knee. Oh, my! It was like the hot young gym teacher we always wanted to make us run laps and climb the rope and do sit-ups and...well. We hit the showers, but you were back again the next year when some lovely redhead dished out $125 for you and your whistle at the Denver Kickball Coalition's charity bachelor auction at the hi-dive, your preferred hangout. Against the backdrop of that crowd, your tongue-in-cheek attitude was refreshing -- not the sarcastic irony employed defensively by so many other heavy-drinking scenesters, but a genuine irony. You truly love kickball. And you truly love Denver, despite its inferiority complex regarding urban hubs on the coast.

"I love Denver more than I could ever love a woman," you said when we asked you why you've stayed in the area. "So any ladies out there better be cool with playing second fiddle to the Mighty Mile."

We understand. That's just something we're going to have to come to terms with. After all, your relationship with this city has been a hard-fought campaign. You were born in Denver but moved around a lot as a kid, occasionally out of state, once out of the country. At twelve, your mother passed away (your father died when you were six), and you landed at your grandparents' house near Montbello. Comic books became an obsession -- the alter-egos, the fantasy, a world where people in costumes battled and suffered and triumphed -- and amassed into a collection that today tops out at 10,000. When you were fifteen, Grandma and Grandpa moved to some tiny city in butt-fuck-nowhere Indiana. Unable to relinquish your beloved D-town, you came back, stayed at friends' houses and lived off Social Security checks while attending Hinkley High School in Aurora.

You threw yourself into the theater department, scoring lead roles in My Fair Lady and South Pacific. You could dance -- you could sinnnggg! You were also so poor you couldn't afford to buy day-to-day clothes. So you stole '70s outfits from the costume department. It was all good. The outlandish wear felt natural while cruising the halls of school. There were a few girlfriends over the years, all of whom came from the south side of Aurora and had fathers who were successful lawyers. A slightly troubling pattern. Were you subconsciously attracted to them because they were rich and pretty, or were they somehow into the idea of dating a welfare kid from the other side of the tracks?

You loved high school "more than anything," but after graduating, things got a little rough. The Social Security payments ran out. There was a series of nasty temp jobs at warehouses, a really bad run as a vidiot at a dismal arcade. For a short while there, you lived on the streets -- and you got by just fine, you insist, characteristically brushing off past troubles with a laugh.

Look at the Commish now, after all. You're the friggin' kickball king of the Queen City! The superintendent of the playground platoons! All of the teammates -- service employees by day themselves -- exposing their own alter-egos to the dusty diamond each weekend in the ultimate adolescent battle for good times and glory. But lately you've been re-examining your persona. Where does the Commish end and Joe begin? And what about your career? "I know it sounds stupid, but I was born to act," you lament. "I can't keep working these nasty jobs."

So even though it breaks your heart, you're leaving the Mighty Mile for the shores of L.A. at the end of August to pursue acting. "I'll do anything -- commercials, voiceovers," you say. "I'm up for anything except gay porn."

We're sure you'll do fine, but bring your whistle and cute cut-offs, just in case. Just point your finger to the horizon, square up your stance and take it home, Commish. Take it all the way home.

Erika

Age: 25

Status: Footloose

Where do we lust for thee?

Buffalo Boyd's Saloon & Restaurant, Parker

Grindstone: Bartender

What makes someone hot?

"Self-confidence."

Don't gawk or anything, but there's Erika, climbing onto the back end of the bar to reach something on the top shelf. She squats on the counter, balancing conscientiously, her small, white shirt inching past the studded Volcom belt and up her petite waist. As she stretches her arm upward, punk-rockish bracelets slide down her wrist. We can't see what she's trying to grab, and we don't care. Just keep holding that pose. Like some kind of elfin princess we once saw in a movie, or a delicate Thumbelina, stuck on a high branch in the woods. We begin to imagine ourselves as a giant black crow (who is really an enchanted prince) ripping through the ceiling of this place and snatching her away to some faraway magical land. Perhaps Cancn.

But our brief fantasy is interrupted by Eddie, the guy with the dirty trucker hat and a face like a burned oven mitt.

"Are you going to do a go-go dance?" he shouts from his bar stool. "Take it off!"

Erika sighs and laughs lightly. She jumps down from her perch and assumes her position on top of the wooden box she has to stand on to hand drinks over the bar.

"Ha! Ha!" he continues, slurring more crude comments as if he were sitting ringside at a mud-wrestling match. She shakes her head. Eddie's harmless, old enough to be her father. Probably been coming to this place since before she even graduated from elementary school, sitting in that same spot every night, employing the same tired shtick because it's the only way he knows how to talk to pretty, young females anymore. Erika takes it in stride. She throws a crumpled-up straw wrapper at him. He howls with glee. This is the most excitement he's had all day.

"Gimme something good to throw," she says to no one in particular.

If we were more violent people, we might chuck something ourselves. Like this glass ashtray, or maybe that neon Budweiser sign. Stay away from her, you drunk fool, she's ours. Later, though, Eddie swivels around on his bar stool, points her way and shakes his finger lightly. "I love this girl," he says sincerely, breaking for a moment from his dirty-old-man routine. "We all do. She's the greatest."

Buffalo Boyd's is just about as far away as you can get from the contempo bars in downtown Denver, both geographically and culturally. Just south of E-470, the strip-mall saloon was pretty much the only bar in the area when it opened. Since then, growth has covered much of the formerly empty grasslands, but it's still a mostly working-class hangout, serving wings, nachos and lots o' beer. In the men's restroom, the framed girlie pinup posters are the exact same ones that could be found inside an auto-body shop in the '80s. This includes the ever-famous Cindy Crawford on the beach, sprawled belly-down like a pregnant sea lion.

When management heard that Erika had been nominated, they hung up signs that instructed patrons to go online and vote for the cute bartender. Realizing that not all of his customers were the most tech-savvy, the owner actually walked around the room on the final voting day with a laptop and had frequent drinkers log in their support. Thus, Erika managed to pull more than double the votes of the runner-up and quadruple the amount of most nominees on the site. It was a blowout, in other words, a fact that seems remarkable to the winner.

"I've never won anything in my life," Erika admits. She furrows her wispy eyebrows and thinks hard. "No, nothing ever, really."

This unluckiness also includes the boyfriend category. As a longtime snowboarder, Erika says she only rides with guys -- "they push me more" -- and has always been attracted to the stylish snow-bro types. These are dudes in baggy jeans with disheveled hair and rock-hard asses from hiking the pipe all day. But while they might know a lot about 720s and sick powder lines, they are mostly inept at knowing how to treat a lady.

"Assholes," she says. "I think I must have a huge neon sign mounted on the top my head that says 'Assholes welcome.' Can't you see it?"

No, we respond.

"Maybe I forgot to turn it on tonight," she laughs. (If you look carefully when she smiles, you can see the light freckles on her cheeks and nose.) We would never do you badly, Erika. Not like that one boyfriend -- the only serious relationship you say you've had -- who cared more about his stupid downhill mountain bike than he did about you. Fuck him! Seriously, what a dumbass. We could go with you to shows at the Aztlan like the Alkaline Trio and rock out in the back just like you used to do when you were a teenager. You frequented the squalid venue to escape the cliques and other crap you faced at Arapahoe High School. But things are different now. You're older, more self-confident. You've earned a degree in history from Western State College in Gunnison, and after a year of working at this bar, you know how to handle the stupid drunks and random Chachis asking for your number. It's a skill that good-looking young females at any bar or restaurant have to learn well: how to deflect advances without completely embarrassing the customer and ruining a tip.

And it's not like they have a chance anyway. One of your rules: Never date anyone you meet in a bar -- especially this bar. You love working here, and most of the customers are great, but it's mostly an older crowd. The young bucks will come in late at night, but you are wary of their intentions. A lot of them are just looking for free drink hookups or other perks they assume a female bartender might provide. They can kiss our collective ass!

But maybe, like Eddie, they can't help but fumble at your hotness. Next time, direct them to the men's restroom, where they can do all the seal-hunting they want -- in private. But, you remind us coyly, you're still open for someone to give it a shot -- not necessarily an enchanted prince, but someone cool.

Hey, we're cool with that.

The Runners-Up

Shannon

Age: 25

Status: Wedding bells

Where do we lust for thee?

BD Wolfs Sports Bar and Grill, Aurora

Grindstone: Waitress

Admirer said: "She is like Donna on That 70's Show -- a tomboy respected by everyone, but totally unassuming about her gorgeous good looks."

"This job has taught me so much patience," Shannon says.

Just then, a round cardboard coaster flies past her head.

"Rudy!" she yells. "Can't you see I'm busy? Just go up to the bar, sweetie."

A middle-aged guy with glasses and a beer gut throws up his hands like a chided six-year-old and scuffs off toward the bar with a grin. Shannon has worked at this Aurora watering hole a long time -- almost five years -- and it shows. She manages the crowd of afternoon regulars masterfully, with class -- like an orchestral conductor directing a symphony of unruly drunks. She knows exactly when the French-horn section needs nachos, doesn't even have to look up to know the moment the strings have drained their pitcher of Coors Light.

Shannon is in the last year of a degree program in forensic psychology in which she profiles deviant criminals and their behavioral patterns. It's a skill that she applies to her current job. "I can look at a guy that's acting a certain way and say, 'Yep, he's a bed-wetter.'" Maybe that's why we feel so naked under her gaze. This is fitting, because she's also a painter. Mainly focusing on nudes. She says she uses oils.

Wonder if Shannon knows what we're thinking.

Oh, shit, she does. Never mind.

Sally

Age: 21

Status: Boyfriended

Where do we lust for thee?

WaterCourse Foods Bakery, Denver

Grindstone: Baker

Admirer said: "I have never seen a woman that hot with a Creature From the Black Lagoon tattoo."

Sally hates boners.

"I don't know what's up with these boners!" she exclaims. Boners lurking on the sidewalk along 13th Avenue. Boners staring at her through the large storefront windows while she's kneading dough, making vegan scones and cheesecakes with tofu cream cheese. The owner promised he would put in a stiffer security door to give Sally and her co-workers relief from all the boners, but so far it hasn't been installed.

Sketchy. Ass. Boners.

Though we don't want to appear as though we support these squirmy devils (Bad boners! Bad, bad boners! Shoo!), we can see where they're coming from. Sally is definitely an above-average hottie. She's probably the best thing to come out of Heritage High School since -- well, we don't know what. But get this: She's totally into horror movies. Yeah, she's like a freak for The Brain That Wouldn't Die, EC Comics and all that crazy Bruce Campbell shit. How hot is that?

She also has plans to eventually become a professional midwife. Interesting. We bring up the somewhat common practice of midwives cooking a woman's placenta after birth. Wouldn't this pose a dilemma, given Sally's strict commitment to veganism?

"No," she says immediately, "Cannibalism is okay."

Boners beware.

Stephanie

Age: 41

Status: Married to her work and husband

Where do we lust for thee?

No Name Grill, Littleton

Grindstone: Waitress

Admirer said: "The most BOD-aciously cute server on the planet."

It ain't easy being an adolescent boy with a hot mom.

"My fourteen-year-old is mortified," Stephanie laughs. "He does not want to know that his mom is hot."

Well, tough break, kid. Sorry we had to be the ones to tell you, but your mom is indeed a beautiful creature of the sea. This whole calamity could've been avoided if Stephanie hadn't gone back to work last April after eight years as a stay-at-home mom. And to make matters worse, No Name Grill has lots of other hot waitresses. Much younger waitresses. Some of whom are close to half Stephanie's age. But hotness transcends time. The guy who nominated Stephanie sure thought so. Maybe it was her eyes, a stunning hue of aqua -- for real, aqua -- that seem to shoot out toward you like waterfalls. We ask her if she wears contacts. She says she gets that a lot.

"Just like these," she grabs her breasts. One time a woman wouldn't believe that they were real. "I said, ŒFeel them.'"

The woman did.

Yep, they were real as rain, all right.

Yikes! Can't you see your fourteen-year-old is suffering? Our apologies, kid. It's only going to get more difficult from here. Just wait until your friends start coming around just to swim in your mom's eyes. Why couldn't you have been blessed with an ugly mother, like everyone else? There are some things that never change, no matter how old you are.

Suzanne

Age: 24

Status: Currently withheld from service

Where do we lust for thee?

Cherry Creek Grill

Grindstone: Bartender

Admirer said: "Cute. Has that naughty but sophisticated look."

What a grip.

Suzanne has worked up a pretty mean martini arm over the past two years at the Cherry Creek Grill. We just wish we could think of something intellectual to talk about instead of just sitting here stupidly as she shakes her favorite drink, a Maker's Mark Manhattan. Maybe we could bring up something to do with Greek literature, since that's what her degree is in. The Trojan War? No, brings up thoughts of condoms and wooden horses -- too sexual. How about Oedipus the King? Ugh, that's even worse! Besides, everyone knows that incest on an empty stomach is a bad idea.

It's hard not to turn into a naughty scholar when in Suzanne's midst. The first time her nominator saw her bookish glasses, careful posture and wry smile, he had flashbacks of a teacher he "wanted to do." Shame on you, young man. Ten swats for your unclean thoughts.

But even though she spends a lot of time buried in the classics, Suzanne fully admits that behind that academic exterior is a "dirty mind" that's just as crude and smutty as that of any self-respecting bartender. Which political figure, living or dead, would she like to make out with most?

"Julius Caesar," she answers.

Now, that's what we call smart conversation.

Fish

Age: 29

Status: I heart girlfriend

Where do we lust for thee?

Th'Ink Tank Tattoo

Grindstone: Tattoo artist

Admirer said: "I've got ten minutes. Are we going to make out or not?"

Oh, sweet Fish. How can we express our love for you? Should we have a full-sized sea bass tattooed down the length of our body in extra black ink and then flop around naked on the floor of the spacious parlor you share with seven other artists?

Because we would...if you asked.

Or maybe we should have a picture of your face tattooed on top of our own face, complete with sideburns and laugh lines. Then every time we looked in the mirror, we could see you. And whenever we would smile, you would smile, too. That would be so rad.

Fishy, Fishy, Fish.

Please don't think of us as mere tattoo groupies. There is a Chinese Kanji symbol for that type of relationship, and it does not mean "harmony," as it says on the poster. Our love is permanent, just like the Old World religious and American traditional designs you poke so brilliantly into the skin of your customers. We know how difficult it is when customers squirm beneath your tool, or even pass out. But we won't even flinch; we won't even breathe heavily, because we are breathless in your presence.

We are hooked, you salty seaman. Now just reel us in.

Seth

Age: 27

Status: Free to roam

Where do we lust for thee?

Sam Taylor's B-B-Q, Glendale

Grindstone: Manager

Admirer said: "Oh, how I swoon at just one glimpse of his barbecue."

We can't tell what we like more, the meat or the sauce. And now that Seth parted ways with his longtime girlfriend, why can't we enjoy both? A son of the owner, this brown-skinned beefcake has been holding court at the Glendale barbecue joint since he was a kid; since earning a degree in business from Hampton University, he's been managing the restaurant with his sisters and developing plans to expand to other locations.

"One bone is all it takes," he reminds us, pointing to the logo on the back of his shirt, and we believe him. Sometimes he gets girls calling him up at work, talking about how they love his ribs and how cute he is. But Seth is suspicious of such come-ons.

"Usually, they just want free food," he says, laughing.

He's looking for a girl who's not just looking for casual hot meat, but has her own things going on, too. "I'm interested in ladies who have their own ambitions and aspirations."

Oh, we know what we want, honey. We'll pay for the extra sauce.

Aaron

Age: 23

Status: Single and sensitive

Where do we lust for thee?

Highland's Garden Cafe

Grindstone: Waiter

Admirer said: "What makes this person hot? His refined features, his eyes, his caring attitude and quick smile."

We lost a flip-flop, our note pad and a pack of cinnamon Dentyne crawling around in the dense foliage that surrounds the outdoor seating area of the West Denver restaurant where Aaron, our mellowest hottie, has worked for the past six years. After hours of fruitless skulking, we found it much more effective to simply put our pants back on, sit down at a table and have our desired dish brought directly to us. Aaron is a hard one to grab ahold of, given his penchant for travel and outdoor activities like rock climbing. But once you do, you'll find that he has a lot to discuss.

"I really like waiting tables," he says, pulling his blond hair back behind his ears. "I like the interaction; I like talking to people."

None of these exchanges has ever evolved into pillow talk, though, since the restaurant draws mostly an older crowd. Once, the Denver native did get up the nerve to ask a lovely young lady for her number. She agreed, but was flying back to her home in Hawaii the next day. So much for that. "I'd like to find someone who could go for a hike in the mountains during the day, then go to the opera or something at night," he says.

How about an afternoon in the foliage? We know a great spot nearby.

Steve

Age: 29

Status: Kryptonite locked

Where do we lust for thee? Victory Courier

Grindstone: Bike messenger

Admirer said: "Whoa! How long has this guy been flying under my radar? Then he caught me staring, and I blushed so hard."

Steve is quick to admit that he is really hot, but not in the way that we're thinking.

"I run a high temperature," he says, melting us under his intense gaze. "I sweat. I'm just a hot person."

Really? Us, too! And we don't even have to professionally pedal the mean streets of Denver to know that bike messengers are just about the most scorching service employees on wheels. Maybe it's the way Steve shatters the corporate stuffiness of an office-building elevator or darts helter-skelter between cars downtown with collected abandon that makes us want to double back to his courier clubhouse or squat or whatever other cool bohemian hellhole he lives in between deliveries.

Though Steve's day job is mobile, his off-time pursuits are quite stationary. Four years ago, after graduating from Metropolitan State College with a degree in photojournalism, he opened up the modest art gallery Chance Operations, off 20th Avenue and Grant Street. At a nearby bus stop, he also maintains what he calls a "guerrilla garden," an unauthorized pocket of flowers and shrubbery that he hopes will add a little beauty to this asphalt pad we call the city. Sadly, Steve recently found out that both his gallery and his garden will soon face the backhoe as a developer pursues grand visions of upscale loft housing at the site.

Still, Steve isn't sweating it. He can always coast by on his looks.