June 22nd, 2010 by Waiter
It’s a hot June afternoon and I’m travelling downstate with my joint custody dog Buster to meet a friend. But as I zip down the highway I realize I’m feeling tired so I decide to visit the biggest pusher of psycho-stimulant substances in the world – Starbucks. Let’s face it, next to these guys Pablo Escobar was running a lemonade stand.
Luckily I score a parking spot in front of a Starbuck’s inside a busy strip mall. Now it’s a hot day and I’m loath leaving Buster inside a car but I had the A/C blasting so the interior’s cool. Keeping the windows shut I lock the door and walk in to get my java fix. Besides, how long could it take?
Inside the cool shop I see there are two people ahead of me on line, a man buying a boat load of coffee beans and a large older woman wearing a dress that fits her like a potato sack. Feeling like a pastry I try walking up to the display case to peruse the goodies but the large woman’s blocking my way. “Excuse me ma’am,” I say politely.
The woman lets out a sibilant hiss of air and looks at me like I’ve crawled out from under a rock. Smiling at her disarmingly I note her flaming orange hair, granny spectacles, garish lipstick, over abundance of rouge and clumped orange mascara. If she was trying to look like The Joker she succeeded.
The woman’s response to my polite request is to block the display case with her rotund frame. Its then I realize her large body is throwing off a negative gravitational field, a repulsive force that shouts, “Stay away from me!” Undeterred I slip past her and begin perusing the cookies, scones and doughnuts I shouldn’t be eating. Her sense of space violated, the old woman lets out a large “Harrumph!” and moves her considerable body mass five inches to the right. Ignoring the negative vibe from the woman I look at the pastries and decide to get myself a double chocolate brownie. Man, all that sugar and caffeine’s going to hit my system like crystal meth.
When the old woman finally gets to the head of the line she instantly starts peppering the barista with a million questions. What’s a frappuccino? What does it cost? Can you make it low fat? How many calories are in it? After the worker patiently explains everything the woman starts rambling about her day, how hot it is outside and what a nice young man the barista is. As I listen to her talk I can almost see the words tumbling out of her mouth and scattering on the floor. Rapid and pressured speech? Bi-polar makeup and hyper vigilance about her personal space? Yep. This woman’s nuts.
I try being patient. Judging from the frumpy condition of her clothes going to Starbucks might be this woman’s only weekly treat. But as she drones on and on I feel beads of sweat start clustering on my back. Not because I’m hot mind you, because I’m worried about Buster. Glancing at my watch I see five minutes have already elapsed. Looking at my car I can see Buster’s still wagging his tail happily but soon the it’ll get too hot for him. And with my luck someone from PETA will come barging in demanding to know who left a dog outside in a car. Unconsciously I let out a loud sigh. Big mistake.
“Do you mind?” the woman says, looking at me over her granny glasses. “You have to wait like everybody else!” I just shake my head and shrug.
“Ugh,” the woman says, her hands fluttering as if she’s trying to fan away a foul stench. “I’m surrounded by freaky creepy people. Freaky creepy people!’ I guess she means me.
“What would you like to order ma’am?” the barista says, wearing a smile covering up his desire to scream.
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“What would you like, sir?” another barista, a pretty girl with brown hair, asks me. Thank God.
“A medium coffee and a brownie please,” I say.
As the pretty barista fills my order the old woman decides on a frappuccino and a scone. But when it comes time for the woman to pay there’s a mixup and my coffee gets rung up instead of her frappuccino.
“I didn’t order that!” the woman says loudly. I look at the barista and our eyes lock in server solidarity.
“We’ll just give you the frappuccino at that price ma’am,” he says, knowing if he tries voiding anything the old lady will flip.
“That’s very nice of you,” she says curtly.
“Just wait at the bar, please. Your drink will be right up.”
As the old woman waddles away I notice she doesn’t leave a tip. No shocker there. I pull out my wallet and pay for my order. “Have a nice day brother,’ I say, popping a dollar in the tip jar.
“You too,” he says, smiling knowingly.
Walking past the old woman I rapidly put cream and sugar into my coffee, replace the top and start heading for the door. As I do so the woman looks at me angrily, her stenciled eyebrows twitching like Herbert Lom from the Pink Panther movies.
At forty-two I’ve discovered my patience for stupidity is wearing thin. Maybe my years in mental health and waiting tables burned it out of me. Or maybe I’m just sick and tired of all the bullshit. And just as the old woman’s about to say something to me I fire up my thousand-yard stare and dump a dose of “Shut the fuck up” energy into her crazed eyes. The woman flinches; steps back and I walk towards the door, not feeling one iota of guilt. But before I can get out outside I hear her screech, “This isn’t what I ordered. This isn’t what I ordered!” Looking over my shoulder I see her hectoring the poor barista and notice his pleasant face has replaced by a blank stare. Bitch should have left a tip.
I get into my car, crank up the A/C and drive off with Buster no worse for wear. “Freaky creepy people,” I say. “The world’s full of them.”
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April 10th, 2010 by Waiter
It’s a dazzling bright sunny day and I have to drive to the supermarket. Oh goody, I get to wear my sunglasses. But they’re not just any sunglasses, mind you. They’re my thousand-yard stare enhancing Ray-Ban Louisiana State Trooper sunglasses.
When I stop at a traffic light I look over and see a black Cadillac Escalade idling next to me. The driver’s a largish businessman balancing a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee on his steering wheel and yelling into a cell phone. I can’t hear what he’s saying but it’s obvious that he’s distracted, angry and a menace to every driver on the road. So I toot my horn and when the man looks at me I use my Trooper shades to burn a withering stare into his eyeballs. Then I form my fingers to mimic a cell phone against my head and start wiggling them disapprovingly. With a start the man quickly puts his cell phone down – looking very, very nervous.
Maybe it’s the sunglasses, the stern look on my face or my Young Republican haircut, but whatever it is the driver thinks I’m a cop. Now I’ve been mistaken for a police officer before, which I find hilarious since I certainly don’t have the build for it. But whenever I wear my shades the rowdy kids in the 7-11 shut up, the shady looking guy loitering in front of the town library turns away and a real policeman once asked me if I was, “On the Job.” This isn’t necessarily a good thing. I’m only chubby writer. And with my luck I’ll be in a bank when it’s getting robbed and get shot first. But whatever magic my sunglasses possess they somehow scream, “You Will Respect My Authoritah!”
The man in the Escalade mouths a silent “I’m sorry” and when the light turns green he politely lets me go first. Pedaling my adult Big Wheel down the street I smile a big smile.
Sweet.
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May 3rd, 2008 by Waiter
It’s a busy night at Café Machiavelli and one of the POS computers is down. Forced to share a single terminal, the stress level among the waitstaff is running high. I’ve got several tables to input, but a newbie waiter, hovering over the touch screen as she frantically searches for the right buttons, is blocking my path.
“What’s the holdup?” I ask, trying to filter the frustration out of my voice.
“How do you modify a steak medium well?” the waitress, a sylph of a girl no older than nineteen, begs.
“Touch the ‘Steak Special’ icon first,” I reply.
“Okay.”
“Then hit ‘Modify Item.’”
“Okay.”
“Then hit ‘Temp.’”
“Okay.”
“Then hit ‘Medium Well.’”
“Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Are you finished with the table?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Are they getting anything else?”
“No.”
“Then exit out,” I say.
“How do you exit out?” the waitress asks.
Groaning inwardly, I hold on to my patience by remembering IT people put up with this kind of shit everyday.
“Hit the button that says ‘Exit,’” I say.
“Thanks.”
“Now let me in there,” I say. “I’ve got to put in five tables.”
“But I’m not done yet,” the waitress wails.
“How many tables you got left?” I ask.
“Three.”
“Listen,” I say. “Things are nuts tonight. Tell me what you need to order and I’ll put into the computer for you.”
“No,” the girls says, shaking her head. “I’ve got to learn how to do this.”
“I understand you want to learn,” I reply. “But now’s not the time.”
“I wanna do it!”
A lightening bolt of stress flashes from the top of my head to the base of my spine. As my chakras begin to smoke, stomach acid vaults up my esophagus and starts filling my mouth with the taste of regurgitated lunchtime pizza. I’ve got cappuccinos to make and desserts to plate. If I don’t get my orders into the computer soon, I’ll go into the weeds and be destroyed. Swallowing hard, I channel all my frustration into my eyes and unleash my thousand yard waiter stare. The girl’s resistance, predictably, implodes.
“Okay,” the waitress whimpers, “You do it.”
As the girl reads from her order pad, I input the information into the computer. What would have taken her ten minutes takes me only two. Digital generation my ass.
“So,” I ask. “Is everything’s in now?”
“Yes,” the waitress says, sullenly.
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t take it personally,” I say. “You’ll learn the computer when it’s slower. Tonight’s just nuts.”
“Okay.”
“You’re doing well,” I say, my voice softening. “It just sucks your first night is so busy. You’ll be okay.”
“Thanks,’ the girl replies.
“If you need help let me now.”
“I will,” the girl replies, a small smile playing on her lips. “Thanks.”
“No problem.’
I turn to the POS computer and start inputting my orders. As my fingers fly across the keyboard, a hulking presence reeking of garlic suddenly materializes behind me. It’s Willem, Café Machiavelli’s manager.
“How long you gonna be?” he hisses in my ear.
“I’ve got three more tables to do,” I reply.
“Let me in there. I’m way behind.”
“So am I.”
“I’ve gotta void a credit card receipt too,” Willem huffs. “Let me jump in front of you.”
“Dude,” I reply. “Wait your turn.”
“Why don’t you do as I say?” Willem shouts.
I was a restaurant manager once, and, truth be told, I was famous for cutting in line while other servers waited to use the POS machine. Saying I had an emergency with a customer’s credit card was my usual MO. Sure, maybe this is karma paying me back, but I’m not in the mood to accept life lessons from the universe right now.
“I’ll be done in a minute Willem,” I reply. “Chill out.”
“Goddammit!” Willem shouts, stomping his feet up and down like an angry child, “I need to get in there!”
“You’re having a temper tantrum now?” I reply, not taking my eyes of the touch screen. “Get a grip. Start drinking early or something.”
Willem storms off. I finish putting my orders into the computer, make my cappuccinos, plate my desserts, and run everything out to my tables. I’ve got an extra minute so I help out the food runner, extract a broken cork out of a bottle, recite the specials at one of the new girl’s tables, answer the phone, take a reservation, greet and seat a new table, hang up some coats, and direct an old man to the restroom.
As I head back to my section, I look over at Willem. He won’t speak to me for the rest of the night. I’m not worried. In his early thirties and turning into a drunk, Willem will consume several vodka and tonics, drunkenly grouse about how he’s under appreciated, and then stumble home early – forgetting all about my earlier intransigence. I used to work with drunks and drug addicts. I know how it goes.
I shake my head. I used to help people like Willem. Now I find myself standing on the sidelines secretly rooting for him crash and burn. I’m an asshole like that sometimes, but the restaurant industry is a tough business.
And you get tough with it.
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April 24th, 2008 by Waiter
It’s Saturday night and Café Machiavelli is bursting at the seams. Impatient customers waiting to be seated are laying siege to the hostess stand. Since my section’s closest to the entrance, I get to hear the panicked bleating emanating from the entitled hordes. Aggravated, I remember how defenders of medieval castles repelled besiegers by dumping cauldrons of boiling oil on top of their heads. Now that I think about it, I do have access to a deep fryer.
“My reservation is for eight o’clock!” one aggrieved customer, a fat man with a bad comb over, shouts at the hostess. “It’s already eight-fifteen. I want to sit down now!”
“I appreciate your patience, sir,” the hostess replies sweetly. “But I can’t seat you until the rest of your party arrives.”
“Unacceptable,’ Comb Over, says, tapping the expensive watch strapped to his fleshy wrist. “We shouldn’t have to wait to sit down.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“I want to speak to the owner,” Comb Over demands.
“Sir…..”
“Get him now!”
The hostess picks up the house phone and dials the owner’s extension. Within thirty seconds the owner is talking with the folliclly disadvantaged customer.
“Has everyone in your party arrived, sir?” the owner asks, smiling a broad friendly smile.
“No,” Comb Over says. “The third couple’s gonna be half an hour late.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the owner says. “I cannot seat you until the entire party arrives.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Comb Over snorts. “Who ever heard of such a rule?”
“As you can see, sir,” the owner says, ignoring the man’s question. “We’re very busy. I’ll be happy to seat you when everyone’s here.”
“If you don’t seat us right now,” Comb Over says, “We’re leaving.”
“Then I’m sorry to lose your business, sir.”
“Are you serious?” Comb Over says, looking aghast. “You’ll let six paying customers walk out the door over some silly rule?”
“Yes, sir,” the owner replies, still smiling his broad smile.
“That’s nuts.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I’m never coming here again,” Comb Over says, in his most intimidating wealthy man’s voice.
Café Machiavelli’s owner is 6’2 and weighs two hundred and fifty pounds. A retired cop, he’s got a semi automatic pistol discreetly holstered underneath his blue blazer. After a lifetime busting down doors and arresting some very bad dudes, he decided to open a restaurant. Somehow I don’t think Comb Over’s intimidating him.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out tonight,” the owner says, unperturbed. “I hope you’ll come back another time.”
I enjoy watching the expression spread over Comb Over’s face as he realizes he can’t push the owner around. Besides, his options are limited. He’ll never get a reservation some place else this late on a Saturday night. He’s screwed.
“All right,” Comb Over says. “We’ll wait. But could you at least give me a nice table?”
“Certainly, sir,” the owner replies. “I appreciate your patience.”
“Okay then,” Comb Over says, slinking back to his wife.
Many restaurant owners, afraid to lose a single dollar, mistake submissiveness for hospitality and turn themselves into doormats. That’s a mistake. Trust me, if the dining public thinks you’re a wimp, they’ll run roughshod all over you. Sure, a restaurateur has to be friendly and accommodating, but he must also possess a core of iron. Well run restaurants consistently enforce rules governing cell phones, small children, partial seating, and customer behavior – even at the risk of lost revenue. That’s the only way to ensure a pleasant dining experience for everyone. And if a customer storms out – good riddance. You probably didn’t want them in your restaurant anyway.
Eventually the night ends and the customers go home. The waiters, post shift drinks in hand, assemble around a back table to divvy up the night’s take. As we count the money the smell of cigarette smoke and the soft murmur of tired bitching fills the air. After a few minutes the owner comes over, drink in one hand, holstered gun in the other.
“The money ready?” he asks.
“Almost,” Willem, the manager, replies.
“You guys got any vodka left?” the owner asks, rattling the ice in his glass.
“Want some?” I say, holding the bottle out to him.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
The owner sits next to me, places the holstered gun near my right elbow, and extends his glass.
“What caliber is that thing?” I ask, pouring out three fingers of grain alcohol.
“It’s a forty-five.”
“Well,” I say. “That’s one way to keep the staff in line.”
“Work wonders with the vendors too.”
‘I’ll bet.”
“And I never get robbed.”
“Good to know,” I reply.
As the owner drinks his vodka and sorts out the cash, I covertly glance at the black pistol resting inside its well worn holster. Remember what I said about a restaurateur needing a core of iron? My boss just happens to carry iron too. For a moment, I wonder how I’d act if I was packing heat underneath my waiter apron. After a few seconds of reflection I realize that would be a very, very bad idea. Think of Travis Bickle with an order pad.
That’s okay. I always have my thousand yard stare.
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October 23rd, 2007 by Waiter
It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m walking through the neighborhood where I used to work. When I pass by The Bistro’s front window I take a peek inside. A waiter I don’t know is standing in my old section and talking to customers I don’t recognize. As I watch the server’s lips silently move I get the feeling that the restaurant’s plate glass window is an extra-dimensional membrane, separating me from an alternate universe that’s strange but familiar at the same time. I shake my head and walk away. What a difference a year makes.
I cross the street and head into Starbucks. All the baristas I used to know are gone. I order a cup of coffee, slip a few coins into the tip jar, and leave. Outside the sidewalks are crowded with teenagers holding hands, retired couples peering into store windows, and young couples walking their dogs. Because summer’s overstaying its welcome the neighborhood’s restaurants still have their outside tables set up. Pedestrians are forced to navigate around the throngs of chattering al fresco diners camping out on the limited sidewalk space. I feel sorry for the waiters. People who like to eat outside are usually pains in the asses. Servers are happy when the cold weather arrives and these socially vain bad tippers are forced into hibernation. This year, however, global warning seems to be prolonging the pain. Maybe it’s a sign of the Apocalypse.
As I walk down the street and sip my coffee I pass by a vegetarian restaurant. A customer sitting on the outdoor patio is haranguing a harried looking waitress about his tofu. I can tell the server’s struggling to keep her cool. Vegetarian al fresco diners are no different than their flesh easting compatriots. If anything, they’re worse. A line from the Gospel of Mark floats into my head. “Nothing that comes into someone from the outside can make that person unclean; it is the things that come out of someone that make a person unclean!” Is smugness a form of uncleanliness? I wonder.
“Take it back,” the imperious beatnik snaps at the waitress. “I don’t want it.”
“But it’s what you ordered sir,” the waitress replies.
I stop, lean against a lamppost, and pretend to savor my coffee. I’m interested to see how this turns out.
“Haven’t you heard the expression the customer’s always right?” the beatnik hisses.
“Of course I have,” the waitress says.
“Then why are you arguing with me?”
Suddenly I recognize the waitress. A cute blonde around thirty, she always split an entrée with her boyfriend at The Bistro every Thursday night. I remember her because she always sat in my section and I thought she was cute. I also thought that her boyfriend was way old for her. As I close in on forty, however, I’ve noticed I seldom have those judgmental thoughts anymore – probably because I’m going to be the guy that’s much too old for someone one day. Luckily, in spite of what I thought, it was obvious the couple was very much in love. I remember that they were nice people and good tippers. My mind races. What happened to this girl and her boyfriend? Are they still together? Are they happy? Why is this woman waiting tables? Was she always a waiter and I didn’t know? Is she supporting her art career? Making some extra bucks while she writes the great American novel? Quick cash to finance a root canal? Who knows? It’s just interesting to see someone I used to wait on working as a waiter themselves. In some circumstances that would be delicious revenge. Not today though.
The blonde waitress smiles weakly and takes the plate from the haughty beatnik’s hand. . “Very well sir,” she says. “I’ll ask the manager to take care of it.”
When the waitress walks away the beatnik turns to his companion. “Can you believe that stupid bitch?” he says. “Where did she learn to be a waitress?”
“Hard to get good help these days,’ the man’s companion replies.
I look up from my coffee and calmly peer at the beatnik. It doesn’t take long until he notices I’m staring at him. When our eyeballs met I bore into him with my thousand yard waiter stare. The man starts looking very uncomfortable. He probably thinks I’m a psycho. If the situation was reversed I’d probably think the same thing. For my purposes, however, that’s OK. A weak smile plays on my lips. The beatnik looks nervously away. I sip my coffee and hold station by the lamppost.
After a short interval the blonde waitress returns. “The manager said we’ll make up a new plate for you,” she says. “It’ll take about ten minutes. To thank you for your patience we’re comping your raspberry ice teas.
“Uh, thanks,’ the beatnik says, glancing anxiously at me. “That’ll be fine.”
“Thank you sir,” the waitress replies tonelessly. “Sorry for the mix-up.”
The waitress goes back inside the restaurant. The beatnik and his companion are looking at me. Satisfied that I’ve satisfied some kind of karmic debt, I wink at them and walk away. I know this’ll sound weird – but suddenly I feel like Batman.
And like all good superheroes I walk off into the setting sun and never look back. I smile to myself. Who knows? Maybe in an alternate universe I am Batman. What a difference a year makes.
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