Waiter Rant (6 page)

“No,” I say. “I don’t like it.”

The man stares at me openmouthed. After a few seconds he asks for the check holder, crosses out the old tip, and writes in a new one.

“Here ya go,” he says.

“Thank you, sir,” I reply.

“You’re welcome, kid.”

“Madam,” I say, turning to the hooker, “have a happy and healthy New Year.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” the prostitute says.

“Yeah,” the trader blurts. “Happy New Year’s.”

I walk to the back and open the check holder. The new tip? $500.

“Look at this,” I say, showing the check to Louis.

“Holy shit,” he exclaims. “How’d you do that?”

I smile cannily. “I’m not above rolling the occasional drunk.”

“You’re bad.”

“The guy’s a pain in the ass all year. Maybe it’s his way of making up for it.”

“You might be right.”

“Now I’ve got to divvy up my tips with Inez,” I sigh. “I’ve made, like, twelve hundred dollars. What’s she at?”

“About five hundred,” Louis says.

“Bitch.”

Finally, The Bistro’s empty. Because I earned the most tips I sit on my ass and drink champagne while watching the other servers do the postshift cleanup. I see to it that Inez works extra hard. By the time everyone finishes and gets his or her tips from Fluvio, I’m half in the bag. Despite the drag Inez put on my earning potential, I still made a ton of money. After Fluvio locks up we head over to a nearby nightclub to continue the New Year’s festivities. Inez and I, forgetting our earlier rancor, cha-cha on the nightclub’s afterthought of a dance floor. That’s the nice thing about being a waiter—what happens at work usually stays at work. Too bad I can’t dance for shit.

“So what you gonna do this new year?” Inez asks me as we flop down at the bar for another martini.

“I have no idea,” I reply.

“What about your Web site?” she asks. “How’s that going?”

“Waiter Rant?”

“Yeah.”

“I enjoy writing it,” I reply. “It’s cheaper than psychotherapy.”

Inez laughs. “Every waiter should have their head examined.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So,” Inez asks, “you think the Web site will lead to something else?”

“Something else?”

Inez leans in close to me, her body suddenly resonating seriousness.

“I’ve read your stuff,” she says. “You’re a good writer.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe you should think about writing as a career. It could be your ticket out of here.”

“Maybe,” I reply quietly.

Inez squeezes my arm. “Stop waiting tables! You’ve got to do something else with that big brain of yours.”

“Well,” I reply, trying to change the subject, “all this big brain wants to do now is get drunk.”

“Promise me you’ll try,” Inez says. “Stop working for Fluvio; he doesn’t appreciate you.”

“C’mon. Fluvio’s not that bad.”

“Promise me you’ll write a book one day.”

“I will.”

The bartender sets drinks down in front of us.

“Salud,”
Inez says. “To my friend, the writer.”

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

The night drags on. I drink myself stupid. By the time I stumble home it’s almost morning. As I creep through my sleeping building the rattling of my key in the lock echoes through the empty hallway like the tattling cry of a small child. As I step inside my apartment the only sound that greets me is the whistle of steam escaping from the release valve of an ancient radiator. The apartment is empty. My ex-girlfriend Allie lived here until she left me two years ago. We still share joint custody of our dog, Buster. He’s not here tonight either. Trudging through the silence, I go into the kitchen and wash down two prophylactic aspirins with a bottle of water. The Bistro’s open on New Year’s Day, and I have
to be at work in eight hours. The last thing I need is waking up dehydrated and hungover.

As I drink my water I look out my kitchen window. The sun is already coloring the gray edges of the cold eastern sky. I wonder if I’ll be waiting tables this time next year. The thought troubles me. Waiting tables was supposed to be a temporary solution until I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. Now I’m entering my seventh year in the restaurant industry. I guess I’m still struggling to figure out what I’m going to be when I grow up.

I finish my water and go into my bedroom. I peel off my garlic-and grease-permeated clothes and toss them into a corner. I should take a shower, but I’m too tired. Smelling slightly like truffle oil, I slip under the covers and lay my head on the pillow. Just before my conscious mind crosses over into oblivion, I remember I forgot to bring the lady at table 26 her third cosmopolitan.

No wonder she stopped smiling at me.

I
t’s an early afternoon two weeks later. The lunch crowd, what there was of it, has come and gone. I’m sitting at a back table reading the newspaper when I notice Beth, the lunch waitress, staring glumly into her $3 double caramel mocha latte.

“What’s the matter?” I ask her. “Lunch tips that bad?”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Beth replies sullenly.

“Anything serious?”

“Bills,” she says.

“Oh.”

“It’s almost the end of the month, and I’m broke as usual.”

I nod sympathetically. Been there, done that.

“I’m so pissed at myself,” Beth mutters angrily. “I’m always short because I spend my money on stupid shit.”

For a brief second I think about telling Beth how I blew $500 at a strip club in under fifty minutes. I wisely reconsider. What happens in Atlantic City stays in Atlantic City.

“We’ve all done stupid things with our money,” I say instead.

“Yeah?” Beth says. “How’s this for stupid? I bought a three-hundred-dollar bottle of Grey Goose at Butter last night.”

“Three hundred for a bottle of vodka?” I say. “You can buy Goose for forty bucks in a liquor store.”

“My friends wanted to sit at a table,” Beth says. “And if you want a table at Butter, you have to buy a bottle. You just can’t order drinks.”

“That’s insane.”

“That’s New York City,” Beth says. “And now I don’t have enough money to pay my cell phone bill.”

I look at the cell phone holstered on Beth’s hip. It’s a sophisticated slab of plastic sporting a 2.0 megapixel camera, pullout keyboard, Internet access, MP3 player, and an oversize color screen. The gizmo even lets you download TV shows off the Web. It’s a very cool and very expensive toy. I used to have a cell phone, but I got rid of it after paying one too many usurious wireless bills. My friends, dismayed they actually have to talk to me instead of communicating by text message, snipe that I’m some kind of Luddite al-Qaeda yearning for a return to the letter-writing days of the nineteenth century. I used to dismiss them as technology junkies until I realized that proclaiming you don’t have a cell phone is like saying you watch only public television. While I’m smugly proud of my disconnection from the modern communications grid, I don’t want to sound like some Birkenstock-shod intellectual telling everyone how “evolved” he is. Now I just keep my mouth shut and save money. $2.50 for a ringtone? You’re smoking crack.

“Can’t you just use your regular telephone?” I ask. “I haven’t had a cell phone for years, and I’ve survived.”

“I only have this phone,” Beth says, running her fingers over it protectively. “I’ve never had a landline.”

“Oh.”

“God,” Beth sighs. “I hate being broke all the time.”

Even though Beth’s in a bad mood, I still enjoy being near her. That’s probably because she’s one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever met. A twenty-three-year-old brunette with piercing black eyes and a slender, graceful body, Beth’s at that stage in her life when she’s navigating the bumpy transition from immaturity to adulthood. Although she has a wild and impulsive side that gets her into trouble, Beth also possesses a level of wisdom and insight
uncommon in people her age. When she was nineteen, her best friend, Alice, was killed in a car wreck. The grieving parents, figuring Beth would know their daughter’s tastes, asked her to pick out Alice’s burial clothes. Beth went one step further and did Alice’s makeup at the funeral home. There aren’t too many people, at any age, who are capable of that much courage and tenderness. When Beth told me about what she did for her friend, I was instantly captivated by her. Here, I thought, was someone beautiful on the inside and out. Obviously I took an immediate liking to Beth. She’s the first girl I ever met who made me wish I was ten years younger.

But I’m not surprised Beth’s behind the financial eight ball. When you factor in her $3 cups of coffee and $300 bottles of grain alcohol, it doesn’t take an accountant to figure out why Beth’s strapped—she’s living beyond her means.

“Whenever money’s tight, I try economizing,” I gently suggest. “Renting movies at the library, cooking at home, stuff like that.”

“Yeah,” Beth murmurs. “I should try that.”

“Drink the coffee here,” I say, nodding at her caffeinated chemistry experiment. “Treat yourself to Starbucks once or twice a week. Think of all the money you’ll save.”

Beth looks at me in horror. “I can’t give up my double caramel mocha lattes!”

“Listen,” I say, shrugging. “I used to buy cocktails at Café American after every shift. Then one day I realized I was spending a hundred dollars a week on vodka. Like your lattes, it adds up.”

“That’s four hundred dollars a month!” Beth squeaks. “That’s more than my car payment!”

“That’s right,” I answer. “But how much are you spending on coffee and nightclubs?”

“Too much,” Beth says. “When I woke up this morning, I realized I had worked two days to buy one bottle of vodka.”

“Messed up, ain’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Now I only treat myself to a nice bar once a week. I enjoy it more and save money.”

“So how do you reward yourself at the end of the day?” Beth asks.

“I have a little bar at home.”

Beth laughs. “Really?”

“It’s cheaper to buy the stuff in a liquor store,” I say. “Unless you’re an alcoholic, it’s the more economical choice.”

“Do you make yourself dirty martinis?”

“With blue cheese–stuffed olives and everything.”

“You’re so weird,” Beth says.

“Just try economizing.”

“Are you gonna start giving waiters financial advice on your Web site now?” Beth asks, half seriously.

“I should,” I reply. “Waiters tend to be irresponsible, broke asses.”

Beth giggles, but only because it’s true. Waiters, for the most part, are terrible with money. I know that sounds like a terrible overgeneralization, but, tell me, how many hedge fund managers and financial planners do you see waiting tables? Let’s be real, if waiters were super-financial types, they wouldn’t be waiters. I include myself in that generalization.

“So why
are
waiters so bad with money?” Beth asks. “Have you written about that on your Web site?”

“Not yet,” I reply. “But I have a theory I’m working on.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Waiting tables is like gambling,” I announce dramatically.

“It is not!”

“Hear me out,” I reply. “Have you ever played slot machines?”

“Sure.”

“Enjoy it?”

“Not really,” Beth says. “I never could see the point.”

“But I bet you saw hundreds of little old ladies dumping bucketfuls of quarters into those machines.”

“Oh my God,” Beth says. “Those one-armed bandits acted like they were in a trance or something.”

“Have you ever wondered why slot machines are so successful?”

“No. Why are they?”

“Because slot machines operate on the principle of intermittent rewards,” I explain. “When you pull the handle on a slot machine, the odds are good that you’re going to lose. But occasionally you win back a few coins. When you get a reward, you feel good, so you pour more money into the machine in order to enjoy that winning feeling again. Psychologists have proven that this combination of losing coupled with an occasional, random win has a powerful reinforcing influence on behavior. Gamblers get swept up in the drama and start thinking that the
next
roll of the dice, the
next
turn of the card, or the
next
pull of the slot’s going to be the big winner. Casinos love that shit.”

“So what does this have to do with waiting tables?” Beth asks.

“Let me answer that question with a question,” I reply. “As a waiter, do you make money on a predictable schedule?”

“Almost never.”

“Me neither,” I reply. “That’s because too many factors influence how much money you can make in one night. The weather might turn bad and scare away the customers. You could get a run of lousy tippers, have several reservations fail to show up, or have some idiot manager schedule too many waiters on the floor. There are evenings when you don’t even make the bus fare to go home.”

“I’ve had many nights like that,” Beth admits.

“But you’ve also had nights where you’ve made a killing,” I say.

“That’s true.”

“And can you predict when you’re gonna make the big money?”

“Never.”

“Now, I’ve seen servers make ten dollars on a Saturday night and three hundred on a Wednesday lunch. So have you.”

“You’re right.”

“So you see,” I explain. “Waiters are exposed to intermittent rewards just like the one-arm bandits. While it’s not exactly gambling, waiting tables can be like playing slot machines. You never know what you’re going to win when you pull the handle. Sometimes you make zilch; sometimes you hit the jackpot.”

“That’s true,” Beth murmurs.

“And waiters can get hooked on that dynamic just like a guy playing the ponies,” I say. “How many times have you heard someone say, ‘I’d like to quit the restaurant business, but I’m addicted to the money’?”

“I hear that all the time.”

“I don’t think servers get addicted to the money,” I say. “The money can be good, but it’s not
that
good. But we can get addicted to
how
we make the money. You can have several shitty nights in a row, start sweating the bills, and then, at the last moment, you can make all the money you need in a single shift. We can start getting caught up in the drama of it all. Just like a gambler, we start thinking that the
next
shift or the
next
table will be the big payday.”

“I’m beginning to see what you mean,” Beth says.

“I knew a guy who was a degenerate gambler,” I say. “Whenever he won at the track, he’d forget all about his earlier losses, about the wife who was leaving him or the unsavory people he borrowed money from. Whenever he won, he always thought his life was on the upswing. When he won, he thought everything was going to get better.”

“Did it?” Beth asks.

“No,” I reply. “He kept losing money and one day he just ‘disappeared.’”

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“Maybe.”

“Wow.”

“But that’s not my point,” I continue. “How many times have you had a dozen bad-tipping customers in a row but then forget
all about them because some crazy rich guy slipped you a five-hundred-dollar tip?”

“I’ve experienced that,” Beth says, smiling knowingly.

“We all have,” I continue. “We forget the cheap customers and focus on the big score. Waiters bitch about being waiters when they’re not making money but sing the job’s praises when they’re flush. So what if I don’t have health care? So what if I only made fifty dollars in three days? I just made five hundred bucks! Throw in a propensity for substance abuse and loving the nightlife, and you can see why some waiters get sucked into the lifestyle.”

“I think your theory has some merit,” Beth admits.

“I’m still working out the kinks,” I say. “But think of all the servers you’ve met who want to stop waiting tables but still do it, year after year.”

“Oh my God,” Beth says. “I hope I don’t end up like that.”

“Just as long as you don’t end up like Double Dip Dan,” I say.

“Who?”

“You never heard of Double Dip Dan?”

“Is he the guy who ate off the customers’ plates?”

“The very same,” I reply.

“Gross.”

“I actually saw him pull a half-eaten lamb shank out of a bus tub and start gnawing on it.”

“Ew!” Beth says, shuddering. “That’s so disgusting.”

“Hey, when you’re broke and hungry…”

“Didn’t Dan make decent money here?”

“He did,” I reply. “But he spent it on drugs and whores. Eventually he ended up sleeping in a friend’s garage and washing his work uniform in the prep-kitchen sink.”

“Now
that’s
broke ass,” Beth says.

“Tell me about it.”

“At least I’m not that bad.”

“Keep buying three-hundred-dollar bottles of vodka at Butter, and you will be.”

“Don’t be such an asshole,” Beth says.

“That brings up the other part of my theory,” I say. “Waiters like to think they’re on the same economic level as their clientele.”

“Oh no,” Beth groans. “I feel another lecture coming on.”

“Think about it, Beth,” I say. “We spend a great deal of our lives around fine food and wine. It’s normal that we develop a taste for it ourselves. An occupational hazard of waiting tables is that we develop foie gras tastes but operate on liverwurst budgets.”

“Sometimes we can’t even afford the liverwurst,” Beth snorts.

“That’s because working in high-end restaurants sometimes numbs us to the reality of how expensive these places actually are. It’s like working at the U.S. Mint and thinking you can just take some of the green stuff lying around home with you.”

“True.”

“Can you afford to eat here?” I ask.

“Not often.”

“I’ve only eaten here as a customer two times in six years. But doesn’t it grate on you to watch people wolf down five hundred dollars’ worth of food like it’s ten-dollar pizza?”

“All the time.”

“It’s like watching a rich kid throw away a toy you desperately want but your parents can’t afford to buy. I think waiters try protecting their egos by refusing to acknowledge some things are out of their grasp monetarily. I mean, how many times have you seen servers bitch about buying a new pair of work shoes but brag how they spent three hundred dollars at a restaurant?”

Beth picks up her foot and shows me the hole in her left shoe. “I guess I’m one of those people,” she chuckles.

“Don’t feel bad,” I say. “The pants I’m wearing have a hole in the crotch.”

“Good thing you’re wearing an apron.”

“Amen.”

“You don’t go to nightclubs,” Beth asks. “Where do you waste money?”

“Well, after seeing foo-foo cuisine all night,” I reply, “all I want is a blue-cheese burger and a beer at a diner.”

“You’re such a Jersey boy,” Beth says.

“Hey,” I reply. “Whether it’s from Per Se or Mel’s, what you eat ends up in the same place twenty-four hours later.”