Waiter Rant (24 page)

Suddenly, I feel a tug on my shoulder. It’s Beth. She has tears in her eyes.

“What’s the matter?”

“The computer’s not working.”

“Oh shit,” I say, my sphincter achieving maximum compression.

“It just went black,” Beth says. “I’ve got a bunch of orders I need to send to the kitchen.”

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath, “lemme try to fix it.”

“How am I going to place my orders?” Beth asks.

“Hang on.”

I try rebooting the computer. That usually fixes things, but tonight it doesn’t. I double-check all the cabling. Everything’s hooked up correctly.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with it,” I say. “I have to call the computer guy.”

“Oh my God,” Beth groans. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

I signal all the waiters to gather around me.

“Listen, guys,” I say. “I’ve got bad news. The computer’s dead. We’ve got to do things the old-fashioned way.”

“The old-fashioned way?” Saroya asks. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve got to write everything down on a ticket and add up the bill by hand.”

“I’ve never done that before,” Saroya says.

“Well, that’s how we have to do it tonight.”

“This fucking sucks,” Louis says, his voice filling with panic. “This fucking sucks.”

“You’ve done tickets before, Louis,” I say. “Help Saroya out.”

“What about the credit cards?” Louis asks.

Our POS system is responsible for sending orders to the kitchen, tabulating bills, and acting as a credit card terminal. It’s a state-of-the-art front-of-the-house system—until it goes wrong.

“We’re gonna have to use the old terminal,” I say. “The one we used before the POS system.

“That old piece of shit?” Louis shouts. “It only prints the white copy.”

“I know,” I say. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

“The law says we have to give the customers a copy!” Louis shouts. “I’m not doing anything illegal.”

Leave it to Louis to get all rigid and legalistic in a crisis.

“Just hit reprint on the terminal,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even. “The second printout can be the customer copy.”

“This sucks, man,” Louis says, his voice taut with anxiety. “This place is a joke. I want to go home.”

“Calm down, Louis. This is an emergency.”

“Fuck you telling me to calm down,” Louis says, storming off. “I can’t take this shit anymore. If you don’t fix that computer, I’m leaving.”

“Louis—”

“You’re a joke of a manager,” Saroya chimes in. “You’re supposed to know how to fix this stuff.”

“I’m working on it, Saroya.”

The reality is that Fluvio is so paranoid he never showed me anything about the computers. I don’t know how to fix them. I could usually get Fluvio to fix it, but he’s an hour’s drive away.

“You’re a clown,” Saroya huffs, walking away.

Beth looks at me sadly. “Nice when your coworkers support you, huh?”

I smile at Beth. We both know Saroya and Louis are sunshine waiters, happy and professional when everything’s running smoothly, bitchy and vindictive when they’re not. The minute things get hairy, they fall into that’s-not-my-job mode, and their professionalism goes out the window.

“Stick with me, babe,” I say.

“I’ll cocktail and special your tables while you call the computer guy.”

“Thanks,” I say gratefully. “You’re a lifesaver.”

I fill the old credit card machine with register tape, plug it into the phone line, and test it by charging my personal Amex one penny. Keeping my fingers crossed, I anxiously wait for the terminal to process the transaction. If this doesn’t work, I’ll have to pull the old embosser out of storage. I haven’t used one of those things since the early 1990s. After an interminable wait the old machine starts chattering out paper. I let out a sigh of relief. Finally, a break. I grab the cordless house phone and call the computer guy. I explain the problem, and we run through a checklist of procedures. None of them fix the problem.

“I’ll have to come in and take a look,” the computer guy says. “Sounds like a cable’s severed somewhere.”

“Can you come now?” I plead.

“Sure,” the computer guy says. “But it’ll take a while.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“New Jersey.”

“Jesus,” I say. “Just get here quick. Dinner’s on me.”

“On my way.”

“Oh, Mr. Manager,” I hear Louis crowing. “I need a calculator so I can add up these bills.”

“What happened to the calculator by the register?” I ask.

Louis smiles at me sweetly. “The battery’s dead.”

I feel a coil in the back of my head tighten. Stomach acid leaps up my esophagus. For the first time in six years I’m afraid the res
taurant’s going to crash. A restaurant crash is what happens when a series of events, none of which on its own is serious enough to cause problems, combine to spawn a perfect storm of missteps, fuckups, and malfunctions, initiating a catastrophic system-wide collapse. I saw it happen at Amici’s once. The manager had to stop letting new customers into the restaurant until the waiters and the kitchen could recover. The best way to avoid a restaurant crash is to make sure you’ve done all your prep work and have backups for everything. Losing your AC and computer systems at the same time, however, is a disaster in any restaurateur’s book.

“Please go down to Fluvio’s office and get the one on his desk,” I tersely reply.

“Uh-uh, Mr. Manager,” Louis sneers. “That’s
your
job.”

Summarily executing Louis won’t help the situation, so I go down into Fluvio’s smelly office to fetch the spare calculator. The minute I walk inside the intercom buzzes.

“Fluvio’s on the phone,” the hostess says. “I told him about the computer. He wants to talk to you.”

There’s no avoiding the man this time. I snap up the phone. “It’s a mess here, boss.”

“I leave you alone and you can’t handle things,” Fluvio says disgustedly.

“Your AC failed, and the computer systems went down,” I say. “What do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t have time for this shit,” Fluvio growls. “I want to go over the computer problem with you on the phone.”

“I’ve got a section full of customers who just sat down,” I say. “They’re gonna be pissed—”

“The other waiters can handle it.”

“They can’t. They’re in the weeds, too.”

“Listen—”

“Fluvio,” I say. “The computer guy’s coming. The AC’s off till tomorrow. There’s nothing more I can do. I set up the old credit card terminal, and we’re sending everything to the kitchen by ticket.”

“By ticket?” Fluvio exclaims. “I’m gonna lose money.”

“I’ve got to go, Fluvio.”

“Explain to me how you’re going to keep track of the money.”

I can feel my heart racing with anxiety. This is when Fluvio’s control issues hurt his business. He’d rather keep me on the phone explaining minute details instead of taking care of the customers who give him money.

“It’s a crazy night, Fluvio,” I say. “We can go over everything when you get back.”

“But—”

“I’ve got to go, boss,” I say, slamming down the receiver. I’ve hung up on my boss twice in one night.

I run back up to the dining room and get over to my section. Thanks to Beth, two of my tables already have their cocktails. I’m just about to ask the other tables for their drink orders when the hostess pulls on my arm.

“It’s Fluvio,” she says. “He wants you to talk to him right now.”

“I’m busy,” I snap.

“He’s really angry at you.”

“Too bad.”

“What am I going to tell him?”

“Tell him if he bugs me again, I’m walking out the door right now.”

The hostess stares at me, wide-eyed. “Really?”

“I’m serious,” I say. “Tell him to chill the fuck out.”

“I’m not going to tell him that.”

“Then make something up.”

I dive back into my section and get drink orders. All the customers complain about the heat and the slow service. I say “I’m sorry” so many times that my apologies sound like an automated recording. Louis and Saroya run around, sniping behind my back. Fluvio keeps calling for updates. The customers’ faces blur into a greedy collage of greasy, quivering lips and fleshy jowls. The heat in the restaurant’s driving me mad. My underwear’s soaked with sweat and starting to chafe my legs. I’m going to get another rash. The pressure in my head keeps building. That coiled spring I felt
earlier is about to snap. I’m heading for a rifle-in-the-clock-tower moment.

“I’m going outside,” I tell the hostess.

“You’re leaving!” the hostess shrieks. “Now?”

“I need some fresh air,” I say. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

I exit The Bistro, walk around the corner, and disappear into the back alley behind the restaurant. Lined up against the wall are several plastic garbage cans. I take a deep breath, draw back my leg, and drive my foot into the side of one of the cans, smashing it with a loud crunch. I have reached my breaking point.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” I shout.

Experience has taught me that if I don’t discharge the negative energy building up inside my body, I’ll pay for it later in aches and pains, depression, and sleepless nights. Kicking a garbage can’s not exactly a kosher anger-management skill, but it’s a hell of a lot better than taking it out on a living, breathing person.

After giving the can a few more swift kicks, I feel the bolus of anger pass out of my psyche like vomit being ejected out of my mouth. A wave of exhaustion hits me.

Dizzy, I lean up against the warm brick wall, fumble a cigarette out of a pack, and light up. I look down at the garbage can. The plastic container’s already returning to its original shape—no harm done. Feeling foolish, I take a drag of my cigarette and close my eyes. Suddenly, I hear people murmuring. My eyes snap open, and I look across the street. Two middle-aged women are standing outside a bar smoking. They saw me freak out. I wave weakly at them, embarrassed.

“Tough night?” one of the women shouts.

“The worst,” I reply.

“If you’re gonna get that mad,” the other woman says, “maybe you should find another job.”

“You might be right,” I reply.

“Take it easy, mister,” the first one says, shaking her head.

“Thanks,” I reply, feeling like a total asshole. I grind my cigarette under my heel and slink back inside the restaurant.

Eventually everything settles down. Armando keeps the kitchen running despite the heat; the computer guy fixes the POS system; the waiters, including myself, get their shit together; and the customers, feeling sorry for us, end up giving us some very nice tips. Even Fluvio gets over his anxiety. After I close everything up Beth and I stumble out of The Bistro and head to Café American for a well-deserved cocktail.

“Thank God that’s over,” Beth says, holding out her martini glass.

“Yes, indeed,” I reply, clinking my glass against hers. “Thanks for all your help.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I thought we were gonna crash,” I say.

“We didn’t,” Beth says.

“But we could’ve.”

I tell Beth how I freaked out in the alley.

She laughs. “Just don’t get angry at me.”

“It was Fluvio’s craziness that got to me,” I say. “I used to be able to handle his bullshit but…”

“He gets to everybody,” Beth says. “Even the wine reps hate him.”

I stare into my drink. “I don’t know how much longer I can work here.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you left.”

“So,” I say, shaking myself out of my fugue, “what’s going on with you?”

“My boyfriend and I are fighting,” Beth says sadly.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“We never get to spend any time together.”

“Restaurant schedules can be a problem.”

“It’s not that,” Beth says. “I don’t think we’re in love anymore. It’s like we’re brother and sister.”

“You’ve been going out since you were how old?”

“Nineteen.”

“Five years is a long time.”

“I just think it’s not going to last.”

I want to tell Beth that the odds are good the person you fall for at nineteen is going to be a very different person at twenty-five. Most relationships don’t survive this process. Telling her that won’t do any good, though.

“I want something better for myself,” Beth continues, looking me dead in the eye. “I want to be in love with someone who’s crazy about me. I’m worth it.”

I suddenly feel my breath catch in my throat. Beth is certainly worth it. I think about telling her that. Then I remember the difference in our ages. There’s a moment, but I let it pass. I keep my feelings to myself. Beth and I live in different worlds.

After lingering inside Café American’s air-conditioned bar for a second and third round, Beth and I part company. I stumble home after three in the morning and, without taking off my sweat-stained clothes, collapse into bed.

In my dreams a mob of customers, like torch-wielding villagers in a Frankenstein movie, chase me through the streets demanding their money back. Suddenly, I realize I’m not wearing any clothes. I race into the backyards behind my boyhood home, terrified the cops are going to arrest me. A little boy appears in a window and points at me, screaming. I try running away, but a hole in the ground swallows me up. As I fall, I cry out.

I wake up on the floor of my bedroom. The reddish dawn pours through the bedroom curtains and splatters the walls a bloody shade of orange. In the back of my mind the old saying “Red sky at night, sailors’ delight; red sky in morning, sailors take warning” runs through my head.

Sitting on my bedroom floor, I realize things have to change and change soon. I remember the women watching me kick the garbage can. I remember my anger, a red blaze of frustration, coloring my vision. There have been too many frustrating nights at The Bistro. I get up off the floor and open the curtains. The sun, swollen and red, is erupting out of the eastern horizon, promising another hot day. Waiter takes warning.

That goddamn AC had better get fixed.

I
t’s mid-September. The air-conditioning’s still kind of on the fritz, so I’m standing outside The Bistro drinking espresso and enjoying the cool evening twilight. As the day starts crumbling into darkness I watch office girls who had been sleeveless in the noonday heat head off to happy hour with shawls and leather jackets covering their bare shoulders. I feel the briskness in the air with a small pang of mourning. It’s as if summer’s trying to sneak out of town without anybody noticing. Soon miniskirts will be replaced by long pants, and shapely legs will disappear into unshaven hibernation. I tell myself I should move to a town where short skirts are a 365-day-a-year proposition—someplace like L.A. or Vegas—but I’d miss having seasons too much.

As the sun starts its dive below the horizon the dining crowd starts swarming the sidewalks. I can always tell which demographic is going to what restaurant. The young and hip head for Über Sushi, couples my age eat at Alain’s or Café American, and the affluent elderly come to us. You can spot The Bistro’s customers coming a mile away. Just look for the quartet of recently retired people—two men strolling side by side while their wives hang ten paces back, stopping in front of every store window. The men look like they’re trying to project some sort of finan
cially self-sufficient gravitas, while their spouses subtly compete to see whose children won the parenting lottery.

I sigh to myself. Soon these people will be piling into the restaurant. I take another sip of espresso and try to savor the peace and quiet before the craziness begins. The northerly wind softly rustles the leaves in the trees. I look up. The foliage hasn’t started to change, but I know that will happen soon. Autumn is my favorite season.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the new video camera Fluvio installed under the restaurant’s wooden sign. Sourness seeps into my thoughts, and my little moment of Zen is wrecked. No longer just content with spying on us inside The Bistro, Fluvio has installed new units to cover the back alley and the front sidewalk. Now he can see the staff whenever they go outside to smoke, talk on their cell, or get a breath of fresh air. I stare into the black eye of the camera. I wonder if Fluvio’s watching me now. I’ll bet he is. Fluvio’s been keeping his distance from me. The last time we talked, I could tell he was keeping something from me, and later I found out from the staff what that something was—Louis has been running around telling everyone that Fluvio’s going to make him the new manager. I’m not surprised. Fluvio’s offered my job to other waiters when he’s been angry with me before, but Louis? The guy who faked a heart attack so he could go home early? That’s like finding out someone paid a hit man $39.95 to bump you off. It’s insulting.

I’m also hurt. Even though he’s a pain in the ass, I’ve always liked Louis. That makes his going around my back even more painful. If he were up front with me about wanting my job, I’d probably wish him luck. The same goes for Fluvio. He seems to be collapsing deeper and deeper into paranoid anxiety. That explains the new video cameras. Ever since the new restaurant opened, the dynamics among staff members have gotten more acrimonious and bitter. Everyone wants to be the boss. Everyone’s stressed and fighting. Everyone’s arguing over money and shifts. Louis and Saroya are circling around me like sharks sens
ing blood in the water. The atmosphere in The Bistro is becoming poisonous.

Thoroughly aggravated, I finish my espresso and head inside. The Bistro’s empty of customers now, but looks can be deceiving. In actuality, we’re booked to the hilt tonight. Everyone’s coming between seven and seven-thirty. All our tables are spoken for. The place is going to be a madhouse.

The front door chimes. A tall mustachioed man in a blazer with patches on the elbows walks in with his wife. They’re semi-regular customers. They’re assholes.

“Good evening,” I say, smiling politely. “Nice to see you again.”

The couple doesn’t acknowledge me. Instead, they walk over to a four top by the window and sit down. That the table has a reserved sign on it doesn’t seem to concern them.

“Are there four in your party?” I ask as I watch the woman push the reserved sign to the side.

“Just two,” the man replies brusquely. “Get me a Black on the rocks. My wife’ll have a cosmopolitan.”

I groan inwardly. I’m not in the mood for what’s coming next.

“Did you have a reservation to dine with us this evening?” I ask gingerly.

“No,” the woman says, looking surprised. “Do we need one?”

“I hate to say this,” I say, “but this table is reserved for a party of four.”

“Put them somewhere else,” the man snorts.

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir.”

The man looks incredulously at the empty restaurant. “The place is empty.”

“I know, sir. But all our reservations are coming in the next half hour, and I only have one table available for walk-ins.”

“Where would you put us?” the woman asks.

“Right there,” I say, pointing to a two top on the aisle.

“I don’t like that table.”

I shrug apologetically. “I’m sorry, madam, but—”

“We’ll move to that table,” the man declares, pointing to another table with a reserved sign on it.

“I’m sorry, sir, but that table’s reserved as well.”

“You mean I can’t have that table, either?”

“Sir,” I reply, “I have those tables set aside for people who have a reservation. I can’t give them away.”

“Well, we’re regulars,” the man huffs. “Figure out a way.”

This man’s arrogance is pissing me off. I’ve been on the receiving end of entitled bullshit like this so many times I’ve lost count. I feel my temper start to rise. Usually, I use humor to keep my emotions in check—but tonight I don’t feel like making the effort.

“Sir,” I say hotly, “if you had a reservation, how would you feel if I gave your table away to somebody else?”

The man looks at me like I’m dog shit on the bottom of his shoe. “C’mon, Dolores,” he says, abruptly getting out of his chair. “We’re leaving. I don’t like this guy’s attitude.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t accommodate you this evening,” I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You’re a jerk,” the man says.

“I sincerely doubt you’d say that to me if we were outside this restaurant.”

“What did you say?” the man gasps.

“You heard me.”

“I’m going to talk to Fluvio about this.”

“Go ahead. Make sure you get the name right.”

“I’m never coming back here.”

“Good.”

The man and his wife storm out.

A sharp pain pokes me from the inside as my digestive juices start cannibalizing the lining of my stomach. I pull a roll of ant-acid tablets out of my pocket and toss one down my throat.

“Well,” I say to myself, “you handled that well.” I shake my head. I must be losing my touch.

“What happened with those people?” Beth asks, sidling up to me. “They looked pissed.”

“They wanted the front window, and they had no reservation.”

“That man looked like he wanted to punch you.”

“Can you believe that?” I say bitterly. “Getting that angry over a table?”

“Are you all right?” Beth asks. “You’ve looked out of it the past couple of weeks.”

“I need a vacation, Beth,” I reply. “
Away
from people like that.”

“Take it easy.”

“I’ll try.”

As Beth walks away I smile ruefully to myself. Deep down in my bones I know what’s happening to me—I’m suffering from burnout. Every server eventually faces this situation. Years of toiling in the dysfunctional atmosphere of the restaurant business slowly robs you of any desire to be hospitable. You start looking at the customers, the people who provide your income, as the enemy. Since waiters shouldn’t be nasty to the customers, they develop a customer-friendly armor to protect the soft parts of their psyche from emotional assault. You can wear that armor for a while, maybe a long time, but eventually the cracks begin to show. You can’t hide forever. The corrosive atmosphere inside The Bistro is rapidly eroding what little armor I have left.

Between Fluvio’s nonsense and the normal insanity you find in any restaurant, the spirit of hospitality deserted my soul a long time ago. I feel like I’m doing what I did during my last year in the seminary—faking it, going through the motions. I’ll admit, career cluelessness and poverty are some of the major factors that have kept me working as a waiter throughout my thirties. That’s my own fault—not Fluvio’s or the restaurant business. But after the book deal, when I realized that I didn’t need to depend on Fluvio or the customers at The Bistro anymore, a powerful rage emerged. I thought the ego boost would salve my bitterness and make waiting tables fun again. I was wrong. The exact opposite happened. Like a mill worker who wins the lottery and suddenly
realizes he
hates
his job, I’ve been fighting the urge to run around telling everyone to take this job and shove it.
Every day
I feel like walking out the door and never coming back.

The door chimes, interrupting my thoughts. As I expected, the four retirees I saw outside earlier walk through the door and immediately start acting like they’re God’s gift to the world. There’s nothing worse than waiting on people when you’re a psychological mess yourself. You become hypersensitive to criticism. So much so that when a customer complains about a dirty fork, you see it as an indictment of your entire existence. Sometimes you want to freak out and disembowel yourself like the waiter in the old
Monty Python
skit. Despite the glow from my recent success, deep down I’m still struggling with feeling like a loser. Trust me, when you’re feeling inadequate, there’s nothing like waiting on arrogant people to exacerbate that feeling.

“That’s enough crybaby bullshit,” I tell myself. “You’ve already unloaded on one customer. Try being professional the rest of the night.”

Somehow, as I’ve done countless nights before, I pull my shit together, stuff my anger and sadness into a secure mental compartment, and smile. My waiter armor will just have to make it through another night. Within half an hour my entire section is seated, cocktailed, specialed, and busy eating their appetizers. There’s a tender mercy to waiting tables. You can get so engrossed in what you are doing that you almost forget your troubles. I feel like I’m relaxing inside my brain while my body does all the work. For a few small minutes I find solace in going through the motions of a job I know how to do so well. Of course, my peace doesn’t last.

“Louis has got a problem at table nine,” Saroya says, tugging on my arm.

“What now?” I reply wearily.

“That lesbian woman’s back, and she’s drunk.”

“Oh, brother.”

“You’re the manager, aren’t you?” Saroya says with a sly smile. “Go fix it.”

Aggravated, I head to the back to find Louis.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“You have to tell that lady to leave,” Louis snorts. “I ain’t gonna.”

“Is she drunk?”

“Yeah, and I ain’t serving her.”

The woman in question is a forty-year-old brunette who used to be one of The Bistro’s best customers. When I first started waiting on her, I found her to be standoffish, cold, and exacting—but she gave me a minimal amount of hassle and tipped a solid 20 percent. She’d always come in around five-thirty, order a dirty martini, and read the
New York Times
while she waited for her girlfriend to get off from work. Once her attractive blond girlfriend showed up, they’d order a nice dinner, share a bottle of wine, and cap off the evening with dessert and after-dinner drinks.

As the years went by, however, the brunette woman’s martini consumption went from one to two and, eventually, to three. By the time her girlfriend arrived the brunette would be sloppy drunk and unable to enunciate simple words. To make matters worse, she’d polish off a bottle of wine by herself and chug two after-dinner drinks. Eventually she started eating alone. I found out that her girlfriend left her because of her drinking. I later learned that her alcoholism cost her her friends, her job, and even her house. One time the poor woman got so drunk she tried paying her dinner tab with a Bloomingdale’s card. After several similar incidents Fluvio decreed we were not allowed to serve her alcohol if she came in smelling like booze. But that was easier said than done. The last time someone tried cutting her off, she got angry and made a small scene.

“So you gonna tell her to leave?” Louis asks. “I don’t want to wait on her.”

I peek around the corner. The woman’s slumped in her chair. The desiccated skin on her face is stretched tight across her cheekbones, highlighting the blotchy patches. The first of many broken capillaries is starting to spider across her nose. The alcohol’s now assaulting her health as well.

“All right, Louis,” I sigh. “I’ll take care of it.”

I walk over to the woman’s table.

“Hi there,” I say softly.

“Hey,” the woman replies.

A sickly sweet blast of alcoholic vapor floats out on the woman’s breath and up my nose. This lady’s been drinking cheap wine all day. Her bloodstream’s so saturated with the stuff that it’s leeching out of her pores.

“Would you like to hear the specials?” I ask.

“What I’d like is a bottle of Chianti,” the woman says, the remnants of her imperious former self making an appearance.

“I’m sorry, madam,” I say, modulating my voice to sound as nonjudgmental as possible. “I can’t serve you any alcohol.”

“Why not?” the woman asks, struggling to focus her eyes.

“You’ve had a few drinks already.”

“So what?”

“I really can’t argue with you over this. If you’re already intoxicated, I can’t serve you.”

“I want a drink,” the woman blurts, looking like she’s collapsing in on herself.

As I look at her and think of what to do next, a snippet from the Scriptures floats into my brain: “Even the little that he has will be taken away.” That line is from the Parable of Talents found in the Gospel of Matthew. The parable’s a simple story. A master sets out on a long journey. Before he leaves he gives his three servants different amounts of money to invest for him. When the master returns from his travels, he asks the servants what they did with the cash. The first servant reports that he was given five talents, and he had made five talents more. That’s better than a high-powered hedge fund, so the master was greatly pleased. The second servant reported that he had received two talents, and he had made two talents more. That was better than the average 401(k), so the master was thrilled, praised the two servants for being good and faithful, and asked them to share in his riches with him. Bonuses for everybody.