My girlfriend dropped the bomb on me Wednesday night. After four up and down years she is leaving me. She will be moving out December 1st. Ouch!

This did not come as a surprise. The relationship had been on life support for sometime. We both slowly, painfully, began arriving to the conclusion that we were ill suited for each other. It’s all a mix of anger, hurt, and regret with real love thrown in. Even though we love each other we realize that it isn’t going to work. You can love someone but not be in love. C’est la vie. She is a great girl and I wish her every happiness.

Now I have to find new digs. The rent at my place is too high to swing by my lonesome. My landlord is very cool and we made arrangements so I can stay until after the holidays. If you know what it’s like to look for an affordable apartment in the NYC area you can feel my pain.

I would like to take this opportunity to point out the tip jar on the right side of this page! (Ok that’s enough out of you, you self pitying wretch!)

So I go to work last night. I’m pretty shook up. The last thing I want to do is deal with asshole yuppies. I pray for a slow shift.

Fluvio, the owner, a survivor of some bad breakups, is solicitous and asks how I’m doing.

“I will kill the first motherfucking customer who looks at me cross-eyed.” I reply.

“Uh oh.” Fluvio says. “Ok you just stand here, hand out menus, and help the other waiters out. Just take it easy.”

Fluvio is being very cool

I walk around in a daze. I’m very quiet which anyone will tell you is unusual for me. My regular customers can see I’m a basket case and wonder why I’m not waiting on them. Fluvio whispers in their ears. A couple of customers get up, walk over, and say how sorry they are. They will forever be on my good side.

As is always the case, when you need a slow shift, God decides to pack the restaurant. We are slammed. The two other waiters start to struggle but are too nice to ask me to pitch in.

I’m up at the hostess stand watching the chaos unfolding. I feel like the Special Ed Waiter tonight. I spy a table anxiously trying to place an order. I take a deep breath, strap on my apron, and wade into the madness.

I take orders, fetch drinks, and help the other guys out with their tables. Once I get started my inner waiter takes hold and I am a relentless professional serving machine.

The kitchen starts falling behind. Entrees are late. I stick my head in the door and yell,

“Where’s the food motherfuckers?”

Ernesto, our sous chef, looks up from the stove and smiles.

“Glad to see you feel better poppy!” he yells back.

A feel a hand slap me on my shoulder. It’s Louis our token gay waiter. “Good to have you back brother.” he laughs.

The kitchen gets in sync. Order is formed out of chaos. I get my head on straight.

Yes. I am back.