Waiting; The True Confessions of a Waitress (37 page)

There is one final, singularly important characteristic com
mon to these waitresses. One doesn’t need to look too closely to see that they are all possessed of hearts of gold. No matter how tough the exterior, every waitress here has a soft, nurturing cen
ter. No matter what blows fate deals them or what states of dis
tress they might find themselves in, they are consistently kind, even motherly toward their customers. Frankie reminds her cus
tomers to take their medications. Yvonne nurses the spirit of a customer with AIDS. Callie lavishes attention on social misfit Victor. These are only a few examples. Every film I’ve mentioned here has at least one scene that exposes the kindness and innate tenderness of these women.

It is this aspect of the waitress that signifies her greatest appeal. For without this quality, the waitress becomes not only useless but annoying. Consider the waitress in that famous diner scene in
Five Easy Pieces,
for example. Uncaring, inflexible, and

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definitely not nurturing, she is completely unappealing and becomes an object of derision not only for Dupeau but for us as well. We cheer Dupeau as he sweeps the water glasses off the table in disgust. All he wants is some toast, after all. How diffi
cult is that? Perhaps that is why this scene, just one of many brilliant moments in the film, has become such a memorable one. It doesn’t matter what decade we’re in, it seems, or what changes have occurred in women’s roles, offscreen or on. We still need our waitresses to feed us, take care of us, and give of themselves with all the power of their eighteen-karat hearts.

In all honesty, I have never seen myself in any of these char
acters. And perhaps the majority of the people I’ve served haven’t seen these films. However, it seems possible, even likely, that all of us have been influenced in some way by elements of the com
mon profile I’ve presented here. Long before I thought to trace a common cultural view of the waitress, and by extension of myself, I experienced examples of this influence in my own life.

Many years ago, my father, who as an ex-waiter and father of four waitress daughters has always been excessively kind to his servers, got into a knotty situation with a waitress in a restaurant that my family often frequented. There was a special that night on pepperoni pizzas. Two large pepperoni pies cost less than two large cheese pies. Since my family is vegetarian, my father ordered the special and asked the waitress to hold the pepperoni. When the check came, my father noticed that the waitress had charged him for the more expensive cheese pizzas. He pointed out to the waitress that she’d charged him incorrectly, but she wasn’t having any of it. We’d eaten two large
cheese
pizzas, she claimed, and that was the price. My father laughed a little and then proceeded to try to explain the ridiculousness of the situa
tion to her. Again she couldn’t be convinced and offered to get the manager. My father told her that it wasn’t necessary, he just wanted her to
understand
what he was trying to say.

At this point, most of my family had filtered out of the restaurant except for me and my sister Maya. We watched as the waitress became first irritated, then flustered, and finally angry. When at last it seemed she was completely unmovable in her stand, my father said to her, “Let me ask you a question. Have you ever seen that movie
Five Easy Pieces
?”

Maya and I fled immediately from the table. We
had
seen the movie and we had no desire to hear him tell the waitress where to hold the pepperoni.

Much more recently, I had the following conversation with a friend I’ve known since we were both nineteen.

“I’ve just seen the greatest movie,” she said. “You have to see it. There’s a character in it who reminded me so much of you. She could
be
you.”

“Which movie?” I asked her, immediately intrigued.

“
As Good As It Gets,
” she answered.

“And why is the character so much like me?”

“She’s a single mom, like you,” my friend said. “And she’s really devoted to her son—just like you are.”

“And?”

“And her kid’s sick a lot. He’s got asthma, like your son.”

“My kid’s not sick a lot,” I told her.

“Well,” my friend said, “she’s a
waitress
. You’ve really got to see it. You’ll know what I mean.”

The only thing I really understood after seeing the film was that by virtue of the fact that I was a waitress who also happened to be a single mother, I had become, for this friend who had known me almost twenty years, interchangeable with a fictional character with whom I had absolutely nothing in common save for those two features.

The fact that, for my friend, my identity was so closely linked with this concept of
waitress
leads me to believe that it

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must be an even stronger image for those I wait on—those who don’t know me at all. Or do they?

On the face of it, I do seem to share some of those unique waitress qualities. I’ve been through a few relationships, to be sure. And like most of the waitresses on film, these relationships have started at, near, or around the table. Did I choose and stay in this job because these were the kinds of relationships I wanted, or was the quality of these involvements dictated by my waitress status? That question will most likely continue to be a conundrum. I’d rather try to figure out which came first, the rotisserie chicken or the scrambled egg. I can say, however, that I’ve never looked to be rescued. I’ve never had Al Pacino prepar
ing my orders. Instead, I had Leo. And Kris Kristofferson has never sat down at my table and offered his services as savior. Rather, I had Steve of the tossed quarters and bungalow kisses. Nor did Jack Nicholson walk into my restaurant and offer to pro
vide my son with medical care. No, I had Dominic telling me when to potty-train and what to feed my child. A film tells me, “It could happen to you.” Quite frankly, I don’t think it could.

I am also a single mother and I’ve supported myself and my child on tips for many years. But rather than feeling forced to work as a waitress to make ends meet, I’ve mostly felt that this particular job offered me the most free time to spend with a child who was already missing one parent. As for that nurturing, motherly aspect of the waitress, I’ve no way of gauging whether or not I possess it, save for the reactions of my customers. I’ve had satisfied customers and customers who really liked me. I’ve also waited on people who seemed to hate me on sight. I’ve never had a customer offer me a half interest in a lottery ticket. On the other hand, I’ve never refused to serve a side order of toast and a plain omelette. And nobody, to date, has ever told me where to hold the chicken.

Most of my success at the table has been determined by how much personal information I’ve been willing to give out. And by personal information, I mean not only details of how much school I’ve attended, how many children I have, or whether or not I am married, but also my willingness to take an active inter
est in the lives of my customers while they are at my table. My ability to take care of my customers in
this
way speaks to my per
sonal ability to nurture, to live up to the predetermined expecta
tion my customer has of me.

This is why, when a woman at my table whispers, “You don’t need to worry about me, I’ve been a waitress before,” I know that she is referring to much more than just the job in question. She is implying that she knows
me,
her waitress, on a much deeper level. And this is also why the customers I met in that department store coffee shop had no idea who I was. Outside of the restaurant, I
had
no identity. I was out of my environment, but more important, I was out of character.

I never did explain who I was to that couple. I did, however, wait on them again. The next time I saw them, they gave no indication that they’d run into me anywhere else. When I approached their table, the husband smiled and asked me, “Will you be serving us tonight?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I am your waitress.”

[ ]

When I was hired at Baciare,
I had no idea that it would become my longest stretch in any restaurant. My main goal, at the beginning, was to escape from the chaotic atmosphere of Hoover’s and provide myself with a more stable working envi
ronment and a steadier income. Baciare satisfied all of those needs so well that I was soon celebrating my first anniversary there, then my second, then a third. This was the first time I’d experienced anything so close to permanence in a waiting job.

Before Baciare, I’d never stayed at any restaurant for very long. The reasons for this were as varied as the restaurants themselves. The nature of the work, as I’ve stated previously, lends itself to transience, and this was certainly a factor. But sometimes the job itself was seasonal, or the restaurant couldn’t support me, or I’d moved. In any case, I’d begun every waitress
ing job with the feeling that it would be temporary. Like so many of my fellow servers, I never saw waiting as the end, only a means to it.

Because I’d moved around so much before Baciare, I found the stability it provided comforting at first. But as the months stacked up into years, I began feeling uneasy and stuck in my job. Uneasi
ness was then replaced by dissatisfaction and finally depression. In short, I was experiencing a common waiting malady: burnout.

I’ve seen many burned-out servers in my day. Although they manifest in several different ways, the signs of burnout are quite visible, especially to fellow servers and managers. Usually the vic
tim of burnout has simply been waiting on tables for too long or possibly has overstayed his welcome at a particular restaurant. Once well into burnout, there is little the waiter can do to alleviate his condition. Good tips don’t help and neither do vacations. As long as that uniform is hanging in the closet waiting to be donned for the next shift, the waiter will continue to sizzle, crisp, and fry.

Servers burn out for similar reasons. As I did, many find themselves suddenly wondering where all that time went and why they are still working a job that was meant to be only a tem
porary source of income. Some develop a general intolerance for management and start griping about unfair treatment. Often these complaints are warranted, but as the server grows more and more dissatisfied, everything becomes a personal affront. One waiter I worked with, for example, complained that he was deliberately being seated with low-tipping parties. When the manager asked this waiter which customers, in his opinion, were guaranteed low tippers, the waiter came up with the following list: old people, young people, couples with children, groups of women, people celebrating birthdays, and families. “And,” the waiter added with a straight face, “they’re all in my section!”

Other waiters and waitresses grow tired of the servile aspect of the job and find themselves unable to cope with customer demands and complaints. It is common to hear a server suffering from this weariness say, “I hate people,” several times a shift. One fellow waiter in the end stages of burnout phrased it in a partic
ularly visual way. “I’m so sick of watching people eat,” he said. “I can’t stand to see them chew anymore, to see the food in their mouths, to watch them swallow. When I look out there, all I can

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see is an ocean of open mouths stuffed with food going up and down, up and down.”

The attitude of the burned-out server is the first casualty. And attitude, of course, is everything. Having a bad one more or less guarantees a lousy tip, and the waiter’s complaints about his customers become self-fulfilling prophecies. One waiter I worked with, for example, refused to spend any extra time at a table when his customers ordered white zinfandel. This was the order of the unsophisticated diner, he claimed, and these people would obviously leave an unsophisticated tip. Why should he bother, he said; they were only going to run him around for nothing. “White zinfandel!” he spat. “Why don’t they just bring in a bucket of wine coolers?” Naturally, this waiter’s customers picked up on his tart attitude and, feeling offended although they couldn’t pinpoint why, tipped him badly. “See?” he would say, waving the 8 to 10 percent tip in front of him. “I told you!”