Server Stories

The Server Grows Up... Sort of

2012-01-21T09:04:00.001-08:00

New Stage in life = New Adventures

http://peterpangrewup.blogspot.com/

Quick Note

2011-12-16T10:01:00.000-08:00

Hi All-

Hope this finds everyone well. I checked back on this blog a week or so ago, and was shocked to see how many people still check in every once in a while.

Is there something or someone that's still pointing to Server Stories? If so, I'd love to know who or what is doing this so I can thank them... and of course, I'd also like to thank you for checking in as well, dear readers!

No promises, of course, but I'm getting that writing itch again... atually, the itch never went away, but now it's unbearable, like ants crawling beneath my skin, frantically searching for a way to claw out. I have a little free time coming up the week in between Christmas and New Years. I thought I'd maybe take some time and write a story or two, just for old times' sake.

Any particular person in Server Stories you'd like to read more about?

Sick Day at the Restaurant

2008-02-07T16:36:00.000-08:00

-Prologue-

In an office job, if you're sick, the powers that be want you to stay home. If someone tries to gut it out, they are invariably told over and over again to go home and get some rest.

This is not the case in the biz. You'd think that GMs would want folks to stay home rather than cough on customers, food, or other servers. Sanitization is key... except when you're sick and you haven't found someone to cover your shift.

Sick Day at the Restaurant

I wake up around noon with a cough. Not a little tickle cough, but big hacking, whooping coughs that wrack my entire body. Add on muscle aches and a headache, and I know I've been overtaken by the flu. Super.

It's a Thursday and I'm sheduled to work the evening bar shift. This is a problem. We're short bartenders, but I'm in no condition to work.

I set the alarm for 2 pm and then fall back into those technicolor dreams that let me know I'm in the grip of a fever. I'm on a football field, breaking tackles and heading for the end zone. The problem is that the field seems to stretch on forever, and there are way more than 11 shadowy defenders on the field trying to take me down.

The alarm brings me out of my slumber. The sheets are soaked, like I was actually running down a mile-long football field. I roll over and pick up the phone.

"Thank you for calling the restaurant, this is Valerie speaking, how can I help you?"

"Valerie, I'm sick as hell. I'm coughing and running a fever. I'm supposed to be bartending tonight. What do you want me to do?"

"Hold on." I hear rustling in the background.

"Call these people." She rattles off a list of names and numbers. I take the down.

"You find someone or you come in." Click.

I spend the next half hour calling the bartender list. Not surprisingly, nobody wants to help out. If it were the end of the month, people would jump all over this. But in the first week of the month, everyone has already payed their rent and thus they have no need for bartender money.

After I hang up on my last option, I pull myself to a sitting position. Waves of dizziness crash over me. I wait til this passes, and then I stand up and head for the shower.

In the steam of the hot shower, I begin coughing up clear-colored nastiness. Great. It's viral, so even if I could go to a doctor, there isn't much they can do for me.

I towel off and put on my uniform. I grab the bottle of DayQuil. I take a huge swig, recap the bottle and put it in my pocket.

The drive to The Restaurant is uneventful.

Pulling in, I pray for a slow night. I can't handle busy right now.

Walking in the door, I spot Soldato wiping down the menus. He looks up at me and stops mid-wipe.

"Dude, you look like shit." There's something to be said for brutal honesty.

"Thanks man. I think I feel worse than I look."

"Not possible. You look like an extra in Night of the Living Dead." He resumes wiping down the menu.

"Shut up or I'm gonna cough all over your Dago ass."

"There's no need for name-calling or threats, my friend. I'm on your side." He looks over the floor plan at the host stand.

"Hey, you're not on here. Why you here?"

"I'm bartending."

"Oh man, that sucks."

I couldn't agree more. Not only do I start an hour earlier than most of the servers, but I have to close down the bar, which is open a half hour later than the dining room.

Two hours later, I'm alternating between chugging tea and DayQuil.

I got my wish. It's dead as a doornail in The Restaurant. I'm actually wishing it was busy. All I can do is wipe down the bar top and concentrate on how crappy I feel.

I've got two tables going in the bar, and I've managed to supress my coughing fits while taking their orders and dropping off their food. Still, both tables gave me odd looks.

Looking at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, I understand their concern. I'm sweating and my face looks pale and drawn.

I walk back into the kitchen. My body feels hot. I'm burning up. I need to cool down.

I open the door to the walk-in cooler. Stepping inside, the fridgid air feels amazing. I lean against the racking and then slide down to the floor. I grab a nearby jar of pickles. It's blissfully cool. I press it against my forehead and close my eyes.

Someone's kicking me. I smell pickle juice. What the hell?

I open my right eye. I see the jar of pickles, broken on the floor. That explains the smell. Panning right, I see a worn leather shoe, cocked back to deliver another kick.

I put my hands up in defense.

"Oh good. I thought we'd lost you." It's Soldato, and he's laughing. "Wake your ass up."

"How long have I been out?"

"Only about two minutes. You're lucky I needed to refill the mayo." He steps over me and grabs the industrial-sized jar of mayo off the rack. He spoons the goopy white mixture into a plastic container.

"I don't think I can make it," I moan.

"Sure you can, boss." He leans down and grips me under my armpits. With a mighty heave, he pulls me to my feet.

"You're getting fat," he says, puffing.

"This is so stupid. I'm gonna get everyone sick, and I'll never get better if I keep working. I don't have a day off for another week."

"Is it heavy?" he asks.

"Is what heavy?"

"That cross you're carrying. We've all worked sick before. It's part of the deal. Remember, This is the Business We've Chosen!" Great. Godfather logic.

He pushes open the walk-in door and shoves me back into the kitchen. Resigned to my fate, I square my shoulders and head back to the bar. Only six more hours to go...

Couple of interesting articles

2008-02-03T13:18:00.000-08:00

Customers Dish on Restaurant Workers

http://food.aol.com/top-11-annoying-restaurant-trends

Restaurant Workers Dish on Customers

http://food.aol.com/top-11-complaints-about-customers?feeddeeplinkNum=0

Who's to Blame?

2008-01-31T06:52:00.000-08:00

Preface:

I’ve classified servers into three categories.

‘The Natural’- People born with the traits to serve. You’ve seen them- easy smile, quick wit, great multitasking skills, and the ability to move quickly while making it look effortless.

‘The Grinder’- People that work hard to make up for their lack of natural talent. They have to force themselves to step out of their comfort zone, but they find a way to get things done, and generally become successful after a little time and practice.

‘Waste of Perfectly Breathable Air’- The final type of server is the one you hate to see on the floor plan. This class of server lacks natural talent, not unlike the Grinder. However, the lack of self motivation and effort renders them practically useless on the floor. No matter how good the management, it seems one slips through and sets up camp in every restaurant.

Who's to Blame?

After a couple months of serving, I’m finally good enough to take care of my tables and have a conversation in a side station without falling into the weeds. It’s really given me an opportunity to learn about my fellow servers. It’s also given me a chance to observe their style, to spot their strengths and weaknesses.

This morning, there are five servers on the floor.

Anita is a natural. Smart, funny, gregarious, and hard-working, Anita usually takes home the biggest tip percentage of any server in The Restaurant.

I’m a grinder. I’ve worked through my shyness, and I’m nipping at Anita’s heels in terms of daily tip percentage.

The Deaf Server is a grinder. She would be a natural, except for the fact that she can’t hear… at all. Completely deaf since a childhood illness, The Deaf Server has worked to learn how to read lips. Now her only shortcoming is that tables can’t flag her down by calling her name, so they have to physically grab her as she walks by. Couple this with the fact that she hates to be touched, and you end up with some interesting confrontations in her section.

The last two servers are wastes. The Penguin (so named because she is cut from the same body mold as Danny DeVito’s character in Batman Returns) likes to park herself against the back wall, out of customer sight so they can’t flag her down. She moves as little as possible. She never helps other servers. Her only redeeming quality is that she’s friendly to her tables and she only smells bad towards the end of a shift.

Angie S (so named because there is also an Angie D at The Restaurant) is similar to The Penguin, except she leans against a wall in full view of the customers. However, rather than making her more accessible to customers, Angie S tends to look at customers trying to get her attention, and then look away. I often wonder if she has some type of mild autism. Seriously.

Today, it’s a busy shift. The five of us have full sections, with Anita, The Deaf Server, and I each taking an extra table.

I’m currently getting refills, pulling down a stack of napkins, and holding a light-hearted conversation with a nearby table, all while trying to remember an order that I have to punch into the computer. Angie S is taking her sweet-ass time at the touch screen. I look at her section. It’s filled with two-tops. Why in God’s name would it take two full minutes to punch in an order?

Now two minutes doesn’t sounds like a long time, but in serving time, it’s an eternity. Just try to hold your breath for two minutes.

When she finishes, she picks up her book and walks away. I jump on the computer and pound in the order before it falls out of my head. My memory is only good for a short time. Too many games of beer pong in college.

I hit the send button, and the small printer next to the computer spits out the chit. I notice an extra ticket when I pull the chit to put it in my book. Angie S never bothered to take hers. I take a quick look: two Chicken Caesar salads, two Diets.

Quickly counting in my head, I figure that she had 7 keystrokes. Nice.

On my way back to the kitchen, Angie S’ table stops me.

“Could you get us some refills please?” a slightly-perturbed gentleman asks. Both he and his companion are down to straws and ice.

“Of course,” I say. I grab both empty glasses and turn towards the kitchen. Angie S is standing against the wall, looking right at me. When she sees me looking, she looks away, ignoring not only me, but her other tables, all of which need something. I can tell because they’re all doing the short-arm wave. This happens when people want to get your attention while not drawing attention to themselves.

I return to Angie S’ table, drop off the drinks, then head towards my section. I get about two steps before a claw-like hand clamps down on my forearm. It’s another of Angie S’ tables. Refills and another ramekin of ranch dressing.

This is going to be a problem. Angie S’ section is between mine and the kitchen entrance. I can’t get to the kitchen without going by her tables, and I can’t go by her tables without being asked for something.

“Angie, I think your tables could use some refills,” I say as I pass. I try to keep my tone as non-confrontational as possible.

I refill the drinks for her table and grab the ranch dressing from the line. As I step back out onto the floor, I’m surprised to see Angie S still standing in the exact spot she was when I went into the back.

I shoot her an inquisitive look.

She rolls her eyes and looks out at her tables. “They’re fine.”

“If they’re fine, why have I gotten refills for half your section?” I can feel my blood boiling.

“Don’t worry about it. They’re fine.” She shrugs and settles back into doing nothing.

Fuming, I fly back to my section, which is now in dire need of attention thanks to Angie S’ apathy.

I spend the rest of the shift waiting on my tables as well as getting refills and pre-bussing her tables.

Towards the end of the shift, I’m finally caught up. I walk up to the host stand to see if I’ve been cut.

Kathy, the high school hostess, asks me how it's going. She's probably just trying to be friendly, but I haven’t had a chance to vent to anyone about Angie S.

A torrent of profanity flies out of my mouth, momentarily shocking her. That’s what she gets for trying to make friendly conversation.

Kathy, recovering, laughs and says, “You know how there’s two Angies, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Know how I learned to remember which was which when I first started?”

“Tell me.”

“Well, Angie S' tables would always come up here, asking if they were supposed to pay up front because she took so long to check back after she dropped off the check. I just remember thinking that "Angie sucks", hey... "Angie S!”

I laugh and walk away. I do my side work and head to the back to cash out. I get all my chits in order, cash first, then credit cards, then any special coupons or comps. I face all my bills, count out what I owe the house, and get ready to hop into the office.

Angie S comes around the corner and steps in front of me.

“Ladies first!” If anyone else had said it, I would have laughed. I debate on asking her why she thinks she qualifies to be called a "lady", but I decide not to push the issue and sit back down. Cashing out doesn’t take more than about two minutes. I’ll be going home in four rather than two. Angie S heads into the office.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m still waiting outside watching the fruit flies buzz around the overflowing ashtrays on the counter. I poke my head in the door. Angie S has all her chits spread out in front of her, and she’s still organizing them. Unbelievable.

I stand there, waiting for her to finish. When she’s finally done, she counts out her money.

“I didn’t make shit today. People are such cheap asses!” She complains loudly. She waddles towards the front door.

“If you’d get off your fat ass and hustle a little bit, maybe they wouldn’t be so fucking tight, you dumb bitch! Get your head out of your ass. How the hell do people like you make it through life without an illustrated guidebook?”

Ah, the things we think but do not say.

When Angie S is out of earshot, I ask the manager why she keeps Angie around when it’s obvious she doesn’t work very hard.

“She’s got good availability. It’s too much trouble to hire and train a new server.”

Hmmm… I see people come in almost daily to fill out applications. I know that there has to be at least three applicants each week that would do a better job than her. Makes you wonder who to blame- Angie S for being a waste of perfectly breathable air, or a manager that’s afraid to spend some extra money and sacrifice a little time to strengthen the staff in the long run. My vote is for the manager. Angie S can't even get out of her own way.

Soldato's Last Stand

2006-08-10T15:06:00.000-07:00

-Preface I-

Please read about Soldato before you read this post.

There are times when you have to take a stand. The breaking point varies from person to person. Some folks fly off the handle if someone bumps into them on a busy street. Other folks refuse to react if they get slapped in the face.

Soldato is one of those with a nasty temper. He'll throw down without hesitation for little or no reason. However, to this day I still believe that he held on longer than most normal waiters could have... this story is about Soldato's last day at The Restaurant.

-Preface II-

Spring is turning into summer. It's warm outside, and we've opened the patio for The Restaurant.

In the midwest, we get excited for the summer. It means we can shed layer upon layer of clothing. It means we can get ready to leave the house in under ten minutes. And, most importantly, it means that we can once again see beautiful women prancing around in sundresses.

It's only been two months since Valerie was unceremoniously kicked to the curb, and already The Restaurant is beginning to turn around.

As servers, we notice the little things these new managers do differently. Encouragement and aknowledgement of effort are nice changes. Morale is higher than it has been in a long time.

The most refreshing change is that these new managers are less likely to give up a free meal to a scammer. Now don't get me wrong here. They will try to satisfy the customers if there is an issue. The difference is that they handle it fairly.

They won't throw freebies to people who don't deserve it. At the other end of the spectrum, they won't try to weasel out of a problem by offering the minimum solution. Valerie's solutions were akin to either applying a band-aid to a gaping head wound or fixing a crack in the sidewalk in front of a dilapitated shack. These new managers decide what's fairest to the customer, The Restaurant, and the server. They make a decision and then stand behind it.

The new management team has also made some great personnel moves. They canned The Deaf Server, the Hippie, and The Penguin. They brought in two intelligent, experienced servers, as well as one extremely eager newbie. They also dropped three quarters of the hostesses, and then hired a couple of cute high school honor students to pick up the slack. The IQ of the restaurant has tripled.

The only problem with the new staff is their availability. We're running short several servers each shift, and the new managers refuse to allow anyone more than the four tables allotted by Corporate. This is fine for people who can't handle a lot going on at once. But for people like Soldato, who's been in the business for 15 years, this makes for some boring shifts.

Despite this one setback, the Old Guard (The Woman, Soldato, Rena, and I) agree; this is the smoothest The Restaurant has run in a long time. We're making money, we're having fun during shifts, and we don't have to cow-tow to horrible customers.

-Soldato's Last Stand-

We're in the middle of a lunch rush. I have the patio and I'm running back and forth from the kitchen. I'm sweating likeFloyd Landis before a drug test. I look over at Soldato, lounging against the wall of the side station, checking out the soccer moms sipping Arnold Palmers at the table nearest the door. Even though I'm waiting on the soccer moms, I'm jealous.

Soldato has an easy four booth section. He can handle four booths in his sleep, so he has ample time to think about what he could be doing with four housewives in a minivan.

A quick glance at the host stand gives me pause. There is a wait. At lunch. Uh-oh. This is a big no-no in the restaurant business. For the most part, our lunch clientele is comprised of business folks hailing one of the numerous office parks surrounding The Restaurant. They want their food and service fast. It's hard enough to squeeze a casual dining lunch into a 45 minute lunch break. It becomes damn near impossible if you have to wait for ten minutes at the door.

One of the new hostesses is on, and she's not handling her first heavy rush well. She's looking around helplessly as people crowd the entryway. She looks like a baby calf separated from a herd of wildebeast, about to be mauled by a pack of ravenous lions. I have time to wonder, 'Is 'pack' the right word for a grouping of lions? I think it's actually supposed to be something else...'.

I snap back to reality when I see the hostess take a half-step back from her post. She's showing weakness, and the group of people storming the host stand smell blood. She needs help.

My hands are full, so I'm powerless. I look back at Soldato.

"Hey!" I hiss at him.

"What?!! I'm busy here!" He turns from the window to stare me down.

"Dude, go help her. She's gonna drown." I nod towards the hostess. Her mouth is now open and her eyes are wide as saucers as she looks over the chattering mob in front of her. They're inching forward, moving in for the kill.

"Ah hell." He loosens his collar and stalks towards the host stand.

"Give her some room people. She needs air. I said STAND BACK!!!" Soldato can be intimidating. Years of smoking Cowboy Killers has made Soldato's voice deep and raspy. He also talks with his hands. The louder he gets, the more grandiose his arm motions become. Right now he's yelling, and his arms are pinwheeling. I'm reminded of those little windvanes, the ones where the arms spin in high wind.

I love watching an angry little Italian screaming and waving his arms. But while I find it hilarious, some folks find it intimidating. He scares most of the people away from the hostess. They soon sit quietly in the waiting area, hands folded in their laps. The hostess looks up at him, the tears that were welling in her eyes now dive back from whence they came. My hero.

There is only one person still hovering. It is a man in his mid thirties. He's a squirrelly-looking fellow. Wire rim glasses, pleather jacket, mousy brown hair. Shorter than Soldato by about half a foot, he exudes Napolean Complex. He's with an older woman that I can only assume is his mother.

I can practically smell the Drakkar. I can almost hear what I assume to be a whiny, nasal voice. Figuring Soldato can handle a guy who looks like Paul's (from The Wonder Years) older brother, I put on my best fake smile and head out to refill the soccer moms' teas.

"Hello ladies, how is everything today?" I stretch my smile as wide as it'll go. The ladies smile back.

The waitresses get to flirt for big tips all the time. I relish the opportunity when I get a chance. Doesn't mean I'm good at it, but it's fun all the same.

When I turn around to head back inside, I hear them giggling behind me. My flirtation is paying off.... or I sat in something and they're laughing at me. Either way, they're happy. Happy people=bigger tips= a happier Server. Life is good.

Opening the door that leads back into The Restaurant, I am stunned to see Soldato still at the host stand. Paul's older brother (POB from now on) has more spunk than I though.

They're still arguing. Soldato is trying to keep his cool, but I can tell he's starting to break. His hands are clenched into fists underneath the host stand, and I can see his pulse pounding through a throbbing, angry-looking vein protruding from his neck.

The little hostess has backed completely into the wall, looking for all the world as if she wants to just melt into it. Not good.

Worse, the regional manager, Karl, has decided to make a lunch shift visit. Karl is a metrosexual. Not a single strand of his closely-cropped hair falls out of place, as usual. His $200 pastel shirt matches perfectly his tailored trousers. His shoes are polished to a high shine. His persona screams "Look at me! I'm important! I'm carrying a laptop in this ridiculous-looking bag slung over my shoulder! I am personally responsible for the well-being of every Restaurant in this state and a half of the neighboring state! Adore me, my children!" Comical really.

Unfortunately, Karl is just about the only person from the Corporate Office of The Restaurant that can fire you on the spot. Even our GM is supposed to consult someone before he can tell a server to hit the road. Karl can toss you on a whim. And if it makes him feel important enough, or look good enough, he'll do it without hesitation.

Karl immediately takes an interest in the scene unfolding in front of him.

POB is leaning into Soldato, his nose inches away from Soldato's chin.

"Why can't we sit down now? My mother is old, standing around like this is bad for her back. I demand that we be seated NOW!" Soldato is steaming. I can see he's itching to shut this guy up.

Soldato gathers himself, takes a deep breath, exhales. "Sir, like I already explained to you... We are on a wait. I know there are unoccupied tables throughout the restaurant, but we are are not allowed to wait on more than four tables at a time. Our corporate office believes that we can't provide the level of service necessary to make you dining experience..."

"Screw that and screw you! My mother needs to sit..." Spit is flying out of POB's mouth as he chirps a mile a minute. He's standing so close to Soldato that I'm sure he's feeling spittle spray his cheeks.

Karl decides to help.

"Hello sir, my name is Karl and I'm the regional manager at The Restaurant. I'm sure we can make an exception for your mother's case. I'll arrange to have a table opened up for you."

"Thank you." POB is gloating now, "I knew that there had to be someone here with more brains than this stupid wop."

Oh, hell. Why did he have to go and say that? And why did Karl have to let this jerk sit down? He just let POB cut in front of about 10 people. Worse, he made threw Soldato under the bus. To top it off, Karl made Soldato prep the table.

I hurry over to help. I want to keep Soldato from boiling over. I pretend to straighten the table cloth while Soldato lays out the silverware.

"Keep cool," I whisper, "This asshole would like nothing better than for you to take a swing at him. He looks like the type that would sue."

"I don't give a shit. What the hell is Karl thinking, cutting my balls off like that in front of that douchebag?"

I agree, but...

"Just hold it together, I'll find someone to handle this table."

"Fuck this bullshit, I'm tired of this. Karl can fry in Hades for all I care. Sanctimonious bastard." Quite a vocabulary for a "stupid wop".

Soldato heads back to the host stand, grabs two menus and motions to POB and his mom.

"Please follow me, sir." His voice is calm, but that vein is still pulsing in his neck. I'm scared the pressure is going to cause it to burst. I don't want to clean up that mess.

The other patrons glare at POB as he passes by.

POB follows Soldato to table, grinning the whole way. Once there, POB sits down. He doesn't bother to pull out a chair for his "poor mother."

"Now, sir, if there's anything else you need," Soldato says, "please let me know."

"Oh, I will. Sorry about that wop comment earlier, I was just worried about my Mom. You know how it is, right?"

"Of course I do! You and your mother, you have a wonderful lunch." He pats POB on the shoulder and turns to leave.

POB looks at his shoulder, then looks at Soldato's departing back. He pushes back from the table and jumps up, the nerdiest-looking jack-in-the-box I've ever seen.

"HEY! Don't touch me! He touched me! Did you see that? He put his hands on me!" People are staring, most in disgust and surprise.

Soldato turns. "Sir, I..."

"What seems to be the problem, here?" Karl is back. His timing is as impeccable as his hair.

"He put his hands on me. Is that how you run your restaurant? What is this? All I wanted to do is take my mother out for a decent lunch, and now..." POB is working up a lather. Some folks will do anything to get a free meal.

"Please calm down sir," Karl puffs out his chest. Big Man. "Soldato, apologize to this man."

I'm reminded of the scene in Fast Times at Ridgemont High where Judge Reihold gets fired.

Karl should know better. He's met Soldato before. I wonder if Soldato will kick 100% of his ass.
Soldato looks ready to take a swing. To my surprise, he stops and smiles.

"No, I don't believe I will. You know what?"

He turns to POB. "Go fuck yourself."

To the man's mother, "I can't believe that piece of shit came out of you."

To Karl, "I quit. You can go to hell."

He takes off his apron, pulls out the change, hands me his open checks and turns to go. He gets a small cheer from the neighboring tables.

I think he's heading for the door when he makes a sudden left turn and plops down at the bar.

"A little service here, sweetheart!" He pounds a fist on the bar and pulls a bowl of snack mix in front of him.

The Woman is bartending. "You know servers can't sit at the bar." She laughs at him. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not a server here anymore. Shot and a beer, please!" He takes off his Restaurant logo polo shirt. He's got a stained wifebeater tee underneath. He lights up a Red. Classic.

"Seriously? What happened? Did you quit or get fired?" Fired employees aren't welcome back.

The ones that quit however... that's another story. In another brilliant stroke intended to improve customer service, The Restaurant is not allowed to refuse service unless someone is being disruptive or is drunk. Soldato is neither... yet.

Soldato spends the rest of the afternoon drinking at the bar. Karl fumes, but there's nothing he can do, technically.

Once Karl leaves, the staff heads over one by one to get a recap of the events leading up to Soldato's Last Stand. Soldato is happy to provide the details. He embellishes the story each time, until eventually I was holding him back from taking on both Karl and the POB (and probably the mother too).

He drinks himself stupid until close. The new GM comps his bill. Like I said, these guys were good folks.

We head over to the neighborhood bar for a nightcap. It's the whole crew, set to send Soldato out in a blaze of glory. Or at least, shots of tequila.

As we walk into the bar, we all stop dead. POB is sitting at the bar, trying to talk to some trashy-looking, disease-ridden, middle-aged bar fly.

He's drinking something with cranberry juice in it.

"Hey asshole!" Soldato yells, "You're in my seat."

POB looks up, ready for a fight. "Oh yeah?"

"That the best you can come up with? Jesus, I'm piss drunk and I could come up with better than that while I kick your ass all over this place. Actually, that ain't a bad idea..." He makes a move towards POB.

POB throws his hands up to cover his face. He overbalances his bar stool, and it falls over. He stumbles briefly, regains his footing, and books out the back door. I've never seen him there since.

We all sit down. We laugh and drink until 4 am. They turn us loose into the night.

Luckily, there's a row of cabs sitting out front. Soldato hops into the first one in the line. "I'm outta here. You guys have a good one." He closes his eyes and is asleep almost immediately. I poke my head in the front and give the cabbie directions and a $20 for the 3 minute drive.

I hate to say it... but I'm proud of Soldato. He didn't even take a swing at the guy. I know it killed him inside... just a little bit, it did. But he kept his cool and stayed out of the pokie. POB definitely would have pressed charges.

I'm not worried about Soldato. With his experience, he'll have another serving job by the end of the week. I'm gonna miss him at The Restaurant though. We all will.

Love it

2006-07-22T12:30:00.000-07:00

I didn't know I was getting so (in)famous! I appreciate all the comments, even those intended to scathe, demoralize, or upset. I believe these give wonderful insight to true human nature.

I'm not dead. I haven't quit writing. I'm not trying to build suspense. The truth of the matter is that I've been working. Not in a restaurant, but at a large corporation. Unfortunately, this doesn't afford me the free time to write as often as before. In fact, I've had very little time to do anything besides eat, sleep, work, plan my wedding, and play summer baseball and softball.

I'll write again... check back once a month or so. In the meantime... let the comments, be they good, bad, or ugly, keep rolling in...

Story coming soon

2006-04-02T20:06:00.000-07:00

Hi all,

I'm still writing. Just wanted to give you all a head's up to look through the archives for Soldato stories. This next post is going to be about the shift Soldato got canned. I promise it will be entertaining.

Additionally, I think it will spark a nice little discussion. I've noticed a lot of "waiter haters" posting in the comments section. While I disagree with most of their statements and believe that they represent all that is unholy and wrong with the world, I do enjoy the debates that ensue after they post.

Oh, and just for the record... a commenter recently noted that anyone with all their limbs and half a brain (or something to that effect) could wait tables. I take offense to that. I have an Ivy League education and I work a "normal" job at a major corporation throughout the week. Neither college nor my "normal" job was/is as challenging as learning how to make a living as a waiter.

I firmly believe that these "waiter haters" have never waited on a table. I also believe that they have yet to take that silver spoon from their mouth. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to find that they have yet to do a single day of honest, hard work.

Ignorance is bliss.

NCAA Tourney and Everything Else

2006-03-27T19:22:00.000-08:00

Sorry all. Not able to do a post this week due to the NCAA tourney.

Most folks love a little bit of drama. Almost everyone likes it when the Little Guy wins. Personally, I can't think of a sweeter sight than watching George Mason topple UConn in OT.

I wasn't able to tear myself away from the couch this weekend. Since my computer is nowhere near my couch, it was impossible to post a story.

However, next weekend I will be posting. I have two good stories in mind. I'm not sure which I'm going with yet. They're both entertaining.

I do want to talk about one little side bit that happened this weekend. The Woman and I went out to meet my parents for dinner on Sunday night. We went to an Italian chain restaurant. This place is a 30-second walk from The Restaurant.

All the servers from this joint used to come over and booze it up when I was the bartender at The Restaurant. They probably made a house payment or two for me.

Looking around, I only recognize one waiter. The rest of the staff had completely turned over in less than two years. Sad.

Our waiter isn't very good. He has little personality, does't know that refills are a good thing, and takes too long in between visits. He only has a three-table section. Inexcusable.

He spends a good portion of his time at the host stand bitching about something to his manager. Maybe he wanted to watch the tourney. Maybe he was pissed that he got a bad shopper report (although if he did, it was deserved). Who knows?

I turn to the woman at one point during dinner and ask her if she missed serving.

"I do." I can see the memories streaming behind slightly glazed eyes. "I don't miss having to rely on other people for my money, but I miss everything else."

She didn't elaborate on "everything else," but I knew what she meant. The other servers. The nights out after a rough shift. The little internal battles between the incompetent managers on power trips and the ingenious servers who were always one step away from their big break. Laughing with the fun tables. The excitement and non-stop madness of a busy weekend night. Putting a bad customer in their place (this doesn't happen often, but when it does, there's nothing sweeter). Seeing a regular walk in and wave to you. And much, much more.

Servers often say, "Everyone should have to wait tables for a month, just so they know how it is." I agree, but not for the same reasons. (Servers usually say this after they get a bad tip, or because they have just waited on one of the hefty number of folks believe that serving is a "low" lot in life.)

I believe that everyone should serve because they too should get to experience "everything else."

Judging Covers

2006-03-19T09:56:00.000-08:00

-Prologue-

After working in the industry for a while, most folks begin to develop a special ability. After watching a table walk in, sit down, and look at their menus, a server will be able to tell you what they will order, how long they will sit there, and what they will tip.

Today, if I were to walk into any restaurant, I could probably tell you what each table will tip within +/- 1%.

There are exceptions. This story is about those exceptions.

-Judging Covers-

It's a busy Saturday night at The Restaurant. I'm bartending. I've been doing this for about a year now, so I've got it down.

Friday nights and Saturday nights are the only two shifts when we staff 2 bartenders. We need it. We usually have a full bar, we're responsible for the service bar, and we have to take and prepare take-out orders. We're also responsible for two bar booths.

I'm working with The Woman, and we work well together. She handles the bar and the take-out orders while I take care of the service bar and the two bar booths.

The place is rockin. It's busy, noisy, and we're making mad money.

The bar booths have been turning over pretty well. At the moment, they're both getting bussed. I turn my attention to the service bar.

There are about ten chits that I need to make. I pull the string off the machine and take a look.

Crap.

Three milkshakes (one chocolate, one strawberry, and one vanilla), two margaritas, one smoothie, one virgin daquiri, and several myriad something and somethings (Jack and Coke, 7 and 7, etc.).

Frozen drinks are a pain in the butt. Especially when we have three blenders, only two of which work properly. I have to plan this one out.

I throw 9 scoops of ice cream and some heavy cream into the blender. Punching the "start" button, I grab another blender and throw in some ice, sour mix, and bar strawberries and set that a-twirl.

Finally, I grab the mixer out of the dish tub and go to work on the margaritas. It takes me about 25 seconds to whip those up. I'm thankful that I am the sole bartender on Margarita Night. I put those up on the bar and start on the something and somethings.

Looking over, I see that the milkshakes are blended to the right consistency. I pour two into cups (vanilla-done!). I add some chocolate sauce into the other. I throw some bar strawberries into the third and put it back on the blender. I flash spindle the chocolate shake and it's good to go. I stop the blender and pour out the strawberry shake. Whip cream, whip cream, whip cream... ta-da!

As I go to work on the virgin daquiri/smoothie mix, I glance up and see that the two bar booths are bussed and getting sat. I have about two minutes... no problem.

I stop the blender, pour out half the mix into a teardrop glass. Adding a lime wheel garnish, the virgin daquiri is done. I add some more ice, some pineapple and apple juices, and half a banana. I throw it all back on the blender. I return to the something and somehings.

A minute later, I'm washing my hands and grabbing bev naps. I take stock of my tables as I make my way around the bar.

Table 1- Two middle-aged couples, nicely dressed. Expensive leather coats and flashy jewelry. The two ladies have enormous rocks on their fingers. Cha-ching! 20% on at least an $80 tab, over .

Table 2- A late-30's couple. Woman has on a shirt with a large picture of a cat's face. Man is wearing torn jeans. Both have the same hairstyle. Shoulder-length, unwashed, and stringy. Bummer. 10% on $20. Oh well.

When you get double-sat, the key is to treat two tables like one. I start off with drinks. Money table- 2 glasses of chardonnay, 2 expensive scotch and water. Poor table- water and an MGD.

Dinner order... Money table: 2 chicken and pasta dishes, 2 strip steaks. Poor table- chicken pot pie and cheeseburger.

Notice a pattern developing here?

The people in both groups are nice. Especially the couple. His name is Ron. He works as a mechanic. Her name is Judy. She takes care of their 8 cats.

I'm allergic to cats, so I'm careful not to get too close. If I get one whiff of cat hair, my face swells up and I look like Corky from Life Goes On.

I take good care of both tables. I really pour on the charm for the 4-top. The motivating factor is money, and it's looking like this is going to be the table that will fund my post-shift bar trip.

Final bills... Money table- $120. Poor table- $25.

Dropping off the bills, I head back behind the bar.

"How's it going?" I ask The Woman. She's making change at the till. I'm careful to make it look like we're just co-workers. There are a lot of young guys at the bar, and I want them to think they have a chance. They'll tip better that way.

"Fine. Are you taking good care of Ron and Judy?"

"Yeah. They have 8 cats. He's a mechanic. Why do you ask?"

"You'll see. They do it right." She slams the drawer shut, adjusts her bra, and heads back to her customers.

I wonder what she means. I haven't seen the couple in The Restaurant before. They can't be regulars. They look like they just left a garage sale. Hmmm...

Finally, they leave. I walk over to check out the tips.

Money table- $15. Bullshit. I hate this job.

Poor table- $10. Wow. Nearly 50% tip.

Scratching my head, I go back to work.

When the rush is over, I ask The Woman about the Ron and Judy.

"They come in about once every month and a half. They don't have a lot of money, so they save it up before they come in. They make sure they can afford their meal and their tip. Like I said, they do it right."

A quick recap... swanky table, high bill, crap tip. Poor table, low bill, great tip.

Just goes to show that you can't judge a book by it's cover.

The Penguin

2006-03-11T12:15:00.000-08:00

-Preface-

The Penguin is one of the strangest people I have ever met. She's a compulsive liar with poor hygiene. She's also grossly overweight and short. From the back, she looks exactly like Danny Devito in Batman Returns. This is how she earned her nickname.

Despite professing to always be on a diet, her car always seems to be littered with fast food wrappers. I got a ride home from her one day. The car smells like a combination of fast food burgers and kitty litter. Yuck.

This story describes my introduction to the inner workings of... The Penguin.

-The Penguin-

It's a cool day at the end of September, our slowest month. I'm closing The Restaurant. Normally, I'd be pissed. However, The Actor is the closing manager tonight. His antics keep me entertained.

It's around 9:30. We close the doors at 10:00, and the bar closes at 11:00. There hasn't been a soul in the place for almost an hour and a half.

The Restaurant is losing money every second we stay open. However, corporate policy says that we can not close the doors early, so I'm stuck sitting on my can earning about half of minimum wage.

I'm bored. I think about sticking a fork in my eye so I can go home, but decide against it. I like my depth perception.

I decide to bug The Actor. I get up and head to the back.

The Actor is sitting in the office writing out the daily log.

"I'm bored. "

"Did you clean everything, make sure everything is stocked, and empty everything off the expo line?" He doesn't look up from his scribbling.

"Yeah, I'm completely done. Isn't there something fun in here?" I start pawing through one of the drawers in the office. Lost and found items can be interesting some days, but not today. Couple sets of keys, a credit card or two, and a work ID badge from "Lashawnda".

"If you're going to act like a child, read this. There should be something interesting in there." He hands me a red leather-bound book.

"What is this?" I ask.

"The accident report log."

Sweet. The accident report log contains, in graphic description, any horrific accident that occurred on Restaurant property. This ought to keep me entertained.

I flip to the front. It seems that when the place first opened, there was a goose that made its nest in the parking lot. Damn thing bit two customers before animal control agreed to "relocate" it.

I'm mildly disappointed. The book is written in really boring language. It doesn't even provide any juicy details.

Even worse, the managers' grasp of the English language is decidedly lacking. They try to sound professional, which exacerbates the problem. Case in point:

"The animal is nested on our property between the fourth and fifth line of the parking lot. When too [sic.] customers traveled by the animal, it bit them. One was injured to her buttocks and thigh..." Boooo-ring.

Flipping through, I see that two cooks have cut off fingers, damn near everyone has been burned, and that Deedee, our resident drunk, fell down not once, not twice, but three times in the same month. She's collecting unemployment now.

"Were you working when Deedee had her accidents?" I'm curious what happened.

"Yeah. It wasn't even wet where she fell. I swear I could smell liquor on her breath, too. It pays to be a drunken fool." He shakes his head. Suddenly, he jerks his head around.

"Hey, have you gotten to "The Penguin" yet?"

"No, why?"

"I was managing that night. Check April of two years ago. I had to do the accident report for her slip and fall." He's grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

I start leafing back through the book. July, June, May... ah, April.

I start reading and almost crap myself.

"The Penguin (he actually wrote "The Penguin" instead of her real name) was waddling through the main dining room with a full tray of food. She spotted a baby seal. Because she was hungry, she gave chase with intention to club. She slipped on a patch of ice and fell. The food splattered on several nearby guests, two of which reported burns. There names are..."

Pure genius. He even wrote it in red ink, so it stands out more in the book.

"Was she hurt?"

"Not really. Her pride more than anything else. I must admit, it was really funny watching her try to get up. Have you ever seen a turtle flipped on its back?"

"That's mean." But funny.

"So what? I'm going to hell anyways." He turns back to his paperwork. I look down at the accident report log.

"Isn't this thing supposed to be serious in case we get sued?"

"Yeah, but what are they gonna do, fire me? I'll claim that they fired me because of my sexual orientation. Speaking of which, do you wanna go in the walk-in? You can close your eyes and pretend I'm a girl..." He looks at me hopefully.

"I'll pass. The Woman is waiting for me at the bar across the street. I think The Penguin is supposed to be over there too."

He clucks sympathetically. "You poor, poor man. Have you heard her latest one?"

"What do you mean?"

"Her latest lie. She's a compulsive liar." He pauses and looks at me. "You didn't know?"

"No, I didn't." I actually thought she was kind of interesting.

"So far, since she's worked here...," he begins counting off on his fingers. "She's had cancer. She's remembered repressed memories of childhood abuse. She's been engaged to a wonderful person who broke it off two weeks later. She's been on every crash diet known to man, yet she continues to gain weight at an astonishing pace, and finally.... she's had 3 grandmother's die."

"None of it is true?"

"Not a word. When I found out that I had cancer, I asked her for the name of her oncologist, thinking that since she is so... you know, healthy, he must be a good doctor. She didn't know what an oncologist was. And two weeks after her 3rd grandmother died, she came in and ate with her parents and their parents."

That's messed up.

"So what's her latest?"

"That her cousin was the pilot on flight 93. You know, the one that crashed into the farm in Pennsylvania."

9/11 was still fresh in everyone's mind. It had been a strange few weeks since the Towers fell. People were coping in different ways. But to cope by saying that your cousin was flying one of the planes? That's just weird.

Just then, the door bell chimes interrupt my thoughts. I look at the clock. 9:58. It never fails. Sighing, I walk to the front to take my last table of the night.

***

An hour and a half later, I'm sitting in a booth at the bar sipping a beer. There is a really good turnout. About ten people have made it over to the bar, and we're having a great time.

Pool, darts, pitchers of beer, surly cocktail waitresses... I love dive bars.

The Penguin is starting to get on my nerves. She keeps talking about her cousin and how sad she is.

I wonder if it could be true? I mean, after all, someone has to be related to all the people on the flight. If that's the case, then I'll feel really bad about doubting her.

As it is, after hearing The Actor bash her for the last hour, I'm starting to find her annoying. She's attention-grubbing and clingy.

She also has a large brown stain on her two front teeth. I can't stop looking at it. She doesn't smoke or drink coffee. I'm trying to figure out how she could possibly have a stain like that when The Woman plops down next to me.

"What's up?" She's smiling. Not in a good way. She looks like she's got some sort of diabolical plan cooking.

"Not much. The Penguin is starting to get on my nerves. Do you think her cousin was really on that plane? If he was, I'll feel really bad...."

"I wouldn't," she pauses dramatically and then pulls out a newspaper clipping. "These are the passenger manifests for Flight 93. There's no "(Penguin's last name)" on there."

"What if he's from the mother's side of her family?" I'm still hanging on to the hope that she wouldn't lie about this sort of thing.

"Let's ask," she turns around, looking for The Penguin. She's at one of the bar box pool tables in the back, trying to elicit a pool lesson from Soldato. He looks annoyed.

"Hey Penguin, what's your Mom's maiden name?" The Woman yells across the bar.

"Why?" she calls back.

"I'm doing a family tree on everyone in the office." What a lame excuse. However...

"Oh, how fun! It's (mother's maiden name)." Stupid Penguin.

The Woman quickly cross-checks the list. Nope.

I don't know what to feel. I'm angry at her for trying to take advantage of the situation. I also feel really sad for her. Her life is going to suck if she continually gets caught up in lies.

"You gonna call her out?" I ask.

"Only if she annoys me. I haven't decided yet."

The TVs in the bar are tuned to a baseball game. During a commercial, a news brief comes on about 9/11. It seems that all news briefs are focused on that day now. I wonder if it will ever go back to being normal. I doubt it.

"I can't watch! It makes me so upset," The Penguin is crying. Big, sobbing heaves that make her rolls jiggle. I can't believe this shit.

"Give me that clipping," I whisper to The Woman. I don't know why, but I have an uncontrollable urge to give The Penguin something to cry about.

"Nope, I'm going to call her on this one. I've known her a lot longer than you, and I'm even more sick of this shit than you are." With that, she marches across the bar and confronts The Penguin.
A stuttering explanation, a short screaming match, and a huffy waddle to the parking lot later, and The Penguin has left the building.

***

-Epilogue-

The Penguin called in sick to work the next three days. She said it was her pancreas.

She never admitted to lying about her cousin (or anything else, for that matter). She recently got fired from The Restaurant for being lazy and stealing from the petty cash. She still has that brown stain between her teeth.

Personally, I just feel sorry for her. It's going to be a tough life.

Now I remember...

2006-03-11T11:57:00.000-08:00

(Please read the comments section of my previous post before reading this. Otherwise, this post won't make sense.)

I almost forgot how some of the (anonymous) people who comment on this blog seem to think that they are entitled to something. Can't these people just enjoy what I and others have to share, rather than demand things?

Don't get me wrong folks, I love the comments. I really do. But here's the thing...

I write on my own time, when I have time. I have a ton of good stories. I also have a general idea about how long it will take to write them. Sometimes, however, that time table flies out the window. For instance, the story about MASE took me almost 2 weeks to get right.

It's not that I'm teasing you folks or trying to build anticipation when I say that I'm going to post on a certain date. I just want to do the stories justice. I don't want to start posting crappy stories. That's not fair to you, me, or the people that the stories are written about.

I have to balance my time between work, my fiance, my dog, my family, and having a life. I try to squeeze blogging in there as often as possible, but some days it's just darn near impossible.

So folks, here's what I propose. I am going to try to post once a week. Maybe more, maybe less. I'm not making any promises, save this- the stories will be entertaining when they do get posted.

The story I was writing turned out to be more difficult than expected (hence the delay). Therefore, I am going to shelf it for a while.

Instead, I am going to introduce you to a new character...

Enjoy!

New Post Coming Tomorrow or Thursday

2006-03-07T17:05:00.000-08:00

Hi all,

Just wanted to let you know that I'm going to start writing a new post. Should be ready either tomorrow or Thursday.

Hope all is well,

The Server

Food Poisoning

2006-03-02T16:22:00.000-08:00

-Preface-

This post contains some nastiness. If you are easily grossed out, don't read this. You have been warned.

-Food Poisoning-

The Woman's parents are taking us out for dinner. We're celebrating my getting a new job. Woo-hoo!

We decide to go to a "junk-on-the-walls" Mexican restaurant chain. When I was in college, my roommates and I would go to one of their franchises near campus. I have a feeling that this trip will be a bit more... reserved.

I always over-eat when I go Mexican. Two good reasons... first, I love the taste of Mexican food. Second, Mexican food tastes like crap when it's nuked. No sense wasting food.

In preparation, I eat a large breakfast and skip lunch. People think that it's best to not eat all day if you're planning on chowing down at night. WRONG! You must eat a large meal early in the day to stretch out your stomach. Otherwise it shrinks, and you won't be able to shovel in as much when the dinner bell rings. Keep that in mind next time you're heading to an all-you-can-eat buffet and you want to get your money's worth.

Walking into the place, my olfactory sense goes haywire. There's nothing better than the smell of Mexican food when you're starving. Fajitas sizzling, enchiladas bubbling, salsa... salsa-ing? Yum!

Sitting down, I take stock of the area in which we're seated. There is a party of ten right next to us. Two sets of parents and a small horde of children. Most of the kids are behaving, except for the two littlest ones running circles around the rest of the party. Ugh.

There are a few tables near us that need refills and some pre-bussing. Not too bad, but it isn't how I'd want my section to look, especially on a Sunday afternoon at 4:30.

"It's funny. I can't help looking around and judging the server's section. Am I going to be doing this the rest of my life?" I ask The Woman.

"I still do it, too. Is it just me, or is the overall quality of servers dropping? I would never leave my section like this." She looks around, shrugs, and picks up her menu.

We discuss the other things we see wrong in the restaurant for a few minutes before deciding that either the quality of service is dropping or we're too harsh because we know what everything is supposed to look like.

The busboy drops off our chips and salsa. We dig in. I realize that we don't have water after I've already noshed several chips. Damn. I'm thirsty. On the verge of being uncomfortable.

Right on cue, our server pops up.

"Hi, welcome to ____! My name is waitress and I'll be taking care of you tonight. Would you like to start off with one of our ridiculously overpriced, watered-down margaritas? Our specials tonight are...." I actually tuned her out after I hear "my name is" because I've heard, and said, it all a thousand times. I make up the rest as she goes along.

It sounds like she's reading from a script. I don't know whether to curse the corporate office that makes her do this twenty times a day or to curse her for not inserting some of her own personality into her spiel. Either way, I'm dying over here. I decide to cut her off.

"Water!" I'm almost crying. "Please, I'm begging."

"Oh. the busboy didn't bring any?" Obviously not. "OK." She scuttles off looking miffed that we failed to order any of the Super-Duper Berry Werry Margaritas. She returns five minutes later with our drinks. She takes our order and shuffles away.

I decide that she isn't a good waitress. She moves slowly, she isn't very friendly, and she doesn't smile a lot. Oh well.

I turn my attention back to The Woman and her parents. The discussion is lively and animated. Her father is a big-wig at a local construction business. His stories are usually pretty entertaining. Tonight is no exception.

He's just getting into a story when our food comes. Quickly. Way too quickly. It's only been about five minutes since we've put in our order.

I look at the woman. She doesn't seem too concerned. She should be. She and both her parents ordered a dinner that involved cooked chicken. It takes between 10 and 15 minutes to fully cook a chicken breast. I ordered a skirt steak and enchiladas combo. It takes at least 10 minutes to fully cook a steak, even one as thin as the hunk of meat sizzling on my festively-colored plate.

The fact that our food is out in five minutes means one of two things. Either they undercooked the chicken OR they pre-cooked the chicken. Neither option eases my mind.

I've seen Valerie send out pre-cooked chicken before. Usually, this is because a server accidentally hits a key twice when they're ringing in an order. Valerie hates to waste food, so she'll try to put the extra chicken out the door on another table's order. It works if the other table orders immediately after the 'mistake'. If not, those folks'll end up with some dry chicken.

If the chicken is undercooked, then there's a problem. Food poisoning. Yuck.

I nudge The Woman. "Is everything cooked all the way through?"

She pauses from chewing and takes a peak inside her chicken enchiladas.

"Looks like it. Why?"

"Didn't it seem like everything came out pretty quick?"

"Yeah, but I think it's ok." She puts her knife and fork back to work.

Shrugging it off, I turn my attention to my steak.

***

It's 3 am. The Woman has been vomiting since 11 pm. Every half hour. You can set your watch to it. I'm forcing her to chug water in between bouts. I'm not feeling so hot myself.

The puppy is yapping away like crazy. He must think this is some crazy new game that we've invented.

All of a sudden, I realize it's my turn. A cramp builds in the depths of my stomach. I can feel it growing, pulsating, swirling. I make a sprint towards the other bathroom. It reaches my sternum. I know that once it begins to travel up my esophagus, my gag reflex will take over and then...

"BWWAAAAAHHH..."

I hate Mexican food. I can still see the corn from my rice...

***

10:30 AM- The Woman is exhausted. Luckily, I've gotten off lightly. I was only sick four or five times. She's feel wretched, and I can't blame her.

She's called into work for the first time ever. Actually, I called into work for her. She couldn't make it out of the bathroom.

I call up the Mexican place to let them know that they may have a contamination issue on their hands.

The manager answers. She listens to our tale of woe and expresses her sincerest apologies. She takes down our information.

"Sir, please know that I'll be sending you some gift certificates. To what address can I send them?"

I think for a minute. I know I'm sure as hell not eating there anymore. I call out to the Woman, who's still praying to the porcelain God in the bathroom.

"Honey, the restaurant wants to send us some gift certificates. What do you think?"

"BWAAAAHHHH..."

"I don't think we'll be needing those, thanks." Click.

-Epilogue-

I really did get off easy. The Woman had to go to the treatment center for an IV. They pumped 2 bags of saline into her before she began to look normal again. I just felt rotten and weak for three days.

New Post Tonight

2006-03-02T09:24:00.000-08:00

Hi All,

New post coming tonight. I am just now getting over the food poisoning that the Woman and I got on Sunday. I would have written sooner, but I had my head stuck in a bucket for 2 days straight...

The Server

Scammer Series #3- The Servers

2006-02-25T14:26:00.000-08:00

Preface

In The Industry, we deal with scamming on a weekly, sometimes even daily, basis. In this post, I want to talk about something we used to do at The Restaurant.

Scammer Series #3- The Servers

It's a beautiful Saturday in the summer. I'm working my third double in a row at The Restaurant, but I don't care. I've been working there for three months, and I finally feel like I've got the routine down. I know the menu, my people skills are vastly improved, and I've made a bunch of friends on the staff. Life is good.

The drive to work is great. I put the top down on my Jeep. The good folks at the radio station are nice enough to play good songs for the entirety of my journey. Even the cute flagger girl waving folks through road construction on the highway has a smile and a wave for me.

I get to work early. The only other people around are the cooks and Valerie. Valerie is doing her usual- puttering around and looking upset. The cooks are cooking up bacon. There must be 400 pieces on the flat top, and it smells amazing. I may have to start coming to work early more often.

"Hi Valerie," I'm cheerful, even though it's only 10:15 (for those of you not in The Industry, this equates to about 6:00 NPT [Normal Person Time]).

"Start putting lemons in side stations. Clock in at 10:30." Valerie is a sweetheart. Knowing that my working while not on the clock will make her happy, I head back to the walk-in cooler to get the lemons.

I begin to set up the side stations in The Restaurant. The place is good to go in fifteen minutes. Funny how it usually takes 2 servers half an hour to get the place set up for the lunch shift.

The other servers start trickling in. My good mood is contagious, and soon everyone is laughing and having a great time. I can't wait to start getting tables. I know I'm going to rock it today.

The hostess is a new girl. She's a pretty high school junior. She's also dumb as a rock. Sometimes I wonder if those are two required traits for hostesses at The Restaurant.

She triple seats me right off the bat. Nothing can sour my good mood. I'm so on, I could run ten tables right now. I know I'm giving great service. The customers even tell me I'm giving great service. It's that good of a day.

I drop off the checks, run the credit card slips, and head to the back to chug a glass of water. When I get back, all three tables have left. Excited, I collect my credit card slips.

10%, 15%, 10%. On the second 10% tip, I notice that the lady wrote "Great Service!" with a smiley face at the bottom of the bill. I'm astonished. I average around 20% on lunch shifts. This is ridiculous!

For the rest of the shift, I'm fuming. I only make $30.

"This is bullshit," I mutter under my breath.

"What's bullshit?" Barry, one of my new server friends, is separating his credit card and cash slips for his cash out.

"Look at this." I hand him the 10% tip slip with the women's patronizing scrawl on the bottom.

"Ouch," he says sympathetically. "Well, you can't win 'em all."

"Yeah, but my whole day was like that. My tip average was 14% today. I've never done that bad before." I'm steamed, and Barry can see it. He smiles and pulls me away from the other servers to calm me down.

Barry is a great guy. He seems perpetually calm. This may have something to do with the amount of pot he smokes daily, or it could be his natural personality. The jury's still out. Either way, he was a way of defusing worked up servers.

"Easy buddy.... I know just what you need. Let's hit the theater in between shifts." I'm a huge movie buff. But I'm not in the mood right now. I just want to sleep in my Jeep in between shifts.

"We don't have time." We have to be back in 2 hours.

"We're not going to see a movie." He winks conspiratorially. "Meet me there after you cash out."

I'm thoroughly confused, but I agree. Barry cashes out before me and heads out the door. I check out with Valerie, who gives me crap for my "shitty tips".

"You give bad service, you get bad tips." I show her the lady's comment. She's not impressed.

"Be on time for shift tonight."

I leave The Restaurant, steamed as hell. Driving to the movie theater, I can see clouds gathering. Looks like rain. Great. The hard top is off of my Jeep, and I don't have time to go home and put it back on. It doesn't get much worse than driving home in soaked pants.

Even the good folks at the radio can't cheer me up. My favorite station has begun a tribute to disco, and my number 2 and 3's are both stuck in commercial limbo. I hope Barry has something good for me at the theater.

Pulling into the theater parking lot, I'm amazed at how empty the place is. Apparently, not too many folks go to the movies on Monday afternoon at 3 pm.

I park and hop out of the Jeep. I am heading to the lobby when I hear someone calling my name.

"Over here!"

Confused, I look around and spot Barry. He's at the side exit door. Wondering what the hell he's doing, I change course and walk over.

"What's up?"

"This is going to make your month," he says. "Do you know about the new promotion?"

I shake my head. Smiling, he begins to explain. Every year, The Restaurant spends some advertising money at the theater. They buy one of those adds that shuffle through before the previews start. As an incentive to bring in customers, The Restaurant will take off $2 for every movie stub that the customers bring in. He explains that on cash tickets, you can make an extra couple bucks every time someone comes in without a movie ticket.

"And this place is like a gold mine," he says, sweeping his hand out over the concrete in front of the exit. Looking down, I see what he's talking about.

There are hundreds of ticket stubs scattered on the ground. Doing some quick math, I figure there's probably $200 for each of us.

Barry smiles. "Feel better?"

"Hell yeah!" I start picking up stubs and stuffing them in my pockets. After a few minutes, I realize how ridiculous we must look. Like two bums picking up empty soda bottles for the recycling deposit.

"I'm heading back, I think I'm good," I say, standing and brushing off my knees.

"Cool, I'll be right behind you," Barry says, his fingers nimbly picking through the trash to scoop up another stub.

Heading back to work, I begin to ponder the situation. Doubt is starting to creep in.

Granted, I deserved more than the 10% I got on those two checks. But was I the one to decide that? I mean, after all, the tip percentage will balance itself out. I'd seen it happen. One shift, you work your tail off and get 15%, and the next, you don't do anything extraordinary and you average 25. Karma.

Finally, I get back to The Restaurant. I decide to see how the shift goes. Maybe those stubs will come in handy, maybe not.

I walk in and head to the back. I clock in and start tying on my apron. Lisa, one of the old-timers who has been at The Restaurant since it opened, comes by.

"Did you hit up the theater yet?" she asks.

Lisa is one of the most honest, straightest servers in The Restaurant. Shocked, I nod.

"Barry took me over there. You do this too?"

"yup," she replies, opening her serving book. She shows me the compartment in the back, which is stuffed with ticket stubs. "This is always a good month." She smiles and walks away.

Now I'm even more torn. If Lisa does it, is it wrong? If it's OK, why do I feel that nagging, slightly nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach?

Shrugging, I look out and see that I've gotten my first table. Putting on my Server Smile, I head into battle.

Half an hour later, I get my first tip. 15%. I deserved 20. I know it in my heart. At the computer, I pause. I look at the stubs I stuck in my book. I don't know what to do.

"Ah, you hit up the theater?" It's The Hippie. She's smiling ruefully. "I didn't get a chance to go over there yet. Too bad too, I could have used it tonight." She turns to walk away.

"Wait. Here." I pull out all the stubs from my book. "You can have mine." I want no part of this.

I walk away. I feel good about what I've done, what it says about my character. I feel good that I've helped out my fellow server. I feel good that I've resisted the temptation. The only thing I don't feel good about is the 15% tip...

So You're Probably Wondering...

2006-02-20T15:26:00.000-08:00

What happened to me?

Well, I'm afraid that it's not too terribly interesting. But I'll go ahead and give it a shot. Since I last wrote....

I moved into a new townhouse with The Woman. We got the keys in October. I still have yet to unpack.

I've been working a sales job. When I started working there, I ignored the danger signs. High turnover, low employee morale, etc. It was one of those burn-out jobs where they try to get as much out of you as possible for as long as possible.

Unfortunately, my burn out was more extreme than most. This burn out is the reason that I haven't written.

It started off as bronchospasms, like I wrote in the post before. It turned into full-fledged, crippling panic attacks that took hold every time I thought about work. Since I was working 12 hours a day, these attacks were occurring more and more frequently. By my third trip to the emergency room, I knew I was done. I quit the next morning. The only thing I feel good about is that I was leading the branch in sales for the month at the time I left.

Hopefully, I'll be able to get out of this whole situation with only an ulcer, heartburn, and mild breathing problems. The ulcer no longer bothers me, I'm able to eat almost anything without fear of heartburn, and my breathing is improving by the day. I'm on the road to recovery.

Other updates...

I got a new puppy. If someone tells me how to post pictures, I'll show you all what he looks like. He's a beautiful black lab mix. His name is Payton. I got him for The Woman's birthday. The jury is still out on who she loves more. Either way, I see us as the two luckiest men around.

And lastly, but certainly not leastly.... (is 'leastly' a word? Absolutely not. Do I care? Not so much. Do I have a habit of asking questions and then answering them myself, thereby making it a declarative statement? You betcha!)

I am engaged. I asked The Woman to marry me on Christmas morning. She teared up like Niagara Falls. I thought I would feel weird, waking up next to someone, knowing that they would be my partner for the rest of my life. Instead, I wake up every day with a feeling of contentment, happiness, and joy. Even with all the health problems, I'm the luckiest man alive. I don't know how she puts up with me.

So that's the short and sweet of it, folks. I'd love to talk more right now, but I'm on a job hunt of epic proportions. Anyone know of a good restaurant in the Chicago-land area that's hiring?

Server Stories Back on the Air!

2006-02-19T20:28:00.000-08:00

Hello Everyone,

I want to send a big thank you to all of you who have written me emails and posts asking about my well-being. I can't tell you all how much that meant to me.

I am doing better. My health was not good for some time, but I have recovered and I look forward to writing again. I apologize for the long delay, but unfortunately, it could not be avoided. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.

With that said...

I'd like to announce the return of Server Stories. I am going to be pounding the ol' keyboard trying to get a new post up ASAP. I still have plenty of stories to tell, and I couldn't stand it if I have to keep them bottled up inside.

So sit back, grab a frosty beverage, and relax. I'm The Server, and I will be taking care of you this evening....

Back from the brink,

The Server

What happened to this weekend?

2005-10-07T18:01:00.000-07:00

Hi again folks. This post has nothing to do with serving, but it does explain why I didn't write anything last weekend....

I've been feeling crappy all week. Getting over bronchitis. Coughing up phlegm, taking antibiotics, chugging NyQuil and DayQuil, the works. Saturday afternoon, the woman gets a call from one of her friends. She wants to go camping.

"Server, would you like to go down to Podunk to meet Breanne?"

"Sure, but I thought you hated camping? You always freak out when a bee flies by the screen door..."

She slaps me on the leg.

"Shut up. I'll be fine. We're going to sleep in my car."

I get up off the bed and walk towards the window.

"What are you looking at?" she asks.

"To see if you got a new car. I'm not sleeping in that little thing you're driving now. 50 miles to the gallon is great, but it just doesn't cut it when it comes to crashing."

Sure enough, her mid-size sedan has not been replaced by a gas-guzzling SUV or a mobile home. Regardless, I have a feeling that I'm looking at my bed for the evening.

Casting a look over my shoulder, I eye the cushy queen-size that I'll soon be leaving in favor of a partially-reclined front seat. Crap.

***

We're on our way. It's supposed to take an hour to get there. We've been driving for two hours.

"Want me to hop out and ask for directions?" I ask. I'm sitting in the passenger seat, leg on the dash, head on a pillow. I'm comfy, but I'd like to get to the campsite and streee-etch.

"Yeah, but I don't see any gas stations." We're flying by farms, corn fields, and the occassional trucking company.

"Stop up there."

"That's a bar."

"Yeah, I could use a drink. You don't get one, you're driving. Plus, they'll probably know where we're going."

The woman stops in front of the honky tonk and I extricate myself from the front seat. Opening the door, I notice how chilly it is. Glad I packed that extra sweatshirt...

The bar is bumping... for a hillbilly bar. I stick out like a sore thumb. I forgot my John Deere hat.

The bartender is a sweet, plump little thing. She's more than happy to help me out with directions. She does a great job, despite the fact that the old codger sitting at the end of the bar constantly interrupts her with 'short cuts'.

I thank her, and ask for a shot of her best top shelf tequila.

"Three bucks," she says, pouring Cuervo into a dirty small rocks glass. I love small town bars. I drop a ten spot on the counter, pound my shot, and boogie.

New directions in hand, the woman and I speed off into the night.

***

Camping is a good time. We're sitting around a fire drinking beer in plastic cups. Apparrently you're not allowed to drink alcohol in a state park. Wonder why?

For some reason, I don't feel so hot. My cough is getting progressively worse, and it feels like I'm getting a fever. I chalk it up to the camp fire and promise myself that I'll hit the hay before midnight.

Luckily, everyone else seems just as tired as me. I'm snuggled up in the front seat by 11:30.

I wake up around 4:30. Have to pee. I get out. It's freezing outside. Going to be a cold Chicago winter....

I do my business and head back to the car. As I'm walking back, I realize that I'm having a hell of a time breathing.

I stop before opening the door. I try to catch my breath. Nothing doing.

I knock on the window. My girlfriend opens the door.

"What's wrong?"

"Having... trouble... breathing... we ... should... go..." at this point, three things cross my mind. First, we're in the middle of nowhere. Second, if I don't get help soon, I may die. Third, I sounded exactly like Stevie from Malcolm in the Middle.

My girlfriend bundles me into the car and peels out of the campsite. Once we get on a main road, she dials 9-1-1.

"My boyfriend is having trouble breathing. Can you send an ambulance?" I would be surprised at how calm she sounds, except for the fact that she works in a hospital. She's holding it together really well... me on the other hand, I'm concentrating on staying alive. It feels like I'm sucking air through a straw.

"I have no idea where we are. We're on Highway A in Podunk.... What's that? A mailbox? Yeah... There's one right here. Says "Coffman." You know where that is? Stay here? OK, please hurry."

The woman gets off the phone. She turns to me.

"It'll be a couple minutes. How you doing? Are you feeling any better?"

She knows full well I can't talk. She also knows full well that by keeping my mind on something else, it may make the time go by faster for me. I know exactly what she's trying to do, which makes it worse for me.

Five minutes go by. I'm in agony. Finally, I can see the ambulance lights break over the hill. Sweet.

The EMT's load my ass into the ambulance. One straps an oxygen mask to my face while the other starts plugging me up to a vital sign monitor. Countless episodes of ER make the real thing seem boring by comparison.

After a few minutes, I'm able to breathe again, although it's still shallow. The EMT's are asking me questions. They decide to give me nitroglycerin.

For those of you not in the know, there are several different forms of nitro. The first is an explosive that can be used to blow a hole in the side of a bank vault. The second form is used to stifle a heart attack.

They stuff a pill under my tongue. It starts to dissolve. It tastes like crap.

Suddenly, it hits me. I'm having a heart attack!?? What the hell? I'm in my mid-20's, I can't be having a goddamn heart attack!

I'm freaking out now, and all of a sudden I can't breathe again.

I pass out.

When I wake up, they're wheeling me into the hospital.

***

A while later and the woman is able to join me. We're in a hospital in Podunk at 4:30 on a Sunday morning. Surprisingly, it still takes a good 30 minutes for a doctor to get to us.

The only other patient is a girl who is sobering up in the next room. She's not a quiet drunk, and she's been spending most of her time on the cell phone, screaming about how unfair it is that this latest 'set back' was going to destroy her dream of being a cop. She's making very little sense, and I hope to God they don't make her a crossing guard, let alone a cop. Some folks should not be allowed to brandish six-shooters.

Trying to block out her complaints, I turn my attention back to the woman. She's putting on her tough face, but I can see the trails running down her cheeks where the tears have cut through the soot of last night's campfire. She's worried about me.

At this moment, I'm not concerned about anything else in the world. All I can see is the woman sitting in front of me. I always knew that she loved me and that I loved her. I just never realized, up until this point, how much it would actually mean if one of us lost the other.

I think back to my bitching about sleeping in the car. I realize how stupid that was, and I decide to make a conscious effort to never complain about the little things. There are more important things in life.

Finally, the doctor shows up. She gives me an inhaler. Apparrently I didn't have a heart attack. My bronchitis damaged my lungs, causing bronchospasms, which is similar to asthma. The inhaler should help me in case of another attack. She sends us on our way.

The drive home is long, but uneventful. Watching the trees fly by on the highway, I can only ponder the future. How long will I have to deal with these spasms? Will I be able to play sports? Will I be able to throw a baseball around with my future son? Will I be one of those people that lapses into a state of permanent health problems? Would my girlfriend have to take care of me? Would I put her through that?

Finally, exhausted and consumed by thoughts and fears beyond my control, I drift off to sleep.

To be continued...

(You didn't think that this was enough of an excuse? Good, cause it gets worse. This wasn't my only ambulance trip that day....)

New Post Coming Tomorrow

2005-10-01T10:27:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Long time, no write. My sincerest apologies. I've been working my ass off at my new job, and I haven't had the time or the energy to post. I am going to start writing today and post tomorrow.

In the meantime, I want to point out two things that I discovered this week. First, I love that new show about the chef who is trying to turn his life around. Good stuff. Second, I can't wait for that movie "Waiting." I hope the writers did it right. This better not be the "Good Burger" of casual dining.

My New Job....

2005-09-19T18:26:00.000-07:00

Is taking up a lot of time. I'm sorry folks, I may not be able to post anything major this week. I'll try to find some time to poke out a couple of short stories. Think of this as... the kitchen messed up your food. I'm going to bring you some chips and salsa so you don't resort to cannibalism.

The Most Interesting Server Ever

2005-09-12T13:15:00.000-07:00

-Preface-

This is one of the most difficult posts I've ever had to write. Enjoy.

-A Description of the Most Interesting Server Ever-

The Most Interesting Server Ever (I'll call him MASE, most amazing server ever, for short-besides, 'MASE' sounds much cooler than 'MISE') is 6'1'' and weighs about 200 lbs. He's all muscle. Not from lifting weights, but from dancing.

He's half-black, quarter white, and the rest is a mixed bag. He's bald by choice. He looks like Vin Diesel from such glorious box-office smashes XXX, The Chronicles of Riddick, and Pitch Black.

MASE is a homosexual, as are a large number of male servers, at least in The Restaurant. He's not effeminate. Many of the female customers drool over him. I've been asked many times, "Does that server have a girlfriend?" I've always answered with a truthful, "no." Keeps their dreams alive.

In my very first post, I noted that servers are some of the most colorful, interesting, and vibrant people. MASE is a prime example. He has lead one of the most amazing lives of anyone I've ever encountered. He did not always do things the good (or even legal) way, but he has no regrets. He shouldn't.

I'm writing his story knowing that it won't do him justice.

-The Most Interesting Server Ever-

I'm standing at the computer punching in a table's order. I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see MASE looking down at me.

"You went to Princeton, right?" he asks.

"Yep," I reply, waiting for what usually follow. It goes something like this...

'You must be really smart, huh?'

'Not really. I was a pretty good football player, so they let me in.' I always try to downplay my education when I'm serving. It makes everybody, myself included, feel more comfortable.

'Oh. Umm... if you're so smart, how come you rang in three burgers at table 111 when there are only two pepole?' Every time I do something dumb, I always catch more flack than your average Joe. It's the curse of going to an Ivy League school.

I'm standing there, wondering what I did, when MASE shocks me.

"That's cool. Did you ever make it up to New York?" Curveball. Most people don't know where Princeton is, let alone know that it's about an hour train ride from NYC.

I don't know anything about MASE. I haven't talked to him much because he is still relatively new. He's just passing the point where I feel like he'll make it at The Restaurant.

Most veteran servers will tell you that they don't talk to new people for at least a month. It's sort of like Vietnam. You don't want to be friends with someone knowing that they probably won't last. Once they reach that one month threshold, a bond begins to form. You've been 'in the shit' (The Waiter's words) together, and you know you can count on them.

I decide right then that MASE is going to make it as a server. It's a Saturday night, we're on a wait, and he is able to shoot the breeze with me while keeping up with his four table section.

"Yeah, I've been there a couple times. Breaks the monotony of campus life. Why do you ask?"

"I used to live there, back in the day. I had a lot of fun, but I'm glad to be out of there. Are you going out tonight?"

It's a ritual that the entire staff go out for a beer after a busy Saturday shift. It usually turns into a bitch session. Managers, customers, poor servers; all are fair game. I wouldn't miss it for the world.

"Yeah. You should definitely come. I'll even buy you a beer."

"I'll definitely come by, but I'll have to pass on the beer. I'm on the wagon. Been sober for five months." He smiles and walks back into the kitchen.

I'm intrigued. It seems like he doesn't want to talk about himself. Very few people dislike talking about themselves. I get the feeling that there is more to MASE than meets the eye.

Putting my questions on the back burner, I turn back to the computer. I finish typing in the order, grab the iced tea pitcher, and head back to battle.

***

We're at a neighboring restaurant. It's another "crap on the walls" casual place, but the bar is open later than ours. Even the closing bartenders at The Restaurant have time to come over for a couple beers.

We've pulled three tables together. It's a good turn out tonight. About 90% of the staff showed up. As usual, we're banging on Valerie and horrible customers. Everyone's laughing and having a great time.

MASE, true to his word, is sipping a Diet Cola, silently taking in the scene. I decide to break the ice.

"So how come you never come out with us?"

"Well, a couple reasons. I'm living with my aunt and her two kids. I have to babysit for them almost every day. Also, I can't drive. Speaking of which, can I get a ride home?"

No more shots for me. Oh well.

"Sure! How come you can't drive?" I'm expecting to hear the usual. DUI.

"I got deported from Canada for stealing a car," says MASE, chuckling. Wow. Wasn't ready for that.

"What? What the hell happened?" This is a story I have to hear. I notice that two of the waitresses are starting to steal glances towards us. I can tell they're eavesdropping.

"After NYC, I went up to Canada with some friends. We went on a two month long bender. Drugs, booze, you name it. One night, I decided to steal a car and go joyriding. The mounties didn't like that so much."

One of the waitresses that was listening in decided to pipe up.

"How did you steal the car?"

"With a scredriver. It was kind of funny. The cop that pulled me over turned on his loudspeaker and said, 'Throw the keys out the window and put your hands on the wheel!' I didn't have any keys. I was so freaked out and paranoid from the drugs that I thought he was going to shoot me if I didn't throw something out the window. So I grabbed the screwdriver and tossed it into the street. Looking back on it, I bet he was laughing his ass off when he came over and saw a phillips-head lying in the middle of the road."

Most of the table is riveted. We all want to hear more, so I decide to keep leading him on, seeing how much he'll tell us.

"What did they do with you? Throw you in the clink?"

"Yeah, for a couple days. I didn't have any ID, so they had to call my parents to come verify who I was. They came and picked me up. I ended up getting probation, since it was my first offense. My parents put me into rehab in Seattle."

So that's why he doesn't drink anymore. Seems like a good reason.

"Earlier you said you lived in New York. Were you serving there?"

"Yeah, at a gay restaurant. It was kind of like an Ed Debevic's, except everyone dressed in drag." Wait a minute...

"Oh, you're gay? I didn't know that."

"Yep. I made a hot drag queen too. You would have loved it." We all start cracking up.

"I was waiting tables and modeling too. Eventually, I was making enough modeling and... doing other things, and I was able to quit serving." He didn't want to talk about the 'other things', so I decided not to push him on that. However...

"What kind of modeling did you do? Anything we'd know?"

"Maybe. I was one of the original Calvin Klein models. I was on a couple billboards in NY, and I was in one of the commercials that was on MTV." Holy cow. This wasn't a small-time modeling gig. MASE was on the verge of the big time. Well, maybe not the BIG time, but he was closer than any of the other people sitting at that table.

"I was also in a couple of B-movies. Straight to video horror flicks. In both of them, I was one of the extras in dance clubs. For one of them, they made me wear this big Afro wig. I was so coked up at the time, I thought I was the king of the world. I kept tossing the wig. The director was getting pissed. They had to do like fifteen takes for a ten-second scene because I kept throwing my wig over the crowd." Enraptured, the entire staff is fixated on MASE.

"But the one you all would probably know is a music video shoot I did. Lenny Kravitz's 'Are you Gonna Go my Way?' " Excited murmers and agreements from the peanut gallery. "I was a dancer in that video. I have a copy, I'll bring it tomorrow."

I can tell the MASE is getting tired of the attention. I want to hear more, but I figure I'll have plenty of time. I switch the topic.

"So, are you a Nintendo guy or a Sega guy?" Almost immediately, the female servers lose interest. For some reason, only guys spent a large portion of their youth learning that you could get 99 lives in 'Contra' by pressing up down up down left right left right B A B A start on the title screen.

MASE and I talk about video games for the next couple hours. He tells me that he just bought an XBox, the brand new gaming system from Microsoft. Cost him $350. He loves it.

Soon, the house lights shine bright and it's time to go. MASE follows me out to the parking lot and hops in my car.

He lives really close by, and we're there in a matter of minutes. Pulling into the driveway, I see a young kid, about six, sitting on the stoop. When MASE gets out of the car, the kid runs right over to him. He looks like he's been crying.

"What's wrong buddy?"

"MASE, I'm so sorry. We were playing with the football in the house and I made a touchdown and spiked the ball. It hit your Xbox and broke it."

Quickly, the calculator in my brain goes to work. $350 for the Xbox. About $5 per table in tips. That comes to 70 tables of wasted work. I expect MASE to blow up. Instead....

"You know you're not supposed to play ball in the house. Mom told you that yesterday. I'm really disappointed in you. But you know what? I'm also really glad that you told me. You could have not said anything and blamed it on someone else, but you took responsibility. I'm really proud of you."

Wow. I'm impressed. The kid smiles through the tears. MASE picks him up and carries him back into the house, waving goodbye as he reaches the door.

Driving home, I reflect on what I've seen. MASE has lived a fast-paced life, but he's turned things around. He's grounded. Most parents I know wouldn't have handled the situation with the XBox that well.

Despite all I learned about MASE that night, I felt that I hadn't even scratched the surface yet. I was right.

*** (A few months later)

The company Christmas party. If you can call it that. We're celebrating Christmas in early February, apparently.

Valerie got a nice-sized check from the corporate office to spend on this party. Instead of going to a high-class bar or banquet hall, we end up ar a local dance club/bar. On Industry Night. No cover for servers. $1 appetizers and half-priced drinks as well. Way to stretch those dollars, Valerie.

Soldato, my girlfriend, and MASE are talking in a corner away from the dance floor.

"I betcha Valerie is pocketing the rest of that check," comments Soldato.

"You know it," I reply. "Oh well. At least we're drinking for cheap tonight." I take a gulp of my Captain and Coke. Mmmm... I love watered-down drinks.

MASE is dancing in place. I can tell that he can't wait to get on the floor. I nudge my girlfriend.

"Why don't you dance with him? I'm not nearly drunk enough yet, so you may as well get warmed up." She laughs and grabs MASE's hand, heading for the dance floor. MASE gives me a smile of thanks.

My girlfriend is a pretty good dancer. I can't keep up with her. Tonight, she can't keep up with MASE. He's a whirling dervish. Soon there is a crowd around him and my girlfriend. He's tossing her around like a rag doll, and she's having a great time. I've never seen anyone dance like MASE. It's ordered chaos keeping in time with the music.

After a while, the music changes. It's a slow Tina Turner song. MASE and my girlfriend head back up to our table.

"You're a pretty good dancer!" I say. My girlfriend is still trying to catch her breath. MASE is sweating, but he doesn't seem to be breathing hard.

"I like dancing. I love this song, but it's not good for anything except the middle-school slow dance." He puts his arms out straight, about waist-high, and pantomimes the akward step/turn of the pre-teen slow dance. We're all cracking up.

"So you like Tina Turner, huh?" I ask. Personally, I loved her in Beyond Thunderdome.

"Yeah. Did I tell you about the modeling benefit I did where I saw her live?" I haven't gotten many more stories since the first night we all went out. I'm dying for more.

"No. What was the benefit for?"

"It was an AIDs benefit. There was a modeling show, followed by her performance afterwards. I was in the modeling show. I was supposed to walk once, but I was all coked up... again. I walked twice. The second time I went down, I saw Billy Zane sitting at one of the tables up front. There was a seat open right next to him, so I thought I'd go sit down. After I got backstage, I booked. I was wearing a five thousand dollar Armani tux. I went over and introduced myself to Billy Zane. We started talking and he let me sit down. I guess one of his group didn't show. He orders a couple bottles of Dom for the table. Pretty soon, the lights go down and Tina Turner starts the show. The coke is starting to wear off, so I finally realize what's going on. I'm sitting next to a Hollywood actor, drinking Dom Perignon, wearing a five thousand dollar tux, and watching Tina Turner perform less than ten feet from where I'm sitting." He shakes his head. "That was probably the best night of my life."

"Holy shit," says Soldato.

"Wow. Did you get to meet Tina Turner?"

"No. I met a bunch of musicians while I was in NY though."

"Really? How?"

MASE looks around and then motions us to go over to a corner with him. He speaks in a low tone, so he isn't overheard.

"I used to be an errand boy at one of the concert venues. If a band wanted drugs, booze, whatever, I was the one they called to go get it. It was good money, and I got to meet a lot of cool people." He shrugs.

"I don't want too many people to know about that."

"Fair enough," I say. "Who all did you meet?"

"Lots of people," he said. "I saw Eddie Vedder (lead singer of Pearl Jam) so drunk that he was eating Play-do out of the can. That was funny. I also got to be really good friends with Michael Stipe (lead singer of R.E.M.). He still sends me and my aunt a Christmas card every year."

Just then, Valerie comes up to announce that it's time to give out awards. We amble back to the table to watch as she gives out cheap plastic "awards" in categories such as "best Front of the House employee", "Best Cook", "Best Smile", and "Best Ass." Good times.

*** (A few months later)

I walk into The Restaurant for a lunch shift. MASE is at the bar, staring at the TV. They've just caught the sniper in Maryland. MASE is starting to tear up.

"What's wrong? Did you know one of the people who got shot?" I ask.

"No. I knew the sniper. The kid." He's really upset.

"How did you know him?"

"Remember that rehab clinic I went to in Seattle? He was in there with me. He was such a good kid. This is fucked up. I can't believe it."

Neither can I. Forrest Gump has nothing on MASE.

*** (A few months later)

MASE has been crabby for a while now. He's showing up to shifts late. He's lost weight. I have a feeling something's wrong.

It's a Saturday night. MASE is at the computer, typing in an order. I'm reminded of the first time we talked. I tap him on the shoulder.

"Hey, you OK?" I ask. He turns around. His eyes are bloodshot and he's sweating.

"Fine." He's short with me.

"Are you sure?" I hate to pry, but I want to help if I can.

"I'm OK. Really." He turns back to the computer. I walk away.

After the shift, we head out for drinks. I order a tall Bass.

"I'll have a double Johnny Red on the Rocks and a tall Black & Tan," says MASE. Whoa. What the hell is going on? MASE doesn't drink.

"MASE, what's going on? You never drink."

"Well, some stuff has changed." He drains the scotch in one gulp and then downs half his beer. I've never been scared watching someone drink, not even in college. MASE is scaring me.

He drinks hard the whole night. I drive him home. I watch him stumble up to the door. He unlocks it and almost falls inside. He isn't the same person who, less than a year ago, carried his aunt's son in after performing some of the best parenting I've ever seen.

I drive home with a heavy heart.

*** (A few months later)

MASE is dying. He has AIDs. He's not HIV positive. He has full-blown AIDs. He hasn't worked in a month. He's in the hospital.

We called his aunt to see if there was anything we could do. The entire staff is upset. MASE is one of the nicest people and hardest workers around.

His aunt tells us that he's in the hospital. He doesn't want visitors. He's nearing the end, and he doesn't want anone to see him in his condition. She thanks us for our concern.

One of the servers gets a card. We all sign it. I can't put into words what I'm feeling. How do you tell someone, "I hear you're dying. I just want you to know that I'm thinking about you"? What consolation will that bring?

I am waiting on a table during a weekday lunch. Two 30-something ladies. Well-dressed, but not in business attire. They're enjoying hubby's money while he's slaving away. One of them grabs my arm.

"I need more ice." She turns back to her conversation.

At first I'm mad as hell. Who the hell are you to order me around? I'm a person too. I'm probably better-educated, smarter, and a lot harder-working.

Then I realize that I'm upset about MASE. I come to a realization. Nobody that MASE waited on knew who he really was. They saw him, as many customers do, as a dog. Fetch me more ice. Fetch my food. They had no idea of what he'd seen or what he'd done.

Turning that around, I realize that I don't know who these two ladies are. I don't know what they've gone through, what they've done in life. Who am I to make judgements about them, based on a half-hour spent waiting on them?

This was the last, and probably best, thing I learned from MASE. You never know who you're dealing with until you talk to them.

I got the lady more ice and set it down with a smile.

"There you are ma'am."

"Thank you! I must tell you that it's so nice to be able to have an afternoon away from the kids. You've been wonderful."

***

I realize now that MASE must have found out he was sick right before that last conversation I had with him at the bar. He spent his last couple months at the restaurant deteriorating before my eyes.

Aside from the drinking, MASE made some other lifestyle changes. I could tell he was using drugs again. He also told me that he was frequenting places downtown that offered a place for guilt-free one-night stands. He was spending less and less time at his aunt's house and more time partying all night in Chicago.

He lived his last couple months hard. He wanted to go out with a bang.

Honestly, I don't know if I can blame him. If someone put a time limit on my life, how would I react? I don't think I'd want to go quietly.

Wherever you are now, MASE, please know that you touched my life, as well as many others. There are people who loved you and who cared about you during your short time on this planet. In fact, we still do.

The Drunken Irishman

2005-09-06T21:50:00.000-07:00

-A Description of The Drunken Irishman-

The Drunken Irishman (who I'll call Irish from now on) stands 5'9'' and weighs about 180 lbs. Most of it is baby fat. He has sandy hair, which is 'styled' bi-monthly at Supercuts. His complexion is ruddy. His cheeks and nose seem perpetually red from the burst capillaries. He is in his mid-20's.

Irish mumbles and stutters, which is not a good combo when trying to chit chat with customers. This can get him into trouble sometimes.

Irish drunks too much, but nobody seems to mind. He's a friendly drunk.

This story is about a shift and the beginning of a night out with The Drunken Irishman.

-The Drunken Irishman-

I've been working at The Restaurant for a few weeks now. I'm learning the ropes, and my tip percentage is rising steadily. Running four tables is a breeze.

I'm even starting to become familiar with some of the oft-used (but never under-appreciated) jokes that servers use to banter with their tables when we're in a hurry. For example: "You didn't care much for your dish, sir?" when the customer has all but licked the plate. I'm starting to enjoy this job.

I walk into The Restaurant for a Saturday night shift. I'm pumped. Weekend nights are electric. The bar is busy, sections are full, and almost the entire staff is scheduled. It's always a good time.

Walking in the back, I notice a group of people hanging out by the pin-up board. Normally, this board contains notes from people looking to pick up or give up shifts, a list of the 86'd items, and any other random pieces of info that Valerie thinks important.

Today, a shopper report hangs on the wall. For those of you not in the know, let me enlighten you on shopper reports....

Restaurants, especially corporate-owned restaurants, use shopper reports to grade service. A shopper service recruits people to go out and eat at restaurants and then grade the server. If a server follows the cookie-cutter 10 steps of service, they will score well.

(I hate shopper reports. In my humble opinion, the scores do not represent the true ability a server has to make the guest enjoy their dining experience. This is worthy of an entire post, so I'll get into this another day.)

This server scored a 67%. Horrendous.

"Ouch. Can someone get in trouble for that?" I ask.

"Yup. You can get your ass fired for that." The Hippie is examining the report, idly munching on organic carrots.

"For what?" Irish walks into the back, looking harrassed. Then again, he always looks harassed.

"Low shopper scores."

"No you can't! If that was true, I'd have been fired after my first night. I got a 35."

Now Irish has a crowd. Taking pains to speak slowly and clearly, he explains. He was so poorly trained that he barely knew how to clock in for his first shift, which happened to be on a Saturday, our busiest night of the week. He had never waited a table before in his life, but he was given a four table section. He didn't know the menu, the computer, or the steps of service. Murphy's Law: Irish got shopped his first night on the floor.

"How did you manage to get 35?" If he knew nothing, I'm wondering if he got points for saying his name correctly.

"Oh, it wasn't me. They liked the food." This gets a laugh from the servers.

"Shows you how much shoppers know. Our food is crap." This from one of the veteran servers. I can't say that I disagree.

Valerie comes around the corner.

"ShiiiiiiIIIIIIFT!" It doesn't matter that we're all standing within five feet. Valerie always screams like a banshee when announcing the shift meeting.

Ten minutes later, after a scathing assesment of our serving abilities, Valerie sends us out to the floor. I see that I've already been sat, so I head to the table. As I'm launching into my spiel, the hostess double seats me. Great. It's going to be that kind of night.

Two hours later The Restaurant is hopping. I'm in the groove. All my jokes, even the bad ones, are working. My tables love me, and all my tips are over 20%.

I'm restocking glasses in a side station when Irish comes in to refill a soft drink.

"How you doing tonight?" I ask.

"Not so good. That shift meeting killed my good mood."

"Well, looks like your night is about to get better." I nod to one of the round 8 tops in Irish's section, which is getting sat with a party of 7. "Try ID'ing the older lady if she asks for a drink. Old folks love that." The 70-something looks like she could use a drink. The grandkids are rambunctious.

"Oh yeah? I haven't done that before, but I'll give it a try." Irish runs his drink and heads to greet his table. All my tables are happy, so I stick around to hear his delivery.

"Hi folks how are you doing? My name is Irish and I'll be taking care of you this evening." He rattles off the specials. "Can I start you folks off with something to drink?"

Turns out that everyone (with the exception of the little ones) is drinking. Finally, Irish gets to the 70-something.

"And for you miss?" I love that he used 'miss.' It's a good lead-in. They're going to love this if he can pull it off.

"Pinot Grigio, please."

I lean forward in anticipation. I love the sound of a table laughing.

"Of course. And I know I don't need to see your ID."

Dead silence from the table. Irish realizes that he's completely blown it. He's turning all shades of red, and he's starting to shake. He tries to backtrack.

"What I mean is.... I was going to ask to see your ID, cause... I mean, can I see your ID? No, just kidding...." I'm reminded of Tommy Boy. ("Your brain's the one with... shell on it")

The 70-something is staring at Irish to see if he's serious. The lady's son looks at Irish with pity. I bet he's wondering if Irish left his helmet on the short bus.

Irish beats a hasty retreat to the bar. I follow.

"So, uh, that didn't go so well, huh?" I'm trying to console Irish, but inside I'm laughing my ass off.

"No. This shift is worthless. How about going to the bar after this?" He's still beet red. I feel bad for him.

"Of course. We're going across the street. Hopefully we can catch the end of the Cubs game." Irish is a big Sammy Sosa fan. (mind you, this is pre-steroid scandal baseball) The Cubbies are playing the Cardinals in St. Louis. They're vying for the division lead.

"Great. Now excuse me, I'm going to try to save my tip."

He walks back to the table with a full tray of drinks.

He scoots in between his table and another 8-top. He places a drink down. As he straightens back up, a man at the other table finishes a story he is telling with a flourish. His arm flies back, slamming into Irish's tray. The tray tips, spilling the drinks all over the table.

The man telling the story glances back at Irish, then quickly turns back to his table. He says nothing. Irish looks back at the man, anger flashing in his eyes. He turns back to the table.

"I can't believe that guy just did that! I'll be right back with a new round and a towel." Irish turns to leave.

"What guy?" The son asks angrily.

I don't believe it. The son missed the whole thing. Looking around at the table, I can see that the rest of the party missed it as well. Irish looks around helplessly. His eyes lock onto mine. I smile and shrug. What can you do when Murphy's Law is in effect?

***

After a long night, the shift is finally over. We head to the bar.

We sit down and order beers. Pint of Bass for me, schooner of Miller Lite for Irish.

"How about some shots? I need to forget tonight." Irish is looking haggard. I'll help the best I can.

"Burning Turkeys?" Nothing will make you forget your troubles like Wild Turkey and tabasco.

The bartender sets down our shots and heads to the taps. I look up at the big screen TV. The Cubbies are clinging to a two run lead in the bottom of the ninth. They've brought in Antonio Alfonseca. While I know that he's twice the man I am (24 digits, 6 fingers on each hand, six toes on each foot), I also know that he's a rotten closer. He's in a precarious situation. Two men on, two outs, with the Cardinals slugger up to bat.

"To the Cubs!" says Irish, holding his shot glass up. I pick mine up, clink Irish's glass, and we down our shots. Immediately the burn sets in. The bartender was generous with the tabasco. She sets down my beer. I down half of it in two gulps to try to ease the burn. Irish looks for his beer.

"We're changing the keg, hon. It'll be just a sec." She saunters away. Irish is in pain. He's madly brushing his tongue with his hands. Just then, a groan arises from the bar patrons. Looking back at the screen, I catch the ball leaving Busch stadium. Great.

I look back at Irish. He looks downright miserable. He lives and dies with the Cubs. He's just seen his club blow a two run lead, his mouth is on fire, and it will be a few more minutes before he can get his beer to put out the flames. On top of that, he's had a rough night on the floor. Rotten night for Irish all around. Murphy's Law.

A Night out with the Deaf Server

2005-09-05T09:44:00.000-07:00

-A Description of Amy, The Deaf Server-

I first introduced The Deaf Server, Amy, in the post The Deaf Guy. In that post, you learned that Amy is a bitch. Here is a little bit more information on Amy.

Amy is in her late 30's. She claims that she's in her late 20's. Her body could easily pass for the latter. Full chest, nice legs, trim waist. She's in good shape. She has wavy platinum blonde hair that she wears long and loose. From the neck down, she's a head-turner.

However, her face will send most men packing. She must have had a losing bout with acne when she was younger. The pockmarks stand out despite the copious amounts of base and rouge. She also tans too often. Her skin is beginning to take on the consistency of leather.

Amy sports a surgically-implanted hearing aid. You don't notice it unless she has her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was sick as a child, and the high fever stunted her hearing development. She can read lips and hear conversation in close quarters.

Amy is a slut. I thought of putting that in nicer terms. I can't. She deserves the label. You'll see.

-A Night out with The Deaf Server-

Two days off in a row. I haven't had two days off in a row since I started working at The Restaurant. My only day off was Wednesday. Inevitably, every Wednesday morning at 9:00, I'd get a call from Valerie. It usually went something like this...

" e'lo?" me, in a raspy, confused voice.

"I need you to come in today." Valerie, ordering, not asking.

"What? No, Valerie, it's my only day off this week." I'm not about to give up my only day off. I'm already pissed that she woke me up five hours after I went to sleep.

"I need you to come in." She's not budging.

"Valerie, how many people do you have on the floor?" I'll give in if they have 6 or less. You can run a shift with five, but it's tough.

"Only ten. Need one more." You have to be kidding me.

"Bye Valerie." Click.

She did this to me almost every week since I first put on an apron. Unbelievable. But not this week. Nope. This week, I have two days off. Some new manager screwed up the schedule. Valerie is pissed, but I don't care. I deserve the time off.

A group of servers decide to make a night of it. It's me, my girlfriend, Amy, The Penguin, The Actor, and Soldato. We're going to meet at The Restaurant before heading out to a club. I hate dancing, but if I get drunk enough, I'll give it a whirl.

I'm driving my girlfriend's car to The Restaurant. She's in the passenger seat, putting on her makeup. I refuse to ride in the car while she's simultaneously putting on her makeup and weaving through traffic. I don't mind taking risks, but this is one situation that is sure to end in disaster.

"Have you ever been out with Amy before?" She asks, brushing on mascara.

"No, why? I hear she spends a lot of time on her knees in the bathrooms." I had heard this stories, but always dismissed them. Tales have a way of growing as they travel through The Restaurant's grapevine.

"Um... yeah. That's on a slow night." She's smiling mischievously. "Don't drink too much. You're going to want to remember this."

She refuses to say any more despite my increasingly insistent pleas.

We arrive at The Restaurant a few minutes later. Everyone else is already drinking.

The Penguin is wearing a purple dress. (Quick side note: We call her "The Penguin" because her body resembles that of Danny Devito as The Penguin in Batman Returns.) Tonight, she looks like Grimace from McDonald's. Hot momma!

Soldato is sporting a tight black shirt and about five pounds of gold on his neck and wrists. Vintage Italian mobster wanna-be.

My girl has on a nice top and tight low-rider jeans. I'm a happy camper.

The Actor is a homosexual dressed to the metro-sexual nines. Eighty dollar T-shirt, 400 dollar jeans.

I'm in jeans and nice polo. Still haven't lost my college fat yet, so I'm avoiding the tight tees for now.

Amy takes the cake. She's wearing a tube top that leaves very little, if anything, to the imagination. I can't tell if it's a tube top or a neck warmer that she's stretched out. It leaves everything exposed except the bottom 3/5 of her breasts. She's also wearing a mini-skirt. I get the distinct feeling that she's on the prowl.

We sit down and have a few beers. Valerie stops by our booth.

"I need to talk to you," she says to The Actor. He gets up and they move to the bar for some more privacy. Valerie didn't even so much as nod to the rest of us.

"Well, how about one more drink and we go?" I want to get out of here before Valerie tries to strap an apron on me.

"OK. Do you guys all know how to get there?" Amy asks. The club is about fifteen minutes away. Hop on the expressway, take the third exit, hang a right, and look for the shining lights.
Nothing too complicated.

Regardless, The Penguin insists on following Amy. I have a feeling The Penguin got ditched a lot in middle school.

"Hey Actor, we're ready to go!" Amy shouts. The Actor looks up, then resumes his conversation. I get up and head to the bathroom. Time to break the seal. A commotion at the bar slows me down.

"What the hell?!" The Actor is surprised. "Oh my God." The Actor sounds like he's going to puke.

I stop, wondering if I can wait a minute for my bathroom break.

"You disgusting bitch! I can't believe you just did that." The Actor has run behind the bar. He is washing his hands furiously. The Penguin and my girlfriend are looking on in disgust. Soldato is laughing hysterically. Amy is sitting in the same spot, looking impatient.

"What happened?" Soldato is closest, so I ask him. Unable to stifle his guffaws, he points at the floor near where The Actor was standing.

There's a used tampon laying on the floor.

"Did she just throw that at him?" Soldato is near tears. He nods.

"Did it hit him?" Another nod.

"Where did she..." I trail off, thinking of the miniskirt. I'm glad I missed this one. I run to the bathroom knowing I have to pee, wondering if I have to puke.

When I return to the bar area, The Actor is gone. Everyone else is in varying stages of putting on the winter coats, hats, gloves, and scarves.

"What happened?" I ask the group.

"He left," replies Amy. "You ready to go?"

Not wanting to have a tampon flung in my direction, I nod and head out the door carrying my coat.

***

The club is noisy, smoky, and filled to the brim with hormones and sexual tension. Oversized speakers spit out techno, drum and bass, and house music. Thump Thump Thump...thumpthump.. Thump Thump Thump.... How can I not dance?

We've lost The Actor, who I presume left to get to the nearest bio-hazard containment unit, but the rest of the crew made it to the club. Upon arrival, Soldato immediately headed towards the pool tables in the back. (Hustling pool is one of Soldato's lucrative side businesses.)

Soon the woman and I are dancing, oblivious to everything else. We quickly loose track of The Penguin and Amy.

After a while, we take a break. Heading to the bar, I catch sight of The Penguin. She's making out in the corner. I nudge my girlfriend.

She stares, open-mouthed. "It reminds me of that Discovery Channel show about anacondas. You know how they dislocate their jaw to eat their prey?" Hopefully The Penguin ate before she went out, or the poor guy will be in trouble.

Smiling and laughing, we grab a couple beers and sit down to watch the commotion on the dance floor. Sometimes watching people is the best form of entertainment.

One guy, obviously in the bag, hits on half a dozen girls before he finally convinces one to dance. Once on the floor, he promptly falls flat on his face. Undeterred, he keeps gyrating, holding a hand to the swelling on his forehead.

The cocktail waitresses weave in and out of the crowd, fake smiles plastered on their faces. They dish out shots in neon test-tubes, charging six bucks a pop.

There's a commotion at the far end of the dance floor. Cheers and jeers alternately arise from the group. The woman and I are about to head over when Soldato shows up out of nowhere.

"Dude, it's time to go." He casts a worried glance over his shoulder. Towards the pool room.

Uh-oh. It's likely that someone has taken exception to losing to Soldato by one ball... again. Soldato never learned that you can sheer a sheep many times, but you can skin it only once. When Soldato says it's time to leave, it's time to strap on the boots and find the nearest exit.

"OK, let's get out of here. Where's Amy?"

Grimace looks as though she's found her late-night meal, so we'll leave her here.

"I think I know," my girlfriend says. She points to the noisy crowd in the corner.

Sure enough, I can see a platinum blonde head bouncing in time to the music. Great.

Crossing the dance floor, we make a beeline to Amy. When we get closer, we see that she's in the center of a group of guys. A great number have pulled down their pants. Amy is judging each man's member with either a thumbs up or a thumbs down. So that's what all the cheers and jeers were about.

My girlfriend shoots into the group, grabs Amy's hand, and pulls her away. There is a collective groan from the inebriated circle.

They make their way back to us, Amy wild-eyed and fiery, my girlfriend mildly annoyed. We start towards the entrance, only to see an angry-looking bouncer heading our way. Changing course, we leave through a side exit.

***

We head to a 3 am bar. We're regulars here. Soldato sets up shop at the pool tables in the back. Amy, my girlfriend, and I settle into a booth.

"So, Amy, what was that all about?" I have to know why she was holding a penis judging contest in the middle of a crowded club.

"I got bored," is her reply. Fair enough, I suppose.

A few drinks later and we're laughing. Interesting night, one that is sure to live on in annals of The Restaurant lore for years to come. Amazingly, it isn't over.

A man walks over and taps Amy on the shoulder.

"Remember me?" big smile. The guy has on more gold than Soldato. He's wearing a silk collared shirt with more than a few buttons undone. He looks like he just stepped out of a South Beach porn shoot.

"No," is Amy's curt reply.

"From the bathroom? About two weeks ago?" Oh my God, the stories are true.

"Oh yeah! How are you?" Amy crosses her arms in front of her, leaning forward to accent her cleavage. She bats her eyes at the AO, who is openly staring at her chest. Dear God, this woman has no shame.

"Fine... want to get out of here?" He's smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

Amy doesn't even reply. She just gets up and leaves, waving over her shoulder. I guess that's all you need to do to pick up The Deaf Server.

The girlfriend looks at me. "Are you OK?" she asks.

"I think so. I can't believe she just left with that guy. Although, I'm still trying to process that she was in a circle of guys holding an impromptu...." I trail off, shaking my head.

"Don't forget the tampon," is my girlfriend's reply.

"How could I? Disgusting. Hey, you want to get out of here? I've had enough excitement for one night." I'm drained, both physically and psychologically.

"Sure. I'll drive." What a sweetheart.

Making sure Soldato can get a ride home (he's had a few DUI's, so he doesn't drive anymore), we head out the door.

As we get to the car, I ask, "Is that the wildest night you've had with Amy or what?"

She looks at me and smiles.

"Not even close."

For the Newcomers

2005-09-01T07:01:00.000-07:00

Hello, newcomers! I want to thank you all for visiting Server Stories. Most of you came from Waiter Rant. I can't thank The Waiter enough for linking to my blog.

I think it would be nice if the newbies got an idea of what some of the good stuff on here looks like. If you veterans want to let them know what your favorite Server Stories post is, perhaps the uninitiated can get a better idea of what this blog is all about.

I'm opening the floor to voting!

I'm also opening the floor to voting for my next post. I do this from time to time to encourage reader participation. Your choices this week are...

Soldato's Last Stand

A Night out with The Deaf Server

The Most Interesting Server Ever (new character)

The Penguin (new character)

Hillbilly Night

Anyone can vote for the new post. Let me know what you want to hear. I'll close the voting when one story has 15 votes or on friday at midnight (which, coincidentally, is my birthday). I'll try to get a story out by Saturday evening.

Another year older,

The Server

The Server Plays Manager

2005-08-31T08:32:00.000-07:00

-Epilogue-

This story takes place in The Bar. It happened less than a month ago.

Recently, two managers left The Bar. One got canned for nailing a server after close, while the other moved to a location nearer his home. To pick up the slack, the GM asked my to run some "key shifts" until the new managers arrive. Basically, this means that my responsibility will be to take care of the servers, the customers, and the appearance of the front of the house. No biggie.

-A Description of Zo-

Zo is somewhere between 27 and 35. He is short (about 5'4''), and only slightly overweight. His hair is short and curly. It also seems as though his face is too small for his head. In several years, when osteoporosis sets in, he'll look like the guy on the Keystone light commercials. Bitter-Beer Face.

Zo is a low talker. For those of you who don't watch Seinfeld, a low talker is one who speaks so softly that it is difficult to understand what they are saying. He mumbles. Worse, he talks really fast.

Zo is one of the new managers. He's had the roughest start I've ever seen at The Bar. All the servers hate him, but with good reason- he treats them like crap. Case in point: We're doing a new promotion for our wings. Zo stopped one of our veteran servers to ask where her Wing Pin was attached to her uniform. The server had a tray full of drinks at the time. She almost dropped them while pointing out that the Wing Pin was indeed attached to her apron. Zo's remark as she's walking away, "Good, cause else you'd be in trouble!" In a place where it is difficult enough for servers to show up to work, he decided to pick on one of his best veterans for a pin. Picking battles is not Zo's strong suit.

-The Server Plays Manager-

I hop out of my Jeep dressed in manager garb. In other circles, this is referred to as 'business casual.' I'm excited for the upcoming day. While I'm an outstanding server, I feel that managing people is my best attribute.

It's 11 am, and we've just opened for business. The Bar does a decent lunch business. Nothing like The Restaurant, but decent nonetheless.

I walk into the back to talk to the GM. He's going through his paperwork.

"What's up GM?"

"Hey, Server, you ready for this?" He puts his paperwork to the side and pulls out a manager card. The manager card is the key to the city. I can adjust checks, comp food, 86 items, the works. Only problem is, I have no idea how it works.

"Can you show me how to wield this thing?" Normally, I don't use words like "wield" in everyday conversation. Somehow, it feels right today.

"Sure thing." He hops out of his chair and leads me to a computer screen.

He swipes the card and gives me a two minute crash course. When he's finished, I'm still completely unsure as to what I'm doing.

"Got it?" He's ready to go back to the books.

"Got it." I'll figure it out as I go.

The lunch rush goes off without a hitch. No customer complaints. The only issue I have is the staff's teamwork, which is non-existant. Oh well. Can't fix it today. One thing at a time.

The servers cash out. They all leave except for the late check. She handles the entire bar until the 4 o'clock servers arrive in a few hours.

I use the time to eat, make up the night floor chart, and clean up the place. So far so good.

The first problem arises at 4:05. One of the PM cooks hasn't showed.

Cooks are the backbone for the restaurant. Without a solid kitchen, any restaurant will fall apart in a hurry. This is a problem that needs to be fixed in a hurry.

"GM, one of the cooks didn't show." The GM is packing his briefcase. He's been here since 5 am doing inventory. He's ready to go home.

"Let Zo take care of it." He snaps his briefcase shut and walks out the door. Way to take care of business. I guess the buck doesn't stop here.

Zo walks up. It's his first shift. He's nervous and taking it out on the servers.

"Where's your Wing Pin?" he yells as each server walks in for their shift. I'm already sick of that question. Obviously they are too. One of the servers pulls me aside.

"Dude, I can't take that guy any more. He's such an asshole. I'm going to quit." I agree completely, but since I'm wearing manager garb and I have The Card...

"He's new. It's going to take him a while to get used to things. You know how new managers are. They want to change the world on their first shift. It'll be OK." I can see that she's still pissed. I also know that she's well-liked in the restaurant. If she walks out, I get the distinct feeling that others will be right behind.

"Well, just don't walk out. I'll see if I can't talk to GM and get things squared away."

This seems to placate the server. Whew. Bomb diffused. I've seen a mass staff walkout before. It ain't pretty. That's not how I want my first shift to run.

Six o'clock rolls around. For some reason, we're busy as hell. We're staffed for a Monday night. The place is filling up like a Friday night. SHIT.

I head back to the kitchen. All hell breaks loose.

The ticket machine that prints each server's order is spitting out chits like a Gatlin gun. There is a pile an inch thick behind the printer. The cooks already have a full kitchen. There is no place on the grill for more burgers, no free basket in the fryer. The cooks are staring at the machine, mouths agape.

I spring into action. I track down Zo, who's chasing servers around with the Wing Card, which is supposed to go hand-in-hand with the Wing Pin. For every order of 10 Wings, a customer gets a Wing Punch on their Wing Card, which could earn them a trip anywhere in the continental U.S. Wing-derful.

"Zo, the kitchen is in bad shape. Can you help them out?" We need a kitchen manager directing traffic. Since no one can understand what Zo is saying, I figure it's best if I stay up front and deal with the customers.

"Make sure they're doing their Wing Punches!" He ambles, hobbit-like, back towards the kitchen. I watch him go, shaking my head.

No time to dwell on that now. Servers are lining up with myriad problems.

"Can you take off this guy's steak? It was cooked too well-done."

"Can you check and see if the guys at table 110 are ok for another round?"

"Can you buy this drink for my friend?"

"Can you put this tab onto this one? I messed up and..."

Time flies by. Not cause I'm having fun, but because the place is busy as hell. People are standing in the aisles because there is no place to sit.

Soon I'm sick of my own name. Each time I hear it, there is five minutes of computer work ahead of me. I soon realize that I should have spent more time learning how to use The Card. Oh well.

Finally, I get some time away from the computer. I use it to mark down the 4-drink calls. Servers write down a description of the customer, what they've had to drink, and how they're acting. This prevents us from paying a huge lawsuit if some drunken yuppie has a few too many and wraps his Beamer around a telephone pole.

As I'm filling out the chart, I look up. Bedlam. It's a rowdy crowd. Guests are standing on chairs, shouting to each other across the bar. I see two college-age guys having a chugging contest with $6/pint beer. Then my eyes settle on a middle-aged couple eating dinner. My heart goes out to them. Here they are, trying to enjoy a decent meal and a nice glass of wine while all around them, hell is breaking loose.

I turn to the host.

"Turn down the music." He looks at me like I'm nuts. But he's a friend of mine. He does what I tell him.

I walk across the floor, pulling guests down from chairs as I go. I finally reach the older couple.

"Hi folks, how is everything tonight?"

They look up at me. "It's a little wild in here for us."

"Yes, things are a little crazy tonight. I promise that it's not normally like this. Tell you what... I've got some coupons here for a free meal. I'd love it if you would come back and visit us again on a night when things are a bit less... hectic." They smile and thank me.

Feeling pleased with myself, I am walking back to my 4-drink sheet when a server stops me.

"Hey, there's blood in one of the stalls in the men's bathroom." She's gone almost as quick as she came.

This is just what I need. I grab the spray bottle of bleach and some paper towels. Hopefully this will be quick.

I open the door to the men's room. Immediately, I realize that this is going to require a bit more effort than I originally thought. The sharp, coppery smell of blood assaults my olfactory sense. I can't see it yet, but I sure can smell it.

I open the first stall door. Clean. Same with the second. That leaves the handicapped stall. Opening the door, I choke back the bile that rises in my throat.

It looks like someone had a knife fight in the stall. Blood is everywhere. The toilet seat, the floor, the walls are all covered in quickly drying blood.

Closing off the restroom, I am grabbing cleaning supplies when Zo comes up to me.

"mumble...mumble...Wing Punches?"

"What? No, I haven't done any Wing Punches. " I can't believe he's asking me about this shit now. The servers are running around like chickens with their heads cut off, and I'm about to clean up a bio hazard. Wing Punches are the last thing on my mind.

"Well, you should be doing those. Hey, we're almost out of napkins. I know you were supposed to be off an hour ago, but could you run to the other location and grab a pack for us?" I looked at my watch. 11:00. I was scheduled to get off at 10. Oh well.

"I'd be happy to," I say, grabbing my keys. "Oh, by the way, there's some blood in the bathroom. Would you mind taking care of that while I'm gone?"

As I'm heading down the highway toward the nearest sister Bar, I reflect on the night. I remained calm, made at least one customer feel special, kept a server from quitting, and saddled a bastard manager with a horrible job. All in all, not a bad first shift. I wonder how many Wing Punches Zo has done....

The Least Popular Server

2005-08-24T18:41:00.000-07:00

-Prologue-

It's not fair to call her the Least Popular Server (LPS from now on). The managers loved her. I don't know why. She was an awful person.

-A Description of the LPS-

The LPS stands 5'5'' and weighs nearly 300 lbs.

She always wears shorts to work despite the fact that her legs are pasty white. She also wears knee braces on both knees. The cloth kind. They're sweat-stained and smelly. Kind of a mixture of B.O. and week-old Chinese food.

She has long red hair. It's unruly and always tied back in a ponytail.

Her voice is raspy and whiny. She is both bossy and abrupt when she speaks. This is not a good combo. Hearing her speak is similar to listening to nails grate across a chalkboard. Yech!

-The Least Popular Server-

It's Tuesday night in September, our slow month. The Restaurant is slow, yet steady. The atmosphere is subdued.

I hate working nights like this. You have to scramble to make money. Getting sat a party is the only way to cover your gas money.

The only redeeming factor about this shift is that I'm working with my girlfriend. (We've only just started dating. Everything is still new, exciting, and mysterious.) She's trying to make the best of the shift. She tied a balloon to my apron as I was walking to my first table. I took their burger order with a helium-inflated balloon hovering about a foot behind my head.

The LPS is standing against the wall. I walk by, two thoughts flashing through my mind. Is she trying to hold the wall up? Followed by, Shouldn't she be doing something?

Reading my mind, she says, "I have no tables. This place sucks." She walks away. I don't know where she's going, and I don't care. I just hope she stays there for a while. Honestly, if you don't like your job, find work elsewhere! Serving jobs are a dime a dozen. It's not rocket science, and almost any restaurant will take on a new server if they have any experience.

My girlfriend walks over.

"Hey, you got sat. Go make some money so you can take me someplace nice." I look up in alarm. I'm not worried that I'm going to be late. I'm worried that I'm dating a gold digger. I see her face break into a huge smile and I realize that she's yanking my chain. Whew.

I walk to my table. Friendly folks. As I head back to the side station, I notice a two-top sitting in the LPS's section. Normally, I'd search high and low for a server to let them know they have a customer. With her, I don't really care. Hopefully they'll complain, get their meal comped, and the LPS will be sacked.

By the time I reach the soda fountain, I realize that I'm being a Bad Server. I turn around, about to search for the LPS. The girlfriend is trying to tie another balloon to my apron. Busted.

"Oh, hi," she gives me a big smile. She lowers the balloon.

"Hey, can you let the LPS know that she's been sat?"

"I'll look for her." She marches off, head on a swivel.

I deliver the drinks to my table and take their order. Lots of modifications. Oh well. I have plenty of time.

After taking their order, I notice the couple is still sitting, unattended. It's way past the shopper-acceptable 2-minute greet time. They're looking around, slightly miffed.

I spot my girlfriend. She's walking a lot faster than she was before. give her an inquisitive look. She shrugs. I nod at the table. She nods at me. I love server sign language.

As I disappear behind the side station wall, I hear my girlfriend greet the table.

"Hi folks. I'm so sorry that it took so long to greet you. This isn't the way things work here at The Restaurant. If it'd be alright, I'd love to buy you folks an appetizer." Damn, she's good.

I enter the food order for my lone table and look around. The LPS is nowhere to be found. Oh well. You snooze, you lose.

My girlfriend comes back into the side station.

"How are they?" I ask.

"Fine. I smoothed things over. If I do a good job, I may pull a sympathy tip, but I'm not betting on it. She jumps on the computer and enters their appetizer. She heads off towards the kitchen.

I start rearranging the cabinets, trying to keep busy.

"What are you doing?! They're mine!" Fingers on a chalkboard, yech!

I peek around the corner. It's worse than I thought. My girl looks as though she's in the middle of taking the couple's order. The LPS is standing uncomfortably close to her, looking murderous.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't find you, and these nice folks had been waiting a while. Would you like to take them?" All this in front of customers. Great.

"No! I don't want them. I'll just take your next table." She stomps away, feet thundering like an elephant. I'm reminded of a 2-year old throwing a fit.

I see my girlfriend trying to smooth things over with the customers. Actually, the LPS's outburst probably helped her tip percentage. At least they know that it wasn't her fault they were greeted late.

I follow my girl as she heads to the back. Even from behind, I can see the tension and anger consume her. She's practically shaking as she starts pounding away at the touch-screen computer.

"That effing bitch! I save her ass and she acts like this?!" She hisses.

I know better than to get in between to angry women. I'll let them work it out. I peek around the corner.

"You're getting sat with a party! Go make some money." This puts a smile on her face. She grabs a stack of bev naps and heads out the door.

She stops in the doorway. The bev naps fall to the floor. I run behind to see what's wrong, although I have a pretty good idea already.

Sure enough, the LPS is setting down bev naps as the party is sitting down.

Now, I'm going to break aside here for a moment to explain an Unwritten Rule of Serving.

If a server takes a table in another server's section (usually because the server is running late and The Restaurant is getting busy or the hostess mistakenly seats someone in a non-present server's section), it is common courtesy to allow them to have a table in your section.

However, this rule does not apply when a server takes a table in another's section in an attempt to do what's right by the customer. Also, this table swap does not include party tables. Taking another server's party table is like kicking them in the groin, opening their wallet, and stealing a wad of cash while they lie writhing on the floor. Not cool.

Back to the story...

My girlfriend is seething. The LPS looks directly at my girlfriend as she begins her spiel.

"Hi folks, my name is _______, and I'll be your server tonight." She's smiling evilly.

My girlfriend walks to the back. She's upset.

"I can't believe this. That was my only chance to make money!" She puts her head in her hands and sighs. Time for damage control.

"Hey, don't let her get you down. If she sees you like this, she'll know she got to you. Pick your head up," and win one for the Gipper! I should have been a motivational speaker.

"You're right." She shakes her head. Suddenly, her face transforms. The forlon look is gone, replaced by a combination of anger and mischief. Uh oh. I think I just tossed gasoline on smoldering ashes. Woops.

She runs to the back. A few minutes later, the manager on duty comes strolling up, stopping in front of the computer.

"What kind do you want?"

"Just chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. I know the oreo shakes hurt your food cost." My girlfriend's voice is sugary. Too sugary. Toothache sugary.

The manager types in an order. I look over his shoulder. Ten shakes; vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. Enough for the whole staff, including the cooks. Nice guy. Milkshakes are like crack for our servers. A free milkshake is the server's version of a bonus. It's too bad we can't have the oreo shakes. They're the consesus staff favorite.

I pull my girlfriend aside. "What are you up to?"

"You'll see. If something happens to her, it will be her own fault." I'm scared of my girlfriend right now.

She walks up to the bar and grabs the shakes. Instead of heading to the side station, she heads back to the expo line. I have to get back to my table, so I can't follow her.

When I get back, my girlfriend is back up at the bar. I'm confused, but I'll wait and see how it all pans out.

When she comes back, she has a tray full of milkshakes. I notice there is an extra shake. An Oreo! The bartender must have accidentally made an extra one!

The servers are swarming like a pack of starving wolves. I'm wondering how we're going to decide who gets it when the LPS waddles around the corner, stinking like old Mongolian beef.

"Milkshakes! Are these for us? I get the Oreo!" She snatches it from the tray with her sausage-like fingers. She licks some of the whipped cream off the top. "Haha! Mine!" She turns up her nose and walks away.

The other servers watch her leave. They're pissed. My girlfriend is laughing.

Everyone turns to look at her. What was so funny? She tries to compose herself to explain. She's still trying to catch her breath as she starts talking.

"Little (gasp) known fact. (gasp) Parmesan Peppercorn salad dressing (gasp) looks just like an oreo milkshake." The servers are all smiling. They all scatter, taking up strategic positions so they can watch the LPS, unnoticed, when she gets back.

So that's what she was doing! She got the shakes, went to the back and filled one with dressing, then went back to the bar and topped it with the whipped cream! Counting on the LPS's greed and selfishness was a brilliant stroke of poetic justice.

I'm waiting, pretending to refill the pickles on the expo line, when my girlfriend runs around the corner. She's smiling so big, I think her head's going to break open like that flip-top head in the Reach Toothbrush commercial.

"Did I miss it?" I thought I kept the 'shake' in view the entire time.

"No! Look!" She thrusts a credit card slip at me. It's the couple that she picked up from the LPS. Their bill was $20 after the comp. In the TIP line is written $50. At the bottom, written on the credit card slip, thanks for the great service. We're sorry that the other server stole your table. Hope this helps.

Just then, the LPS storms around the corner. She looks pissed. She looks at my girlfriend.

"Your stupid party only left me $20. On a $200 bill! Oh well, it's more than you'll make tonight." She reaches up and plucks her 'shake' from the shelf.

She licks her lips hungrily, and slowly wraps her lips around the straw....

What happened next is not fit to write, but rest assured that the night ended as it should. Poetic Justice is a beautiful thing!

Email

2005-08-21T10:22:00.000-07:00

Hi all. Just a quick note to let everyone know that you can email me now. My address is server_stories@yahoo.com. I am going to be spending some time housesitting for my parents while they are out of town. This translates as... I'll have plenty of free time to write some posts! Look forward to a busy week on the blog.

The Server

The Server Goes to the Loony Bin

2005-08-17T18:23:00.000-07:00

-Preface-

Sorry it's been so long, everyone. I hope this makes up for the time lapse. This story has its funny moments, but its tone is more somber and serious than the usual posts.

I am giving you all a glimpse into my personal life on this one. There are a couple of things you should know before we get started...

1) I suffer from depression. I take meds, but every now and again I need to get the prescription adjusted. Keeps me level.

2) While I was at school, I used to date a Canadian. I don't talk to her any more. You'll soon see why.

3) My family is really close. I'm serious. We're like the Cleavers and the Cosbys.

-The Server Goes to the Loony Bin-

It's a beautiful day at The Restaurant. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and the waitresses are wearing short shorts. I'm walking in, swinging my apron around like a kid going around-the-world with a yo-yo. Life is good.

The only thing weighing heavy on my mind is a conversation I had the night before with The Canadian. It didn't go well. In fact, it ended with me yelling, "You make me want to shoot myself!" before hanging up. Mature, I know. But I'm young and emotional, which isn't a good combo.

As soon as I walk in, Valerie calls me into the office.

"Call your Dad. You no work today. I get your shift covered." I blink and rub my eyes. Valerie is going to give me a day off? Something must be really wrong.

My mind whirs. Is my Dad hurt? My Mom? My little Sister? What the hell is going on?

I grab the office phone and dial my house. My Dad picks up on the first ring.

"Dad, what's going on? Is everyone ok?" I brace myself, preparing for the worst.

"Everyone's fine, buddy. Can you meet me at the gym?" This is weird... my Dad doesn't take days off, and all of a sudden he feels like he needs to miss work and start working out?

"That's fine. Can you tell me what's going on?"

"I'd rather talk over a game of HORSE, ok?" We used to do this when I was little. Everytime there was big news, we'd talk about it over a game of HORSE. This must be important...

This day just went from beautiful, to odd, to ominous.

I drive over to the gym and start warming up. A short while later, my Dad shows up.

We go at it for two games. He doesn't take it easy on me any more. We split the games. I kill him with trick shots and threes from the corner. He makes me look silly with his left-handed reverse layups and free throws. Funny how old-school fundamentals and new-school flash even out.

My curiosity grows throughout our games. The old man hasn't said a word, and he seems to be in good spirits. Normally, I can get a pretty good read on people. In this case, even though it's my father, I'm clueless. Finally, he's ready to talk.

"Hey, buddy, got a call from The Canadian this morning. She's a bit worried about you."

What?! This whole thing is about a stupid fight I had with the Canadian? And what the hell is she doing calling my parents? I feel like I'm in a fifth grade feud... 'I'm telling on you!'

"OK...." I can't think of anything else to say.

"I think it's time we go back to the doc to adjust your meds." Ah, I see. No big deal. It's probably time for an adjustment. A quick visit to the doc and I'll be good to go.

"What time is the appointment?"

"Well, we should just make it if we leave now."

"Alright, let's go."

We hop into his car and head off towards the doctors office. I didn't sleep well after the fight with The Canadian. I'm tired. Watching the trees shoot by the car, I start to nod off.

When I come to, we've stopped. There's just one problem. We're at the hospital, not the doctor's office.

"Dad, what's going on?"

"I got a reference for a new doctor. He works here. The family doc says he's like a chemist with anti-deppressants." Sounds good to me.

We walk in past the front desk. We amble through the corridors until we reach a set of double doors. A placard reading "Mental Health Ward" hangs over them. Whoever did the sign has a macabre sense of humor. The words have been scrawled in an olde English script, conjuring images of the old asylums where the inmates were tortured. If they weren't insane when they arrived, undoubtably they were batty when they left.

After passing through these doors, my Dad turns to me.

"Son, I've already talked to your doctor. He thinks you should stay here overnight, just to clear your mind." Ah Ha! So this is why he was acting so oddly.

"Why? I don't feel that bad." I don't mind changing my meds, but this place is kind of creepy. Buncha folks walking around in paper pajamas, looking really unhappy.

"Well, the Canadian told your mom and I that you were thinking about suicide. That makes us kind of nervous."

"Whoa... hold on there. That was taken completely out of context! I'm fine, really!" I carry on like this for about half an hour. I can see the steely resolve in my father's eyes. I'm staying here whether I like it or not. Shit. This puts a damper on my afternoon plans.

"Fine. What do I have to do?" I turn to the orderly. He makes me fill out a form. He takes my belt (in case I try to hang myself), my shoelaces (in case I try to use them to saw my wrists), and my dignity. Even though I'm 90% clothed, I feel as naked as I've ever felt.

My Dad hugs me before he leaves. For the only time in my life that I can remember, I don't hug him back. I'm pissed.

I sit on a bench for a while, watching the other "guests" in the ward. There is a woman in her mid-30's. She's got a visitor, but she isn't talking to him. She's completely listless, holding her head in her hands.

Another woman, in her early-80's, is walking towards the orderly stand, across the hall from where I'm sitting.

"Where is my red pill?" Her voice reminds me of sandpaper scraping across gravel.

"Delores, you don't get a red pill tonight." The orderly is friendly.

"I need my red pill, you bastard." Delores is getting angry.

"Now Delores, don't be like that. The doc says you don't get one tonight." He remains calm and friendly.

"Give me my red pill you stupid motherfucker." I'm trying not to laugh. This shit is better than TV.

"Delores, if you don't calm down, we're going to have to put you in the restraints."

"Fuck you!" Delores turns to go, then stops. She turns back to the orderly, murder in her eyes. I outweigh Delores by about 90 lbs., but that look makes me uncomfortable.

I'm looking for something blunt and heavy when I hear something that sounds like a shotgun.

I dive behind the bench.

Now the orderly is cracking up. I sneak a look.

Delores has just shit herself. There's a brown stain on her otherwise pearly-white night gown. Oh... my... God.... No way I just saw that!

The orderly takes Delores to the bathroom to clean up. While he's gone, I notice a phone on his desk. I know he'll be busy with her for a while, so I decide to take advantage.

I use a calling card to call the Canadian.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Beats 'hello' anyday.

"What do you mean? Calling your parents?"

"Yes, calling my parents. Do you know where I am? I'm in the fucking loony bin!"

"I didn't mean for that to happen!" She sounds sorry, but sorry doesn't get me out of the loony bin, does it?

"I can't believe this... I don't know if I can forgive you for this one. I better go, the orderly is done cleaning up the old lady that shit herself." I hang up and let her stew on that one.

Over the next couple hours, I'm privy to some of the everyday occurrences of the mental health ward. A fight nearly breaks out when someone switches the channel from PAX to Lifetime. One older gentleman mutters to himself in the corner. I'm introduced to my roommate, who has two fresh bandages on his wrist from his most recent suicide attempt.

I'm going through this whole thing in a haze, alternately cursing my parents and the Canadian. Ultimately, I realize that I'm more pissed at the Canadian. My parents were just looking out for their son. She was looking to hurt me after our fight.

That evening, everyone is told to retire to their rooms. It's 8:00. The orderly gives me a pill to help me sleep.

"Doctor's orders," he says with a wink. He's a good guy. I take the pill and slip into the void of sleep.

***

"GET THE FUCK OFF ME YOU STUPID MOTHER FUCKERS!!!! I'LL KILL YOU!! GET OFF ME!!!"

I shoot out of bed, disoriented. Where the hell am I? Oh yeah, the booby hatch.

Two orderlies are dragging my roommate out of his bed. He's screaming bloody murder.

A third man stands in the corner. He's tapping his clipboard with a pen. He looks bored.

"What are they doing to him?"

"He has ECT this morning." For those of you not in the know, ECT stands for "electro-convulsive therapy", the newer, happier-sounding name of electric shock therapy. The same electric shock therapy that we all remember from "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Good times.

I get to call my parents. They tell me that the doctor is supposed to meet with me by 10, so I should be out by noon. Thank God.

The morning passes uneventfully. The only event of interest is "exercise hour". This is actually a half hour in which the "guests" are allowed to walk around a small courtyard.

There is a ping pong table. I ask one of the guests to play with me. It's the same lady that had a guest the day before. I was looking forward to a nice, quiet game.

Turns out the lady is bipolar. Last night, she was down. Today, she's manic. She's talking a mile a minute. I know her life's story by the end of the game.

The doctor doesn't show up until 6 pm that evening. My parents are here. They're ticked. They wanted me to be able to relax for an evening. Instead, they worry that I've been traumatized. Can't say that I blame them. Honestly, had Delores not started the events on such and uplifting note, I would have been miserable.

The doctor prescribes me some new meds. Sweet.

I get my shoelaces and belt back, and we're on our way.

In the car ride home, I reflect back on my stay at the loony bin. I'm not mad at my parents for putting me there. They always want what's best for me. However, I feel bad for those who make a permanent home there. That's no way to live.

As for the Canadian... I haven't forgiven her. Honestly, I don't even know how she feels about it. I haven't spoken to her since. I don't know if I'm being shallow about this whole thing. I mean, after all... I did get a great story out of the ordeal.

Valerie Gets Canned- Part II

2005-07-31T11:55:00.000-07:00

-Preface-

When we left off, Valerie was scrubbing floors. The corporate office sacked the regional manager. I am at school in Jersey while my girlfriend is working at The Restaurant. She calls me with regular updates. I'm nervous, as I wrote an email that laid out all the problems that Valerie is causing. She hasn't been fired, and I'm wondering if I've been laid out to dry.

-Valerie Gets Canned, Part II-

I'm in my dorm writing a paper for one of my Anthropology classes. It's a five-pager. In high school, a five-page paper is intimidating. Now it's a breeze. I've been writing for an hour and I already have seven pages. I just have to pare down the flowery language and I'm good to go. There's a party tonight that I don't want to miss.

The phone rings. It's my girl. She's calling from The Restaurant.

"She's still here." She's whispering. She must be on her cell phone in the back.

"Is she still washing the walls?" I love the mental picture of Valerie on her knees with a bucket of soap and a sponge, Cinderella-style.

"No... the new regional made her clean out the entire dry storage. She's still in there. This place reeks like bleach!"

"How's the new regional treating everyone?"

"She's strict, but she loves me... I think she might be a lesbo. She made me unbutton a few buttons on my shirt. My boobs are almost hanging out." I like this new regional manager already.

"Oh, yeah? How are the tips today?"

"Actually, really good." No surprise there. How you look can effect your tip, regardless of your skills as a server. (More on this in another post)

"Nice. People are pigs. Hey, I have to finish this paper, then I'm going to go out. Ice block party tonight. You working tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"OK. Can you call me if anything else happens?"

"Sure... by the way, what's an ice block party?"

"We got a 300 lb. block of ice. We set it up on a stand and use an iron to melt grooves in it. Whoever wants a shot stands at the bottom with their mouth on the end of the groove. We pour in the booze from the top, and by the time it gets to the bottom, it's ice cold."

"Sounds like fun! Wish I could be there..." I can hear her pouting. Truth of the matter is, I wish she could be here too. When you're at school, you forget what it feels like to get a hug from a loved one.

"I know, baby. I wish you could be here, too. Give me a call tomorrow, ok?"

"Will do. I better get back..." Click.

OK, back to the paper. I hate Foucalt....

---

The phone is ringing. So is my head. Jaeger is the devil, especially when it's being poured down an icy chute. I grope for the phone in the dark.

"Hello?" My eyes are still closed. A little monkey is playing conga drums in my skull. Every time I move, he playes louder. I try to stay still.

"You sound like shit." Is that a hint of glee I hear?

"Thanks. What time is it?"

"Eleven your time." I've been asleep for five hours. Super.

"What's going on?"

"I just got here. She's still here, but now they have her cleaning the ceiling tiles. The reason I called is that there are two people from corporate here." Forgetting my headache, I shoot out of bed onto my feet.

"You think they're going to fire her today?" I pace nervously while my mind races. Is this it? Will they finally get rid of her? Who will the be the new GM? Man, my hardwood floor sure is dirty. Where are my shower slippers? Shit, she's talking again.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said 'I don't think so.' They wouldn't make her keep cleaning if they were going to fire her, right?"

"Honestly, I don't know. I'm going to be in my room all day. Call me if something changes."

I hang up the phone. I wonder out of my bedroom into the common room. The light streaming through our lone window hurts my eyes.

My roommate is gently shooing out some girl he picked up last night. She leaves reluctantly. Time for her to embark on the Walk of Shame.

He looks like hell. I figure I probably look just as bad. We look at each other. Without saying a word, we turn and head back to our beds.

---

I'm finally able to get out of bed around 2. My roommate and I head out for lunch at Hoagie Haven, home of the greatest cheese steaks on Earth. We need grease if we're going to rebound for another party tonight. I love college.

When we get back about an hour later, the red light on the phone is blinking. There is a message. My roommate checks first.

"Must be you. My voicemail is empty." He tosses me the handset, plops on the couch, and flicks on the TV. He finds an NCAA basketball game and zones in.

I check my voicemail. Four messages. The first is from my parents. Just checking in. The next three are from my girlfriend.

"Call me back!"
"Where are you? You better not be sleeping! Call me back!"
"I can't believe I can't get a hold of you! You said you'd be in your room all day. Call me back!"

Weird. She's not the type to call and leave a bunch of messages. Hmmm... I pick up the handset and call The Restaurant.

"Thank you for calling The Restaurant, this is Rena speaking, how can I help you?"

"Rena, it's me. Is the woman around?"

"I was wondering when you were going to call. You ain't gonna believe this shit! Here she is."

"Hello? They did it! They canned her ass! HA!" She's screaming into the receiver. My mind goes numb. I recover quickly and start dancing a little jig, laughing hysterically. My roommate watches me with mild interest.

"Tell me everything!"

She launches into the story.

Valerie has been cleaning the place from bottom to top. She was washing the ceiling tiles, but when she got to the final tile, the corporate G-Men stopped her. They lead her over to one of the tables. Nobody can hear anything until Valerie stands up and starts screaming, "This bullshit! You can't fire me! I managing partner!"

Valerie invested some money into the franchise a while back. She gets a percentage of the store's profits.

Apparently, The G-Men anticipated this. They open a briefcase, write her a check, hand it to her, and point her towards the door. She's screaming as she's leaving.

"You can't do this! This bullshit! I sue your asses!"

As she's leaving, still raving, a man walks in. He's about 6'4'', and he looks a bit nervous. The G-Men speak to him for a moment. They then ask the staff to gather in the back.

Once everyone is there, the G-men introduce the tall man as the new general manager, Randy. Then one of the G-men explained what happened.

"The corporate office felt it may be time for a change for this store. When we arrived a few days ago, we realized that The Restaurant was in a lot worse of shape than we anticipated. In fact, it was rotten to the core. We made Valerie clean up her own mess, as you may have noticed. However, we left one ceiling tile untouched." He points to the uncleaned ceiling tile. It's yellow, on the verge of brown. The contrast with the gleaming white ceiling tiles is astonishing. "Every time you look at that tile, I want you all to think about what each of you can do to prevent the same sort of thing from happening."

The G-men pack up their stuff an leave.

In the coming weeks, Valerie's absence was easily noticable. From the associates (servers, bartenders, cooks, busboys, hosts) a mild euphoria permeated The Restaurant. From the managers, astonishment and disgust. Valerie had been doctoring her cost numbers for months. Food cost jumped four points, beverage cost jumped 2. For those of you counting at home, that adds up to about $4,500 in missing food and liquor.

And from me? Well, I'm just amazed at the power of one well-written email.

Valerie Gets Canned- Part I

2005-07-27T21:38:00.000-07:00

-Preface-

This is a longer story, so I'm breaking it into two parts. The first will deal with the events leading up to Valerie's firing. The second will deal with the day prior to and the day of her termination.

-A Description of Valerie-

Look in past posts, including The Captain and Valerie, Ranch Dressing, and a Birthday.

-Valerie Gets Canned, Part I-

As you've seen in posts past, Valerie is a tough cookie. By "tough cookie", I really mean "a cold, selfish, unsympathetic, heartless, Napoleonic (Bonaparte, not Dynamite) little wench." The servers hate working with her. She cares little for anything but herself and her bottom line.

Here are some brief examples that reveal the true character of Valerie:

-A server home from school works a six-hour shift. She heads to the back, where she sits outside the office, separating her checks into cash, credit, and other (coupons, comps, etc.).

Tomorrow morning she leaves for Purdue to buy books. She has managed to scrape together $60 on a slow shift, just enough to afford her Econ book. She's hustled on her feet all day. I can tell she's dead tired. She goes into the office to check out with Valerie.

There's a problem. She can't find one of the $2 off coupons. Valerie can let this slide. She doesn't. The server slams her book down on the desk and storms out of the office, heading to the back door. Soon she is knee-deep in the dumpster, looking for the coupon. By some amazing stroke of luck, she finds the coupon. She returns to the office, stinky and bitter. It gets worse.

She counts down her money. She now only has $40. She has to borrow money to get her books.

I can't prove that Valerie took it, but here are several facts that make a good case.

First, the server's book, which included her money, her checks, and her coupons, remained in the office the entire time she was digging through the dumpster. Valerie was the only person in the office.

Second, another server spotted a Jackson stuffed in between two envelopes. She said something to Valerie, who immediately responded, "It fell out of petty cash." Petty cash is kept in the safe, which is on the floor. The lockbox weighs fifty pounds. When the managers take it out of the safe, they just put it on the floor. I find it hard to believe that a twenty fell out of the lockbox, caught an updraft, floated around the office like a feather in the wind, and then slid between two envelopes.

-Valerie counts down my bar drawer. She says it is $20 short. I have to pay it or I get written up. I pay it. I hate getting disciplined for anything. I never got a detention all through school.

Looking at my sales vs. my total tips, I see that I averaged less than 15% for the first time in my serving career. I normally average over 20%. Hmm....

-Less than a week later, she tries the same trick with another bartender. This bartender fights back.

"I counted the drawer before I gave it to you. The money was there, Valerie! Where the hell is it now? You better it soon, and don't try to pull this shit on me again, you hear me?!!" Saucy little bartender, isn't she?

Miraculously, Valerie finds the missing money. Hmm...

Events like these have the staff on the edge of mutiny. People are constantly grumbling, and the staff is getting snippy. We're sick of being verbally and emotionally abused by Valerietnam.

We try to talk to the regional manager. Unfortunately, Valerie is his protege. He hired her as a pantry girl and then brought her up through the ranks, all the way to GM. In his eyes, she can do no wrong. No help is coming from that corner.

Eventually, one of the older bartenders decides to take action. She writes a letter to the corporate office.

Copies of this letter circulate among the staff. As the resident academic, I am one of the first to get a copy. Hiding it in my server book, I read it during a slow lunch shift. I'm pretending to be studying a description of the new chicken and pasta dish. Cloak and dagger all the way, baby.

The letter starts off, "I am a server, a bartender, a cook, a busboy..." and ends with, "It is my firm belief that Valerie's employment with your establishment should be terminated forthwith." In between lay a poorly-written mess of lofty ideals and baseless accusations. The bartender is very proud of her work. I don't have the heart to tell her that the corporate office is more likely to correct it in red ink and send it back rather than take action.

However, the bartender does have some solid evidence. There are photocopies of checks that Valerie adjusted after close. No check should ever be adjusted after The Restaurant's business hours.

The Administrative Assistant deals with all adjusted checks. Apparrently, she started making photocopies of these suspicious checks months ago.

This was Valerie's scam...

She waits until after close. She re-opens checks paid in cash. She comps all the food, pockets the cash, and thinks no one is the wiser. Nobody knows how long she's been doing this.

Just as I predicted, the letter doesn't get a response. In all honesty, I don't see how anyone at the corporate office could respond. The bartender didn't leave a return address or a name. They couldn't call us up and say, "Hello, I'd like to speak to a server, a bartender, a busboy..."

Luckily, I head back to school. I don't want to deal with the political b.s. and all the bitching that goes with it. It makes me cranky.

Every day while I'm away at school, I talk (long-distance) to my girlfriend, who works as a bartender at The Restaurant. Remember the bartender who wouldn't let Valerie scam her? That's my girl. She bitches constantly about Valerie and her surrounding managerial staff. I can tell she's miserable.

Finally, after talking to her until 3 a.m. on a Sunday, I decide to take action. I go on the company website, click on the "comments" link, and go to town. My email letter is short, pointed, and biting. I lay out all I know. The stealing, the attitude, the Regional Manager's lack of action, everything.

At the end, I don't leave my name. If this thing doesn't go well, I don't want to be singled out and screwed over. I leave my school phone number and an offer to talk anytime.

I finish up at 5 am and go to sleep. I drift off wondering if they'll even bother getting back to me, let alone take action...

Ring.... Ring...

What the hell?! I roll over and look at the clock. 8:15. What soulless bastard would call me at 8:15 on a Monday, especially since I don't have class until noon?

"Myelllo...?" I'm groggy as hell. I've only gotten three hours of sleep.

"Hi! My name is (Name Erased to Protect the Innocent), and I'm a Vice President at the corporate office. Are you the one who wrote that email comment this morning?" The voice is chipper. Way too damn chipper for a Monday morning. The man has a slight southern-sounding twang to his voice. Having lived in Texas, I know Southern...and this isn't a Southern accent. I'm guessing Indiana or Ohio farm boy.

"Yes, yes I am. Wow, that was fast!" Now I'm wide awake and excited as heck.

"Well, we've been looking at this situation for a while. We even got a letter a while back, but we couldn't really make heads or tails of it. That wasn't you, was it?"

"Nah, but I read it."

"OK, good. Hey, um, can I ask you... are you still employed with us?" He wants to know if I'm a bitter ex-server out to get the GM who screwed me. Fair enough.

"Yes I am. I'm at school, but I work during the summer and holidays."

"Well then, tell me everything you can about what's going on out there."

I talk to him for an hour. He never rushes me while I speak. He asks good follow-up questions. He even asks for my girlfriend's phone number so he could follow up with her.

His final remark is, "Thank you for your help. Rest assured, we'll take care of the situation." I will always hold respect for this gentleman. His word is as good as gold.

Later that afternoon, I get a call from my fired-up girlfriend. She's at work and she's practically screaming. They fired the regional manager that wouldn't listen to us about Valerie. She said two men in suits breezed through the doors, found the regional (who happened to be at our store at the time), sat him down, and then escorted him to the door.

The new regional manager came in one hour later. Apparrently, she blew in like a hurricane. She immediately sought out Valerie and reamed her over the state of the restaurant.

"Oh. Is she making you guys clean everything in sight?" Now I feel like an asshole.

"No! Not us... Valerie! She's down on her knees scrubbing the walls in the back. I don't know what you did, but it worked! Love you!" She gives a little squeel and hangs up.

I'm stunned. Great, they got rid of one of the problems (the regional was a prick), but what about Valerie? I mean, I'm all about having her wash some walls, but will she still be boss when I go back? Will she know that I caused her all this grief? Will she take it out on me?

to be continued...

Taking requests...

2005-07-24T23:27:00.000-07:00

I am debating which story to write next. Here are some upcoming titles...

-Valerie Gets Canned

-The Penguin Slips (new server character, involves The Actor)

-Soldato's Last Stand

-The Server Plays Boss

-The Repo Men

I'm taking votes... feel free to chime in and let me know if you have a preference. I'll start writing on Monday evening, and hopefully I'll be done by Tuesday.

Oh, and if you have been waiting patiently for the newest story, scroll down a bit.

Hash Brownies on a Sunday

2005-07-19T14:27:00.000-07:00

-Preface-

A lot of servers abuse a substance or two. I'd estimate that 80% smoke., 99% drink heavily, and 60% smoke pot. This story involves the (ab)use of marijuana. In this case, the servers eat a "bud brownie". For more information, go here.

-A Description of The Animated Server and The Hippie-

The Animated Server is in her mid-20's. She stands around 5'5'' and is a bit overweight. She has dirty blonde hair that hangs 3/4 of the way down her back. The Animated Server tends to get flustered easily. It's hilarious to behold. Her voice gets loud, and she flails her arms, which can be dangerous in the close quarters of the kitchen.

The Hippie is in her early 20's. She is about 5'4" and incredibly skinny. Recovering-anorexic skinny, in fact. She has long, super-straight brown hair that falls past her ass. She also has big blue eyes that take in the wonders of the world with a dazed expression. I call her The Hippie for two reasons. One, she gives off a faint odor of pachouli. Two, she appears to suffer permanently from the effects of marijuana. Case in point... a table visiting from Scotland ordered 10 of our desserts to go. Unfortunately, we did not have enough cheesecake to sell to them. We were debating how to best handle the situation when The Hippie chimes in, "Just tell them 'G'day mate!'" in her sing-song voice. She was dead serious.

-Hash Brownies on a Sunday-

It's the calm before the storm on a Sunday night. Sunday nights are hit or miss at The Restaurant.

Servers either come prepared for a busy night or mope in expecting to walk through a ghost town. In either case, the results are entertaining.

On a slow night, the servers who came prepared need to find outlets for their pent up energy. Practical jokes abound.

On a busy night, the servers who came in expecting little business fall behind and rarely catch up. This is always fun to watch.

I should mention that we have a magician on retainer for Sunday nights. He comes in from 6-8. Lately, during that time period, The Restaurant has been filled with children. The magician does card tricks, makes balloon animals, and has a short stand-up routine that he repeats at least 20 times every week. Makes for a festive atmosphere.

I'm standing at the bar talking to the magician while he eats his salmon. He's one of the first people I've met that's following this new diet that allows you to eat anything you want, as long as it isn't bread or pasta. Sounds hokey to me, but he swears by it.

Engrossed in a conversation about "carbs" and calories, I almost didn't notice The Animated Server and The Hippie. They are huddled in a corner of the waiting area, whispering excitedly in hushed tones. My curiosity piqued, I decide to investigate.

"What's up, ladies?" I plunk down beside The Animated Server.

She looks around furtively. "Can you keep a secret?"

Probably not but, "Sure. What's going on?"

"The Hippie made a bunch of hash brownies. We just ate one each." She giggles like a schoolgirl.

"You did what?!! What if we get busy?" I know some servers, including The Hippie, can work high as a kite. I also know that marijuana that has been baked is more potent than marijuana that is smoked. (I did a 30-page research paper on marijuana my junior year of college. Seriously. It took me two months. Bane of my existence.)

"Relax, man. I work like this all the time. It's not even going to be busy tonight." The Hippie looks around, bored, as she licks her fingers. Now I know they're screwed.

I'm not overly superstitious, but when it comes to The Restaurant, I've come to realize that there is one absolute. If someone says it's going to be busy, it's slow. If someone says it's going to be slow, it's a mad house.

No sooner have those words left her mouth when a party of 10 walks in the door. Here we go...

Half an hour later I'm struggling to stay out of the weeds. The 10-top is demanding, and there are four "chuggers" at the table. I'm sweating bullets.

Flying into the sidestation to refill another pitcher of iced tea, I see The Animated server staring at the computer. She's idly tapping her pen on top of the monitor. Her eyes are getting red, and she seems to be looking through the computer. Oh shit.

"Hey! You OK?" She jumps a little.

"Yeah. Brownie is kicking in. I'll be fine." She turns back to the screen, types in her order, and disappears around the corner. I follow her out, dodging children running amok in the aisles.

I refill the 10-top's drinks and head back to the sidestation to catch my breath. I peak around the corner to check on The Animated Server. She's taking an entree order from a duece sitting in a booth less than ten feet from my vantage point. I want to hear how well she's holding it together.

"What can I get for you folks tonight?" The woman on the left orders a grilled chicken sandwich. She turns to the man on the right. So far, so good.

"And for you, sir?" He orders a burger. Rare. Brave man. Uh oh... why is she turning back to the woman?

"And for you ma'am?" The woman looks confused for a moment.

"You, uh, already took my order?" It sounds like a question. Another time, this would be comical. But there's an hour wait at the door and all the servers are hustling. I know we'll be in it deep if a server wigs out.

Now it's The Animated Server's turn to look confused. She looks at the woman for a moment, then looks down at her pad.

"Oh, of course. I... meant to ask if fries were ok?" Not a bad recovery. The woman seems satisfied. The Animated Server walks back to the sidestation.

"Are you going to make it?" I will kill her if she says 'no'.

"I'll be fine. Just don't talk to me!" She's sweating and her eyes are completely bloodshot.

"You sure as hell don't look fine! No bullshit. Can you make it?" I have to know if I need to be ready to take over her section.

"YES! Now go away, you're bothering me." That's good enough for me.

I relax a bit. If The Animated Server is ok, then The Hippie (who works high 'all the time') must be ok, right?

I head to a new table in my section. I fly through my spiel, take down their drink order, and head to the nearest computer. On my way there, one of The Hippie's customers grabs me.

"Excuse me, could I please have another lemonade?" He's friendly, so I don't shoot him a nasty look for tugging on my sleeve.

"Of course, sir. I'll be right back with that."

I scan the restaurant, looking for The Hippie. She's MIA. The other tables in her section are beginning to look around. They are mildly curious as to the whereabouts of their server. They aren't pissed... yet.

I can tell she's been gone for about ten minutes. Drinks need to be refilled, plates need to be cleared. It's not a serious situation, but it will be if I don't find her soon. I have to find her, now.

I run into Rena. She's on her way out of the kitchen, arms loaded with steaming dishes.

"Have you seen The Hippie?"

She turns her head and answers without slowing. "Not for a while."

Oh boy. I make a quick round, asking everyone if they've seen The Hippie. No one has seen her for at least fifteen minutes. I search high and low to no avail. Time for a decision.

Should I find a manager? If I do, will The Hippie get canned? Yes, and yes....

Can I take The Hippie's Section by myself? Heck no...

I know The Hippie struggles to make rent every month. I also know that my tip percentage has been declining steadily since I began my search. I don't want to get her in trouble, yet I'm pissed. Why does this kind of stuff always happen to me?

Luckily, Rena provides a solution.

"Did you find The Hippie? If you see her, tell her I printed a check for 121." She turns to go.

"Wait! You know her number?" All servers are assigned a number. This number allows us to clock in, open checks, close checks, run credit cards, etc. If we have her number, we can finish off her tables...

"Yeah... it's Four Twenty." Rena giggles at this. Apparently in the pot culture, 4:20 has some sort of significance. How fitting.

"Great. She's gone. Can't find her anywhere. We have to take her section. You take 121 and 122. I'll take 131 and 132. Finish these tables with her number, then everything from then on is yours. Cool?" Rena agrees and we're off to the races.

An hour and a half later, the rush eases. The servers are seated at a table in the back, rolling silverware.

The Animated Server made it through the shift, performing like a champ. She is now enjoying her buzz, laughing easily while stacking neatly rolled spheres of knives, forks, and napkins in a growing mountain on the table.

The group is in good spirits. We faced a minor crisis, but with a little hard work and teamwork, we came out ahead.

We don't know where The Hippie is, but she better show up soon. She has to cash out.

Up until now, the manager on duty hasn't noticed her dissappearance. This won't last forever. (This may seem odd to anyone who hasn't worked in the industry, so I'll explain. Some managers in chain restaurants are the type of people who have difficulty finding clothes that match. This particular manager has difficulty tying his shoes. I'm guessing that he probably employs the "bunny ears" method. In other words, the man isn't too bright. The idea that someone has enough confidence in this person to let them run an entire restaurant is, at best, laughable.)

For the second time, lady luck swoops in to save the day. A customer approaches our group.

"Excuse me? My mother needs to use the handicapped stall in the ladies room, but it's been occupied for quite some time... could one of you check and see if everything is OK?"

All of the female servers book to the bathroom, startling a nearby table. Thirty seconds later, they are pulling a scared-looking Hippie out of the restroom.

"What they hell happened?" Everyone wants to know.

The Hippie looks around. "I tweaked out, man. I locked myself in. I couldn't handle it anymore."

She looks at me. "They told me you helped. Thank you."

Not wanting to lecture her, I respond, "No problem. You OK?"

"Yeah, but I'm gonna need to smoke a fatty to calm down after this." She shakes her head slowly before taking her book and her closed checks to the back to cash out.

If any of you readers ever wonder, "What happened to my server? I haven't seen him/her in like fifteen minutes!" Well... now you know.

Scammer Series #2

2005-07-13T08:28:00.000-07:00

-Preface-

For some reason, this Scammer made me feel sick to my stomach.

-The Lowest Scammer-

I'm bored. It's 12:30 on a weekday in September, our slowest month, and I have three tables. Mama said there'd be days like this.

I'm looking for a crossword puzzle in the paper when a mother and her daughter walk through the door. The mother is in her late 30's and the daughter looks to be about 9 or 10. They're both wearing shirts with a large cat face spread across the front. Animal shirts are usually a sure sign of a poor tipper. But since I'm desperate for cash, I decide I may as well take another table.

"Hi folks! How are you doing today?" I place bev naps on the table and plow through my spiel. It's automatic. I wonder if I could serve while sleepwalking?

"We'll each have water with lemon. Oh, and it's her birthday!" I briefly entertain the thought of trying to push a milk shake on them. I change my mind. The girl is a bit hefty, and she's going to be heading to junior high soon. Middle school kids are brutal.

"Of course, ma'am. I'll bring out a complimentary sundae at the end of your meal. Would you like us to sing for you?" I hate singing. I sound like a combination of Biz Markie and a bassett hound. Maybe today I'll get lucky.... Nope. The chubby little girl is nodding and smiling. Bummer.

I go to the back to punch in their order. I start rounding up servers and letting them know that I have a birthday and we'll need to sing. I get the usual responses.

"Damnit!"

"I'm too busy!"

"I don't sing."

"Fuck you!" (This from Soldato and Amy in tandem)

Oh well. I know when it's crunch time, they'll be there. For the next twenty minutes, I go about my merry little way. It's so slow, I have to force myself to stay away from tables. I have a tendency to check back way too often when it's a dead shift.

Finally, it's time to sing.

I must reiterate how much I hate singing. It embarrasses the birthday boy/girl, it embarrasses the servers, and it annoys the other customers in the restaurant. In fact, the only people that seem to enjoy the singing are the other people at the table.

Also, our restaurant doesn't have a fast, snappy version of "Happy Birthday to You!" Couple this with the fact that most servers hate to sing, and you've got a Happy Birthday song that sounds like a funeral dirge.

The servers gather in the back. We start clapping. I light a candle and stuff it in the ice cream. We march out to the table.

We sing. It's horrible, as usual. The customer seems to love it. Yay!

I bring them their check. Total bill: $13.95. Their tip: $1.50. I love animal shirts...

(Fast Forward to two weeks later)

It's still September, and it's still slow. I have one table. I'm doing the crossword puzzle in the back. A three-letter word for sheep. Hmm... ram or ewe, ram or ewe...

Rena bounces into the kitchen.

"Birthday, everyone!" She's way to cheery.

We all gather, clap, and head to the table.

I'm stunned. Sitting there, clapping and happy as can be, is the same little chubby girl, wearing the same shirt with the cat's face. We finish singing and go about our business.

I pull Soldato aside.

"That girl we just sang to... she was here last week! We sang for her then, too!"

"You're kidding me." Soldato shakes his head. "People never cease to amaze me."

He walks away.

I'm disgusted. What is this mother teaching her child? Instead of her birthday being a special day, it is best used to exploit restaurants for free desserts? That her birthday is trivial compared to saving 99 cents?!

I've seen this cat face shirt-clad duo several times since. They've gotten a free sundae each time. I've never said anything to anyone (except Soldato). I don't know why.

Scammers are low people, but some are just sick.

Valerie's Food Cost

2005-07-10T14:19:00.000-07:00

-Preface-

When running a corporate restaurant, there are only a few quantifiable ways to chart a GM's progress. You can check sales for any given month vs. the sales for the same month last year or the year before. You can check secret shopper scores. (I will describe, in detail, my loathing for shoppers in an upcoming post.) However, the main number that the corporate G-men watch are costs. Food costs and liquor costs, to be specific.

It's a bit complicated to explain, but measuring food or liquor cost involves checking the amount of product sold vs. the amount of product used. These are twisted around mathematically until you reach a number. This number is referred to as your "food cost". It's measured in percentage points. The way The Restaurant calculates food cost means that each point equates to about $500 of waste.

After inventory, you can check food cost for any number of items, from checking the entire restaurant's stock of food used in the last year down to the number of croutons used in the last week.

The corporate office sets goals for every store. If your store doesn't meet those goals, the RM will come down hard on the GM, who will come down hard on the servers. It must be our fault that food cost is so high...

-A Description of Valerie-

See Valerie, Ranch Dressing, and a Birthday

-Valerie's Food Cost-

It's a Saturday morning in the middle of winter. It's freezing outside. It's also snowing. I don't mind a little snow. However, after the first two or three snowfalls, I'm sick of the gray sludge that builds up on the side of the road. The grayness is depressing. I'm ready for summer.

Walking through the front doors, I see Valerie speaking to the servers during our shift meeting. She's wearing a beige peacoat over a gray sweatshirt. Classy. She's also incredibly animated. She keeps thrusting her arm towards the kitchen. For some reason, I think of the old black and white news reels of Hitler addressing Germany.

Shaking my head in an attempt to clear the image from my mind, I sit down in one of the bar booths next to Soldato. His eyes are closed. I prod him and ask what Valerie is yapping about.

He opens one eye. "Cheese," is his simple, hushed answer. I give him a strange look. He smiles and shrugs. His eye closes again. He doesn't even bother to listen to Valerie any more. She's still droning away.

"What the hell do you mean, cheese?" I'm talking out of the side of my mouth in a whisper. Not quietly enough, apparently.

"What you two talking about? I'm glad you decide to show up (I'm five minutes early, actually). Food cost is too high. You need to stop putting so much cheese on the salads. Food cost up 2 points." Valerie manages to be accusatory, demeaning, and stupid all in one breath.

I feel like I'm in 8th grade and I just got caught passing a "check yes or no if you like so-and-so" note. I'm too old for this crap. I'm hungover, the weather is crappy, and I'm in a foul mood. Plus, I don't see how we could have wasted $1,000 worth of cheese in one month by overportioning cheese on salads.

"Valerie, that's ridiculous! Do you know how much cheese we'd need to mound on every salad to screw up the cost so badly?"

I take pride in my work. Since I'm hungover, all mole hills quickly become mountains. Add these two factors together, and I'm steaming.

Valerie must sense my anger. She doesn't yell back at me, nor does she have me lashed for speaking out of turn or insubordination. Instead she answers calmly.

"If you add a little cheese onto each salad, it soon become a lot of cheese. Cheese expensive. Food cost up, Jon (our RM) pissed. Put only a little cheese on salad."

While I agree with this assessment, I still think it's impossible to increase food cost by two points for over portioning cheese. For some reason, I can't let this go. Fortunately, a customer walks in and the shift meeting has to break up.

Soon all the servers are flying around. Dishes are clattering, people are chatting, and The Restaurant is hopping.

I see Soldato coming out of the kitchen. He's got two salads. Each one has five pieces of shredded cheese. The correct portion is one ounce per salad. This is about 25 shreds of cheese. The way these salads were made, it looks as though we're trying to skimp.

"What the hell is that?" I ask Soldato.

"The, uh, Cheese Nazi back there thinks that this is how a salad should look." He holds the bowl up for my inspection. He continues on and places the bowls in front of the customers.

I head to the back. Sure enough, Valerie is watching over the expo line like a prison warden watching inmates on work detail.

"That too much! Take some off! Take off more! Good, now go!" I shake my head and start getting together my food.

Soldato walks back through the door. He's holding a salad.

"Valerie, my customer wants more cheese on his salad." He goes to grab the tongs. Valerie slaps his hand.

"They want more, they pay extra. Ring in 25 cents, open food." Leave it to Valerie. She doesn't care that the customers won't come back. She doesn't mind saving nickels to lose dollars.

The whole shift continues in this fashion. Valerie never leaves her post by the expo line. Finally, I get to cash out and go home for a break before I come back for my night shift.

A quick nap and a short car drive later and I'm back at the doors of The Restaurant. As I'm going in, I see Soldato at the entrance to the kitchen. His jaw is agape. I run up to see what's going on.

"Can you believe this shit?" Now Soldato is talking out of the side of his mouth.

"What is it?" I stop next to him. For the first time, I can see what he's looking at.

Valerie has her hands full with a package of tortillas, a one-pound box of ground beef, a gallon of sour cream, and a gallon of guacamole. She's wearing her coat, scarf, and gloves. She's leaving.

She walks by Soldato and me.

"Valerie, what's wrong with all that stuff?" She stops and looks at me. She has to crane her neck around the gallon jug of sour cream.

"Nothing. It's Taco Night." She turns and walks out the door. With about half a point of food cost in her arms.

I wonder if Taco Night is a weekly event?

New Post Coming Tomorrow

2005-07-09T08:25:00.000-07:00

Hi All-

Sorry it's been so long since I've posted. I've had to pick up some extra shifts at The Bar, so I've been too busy to write. I have a good post coming tomorrow, so stay tuned!

Scammers

2005-07-06T09:39:00.000-07:00

-Preface-

This story is a little different. Scammers are a big issue at The Restaurant. The Restaurant must adhere to strict corporate guidelines when dealing with complaints.

Basically, once a customer complains, they are going to receive something for free. This is a good strategy in most cases. Bend over backwards for them and customers will come back and give your restaurant another chance.

However, when you have folks that are less-than-completely-honest, this strategy will backfire. They will take advantage of you. Instead of bending over backwards for the customer, you are bending over and taking it from the customer.

This post is going to be the first in a small collection of short stories about some of the Scammers that have come into The Restaurant. Don't worry if Scammers don't interest you. There will be other stories in between the Scammer Series.

-A Description of Scammers-

There is no clear-cut description of a Scammer. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, ages, financial backgrounds, etc.

-The 75% Scammer-

(I have waited on the 75% Scammer twice. She has come into The Restaurant quite a few times since.)

It is the middle of the lunch rush. The hostess seats me with a two-top. A well-dressed couple in their early-to-mid 40's, dressed stylishly. I move in quickly. Rich folks are demanding, but they also have a lot of money. I just want a small piece.

"Hi folks, welcome to The Restaurant. I will be your server today. May I start you off with something to drink?"

The woman answers, yet she doesn't look at me. I don't like her already. At least have the courtesy to make eye contact when someone talks to you. Didn't her mother teach her that?

"I'll have an iced tea, and he'll have a Diet Cola. Make sure it's diet." She speaks in a clipped tone with a staccato rhythm.

Now I like her even less. First, I don't like the way she's treated me. I know the difference between regular and diet cola. I can read. I have dissected Chaucer, Dickens, Shakespeare, and Homer. Noticing whether there is a "diet" on the nameplate of the soda fountain is not an issue.

Second, I don't like the way she treats her spouse. Her husband is sitting motionless, trying to hide behind his menu. She obviously wears the pants in the relationship. I don't like it when anyone "wears the pants." My firm belief is that all relationships should be an equal partnership that involves give and take from both parties. I hate it when one partner rules the other.

"Right away ma'am." I hustle away and grab their drinks. I give brief thought to bringing them a hot tea and a club soda, but think better of it. I'm busy, and I don't have time to deal with a customer complaint.

Returning with their drinks, I take their order. Again, she speaks for her man. I briefly entertain the thought that he is mute. However, when he hands back the menu, he says, "Thank you." Looking in his eyes, I see a defeated man, beaten down by years spent with this horrible woman. I am sympathetic.

I punch in their order and go about my business. Ten minutes later, their food is ready. I bring their dishes and they dig in. Two minutes later, I check to see that all is well..

"How is everything, folks?"

They both nod. Sweet.

About twenty minutes later, I go back to clear their plates.

"How was everything, folks?" This is an automatic question. Usually, it's met with either silence, nods, "fine", or "excellent". I am not prepared for this response.

"You know, I didn't really like it." The woman looks at me for the first time. I look at her plate. She has eaten 75% of a rather large dish. Not wanting to pull a Judge Reinhold in Fast Times at Ridgemont High (100% guaranteed breakfast), I grab Valerie.

Cheap as Valerie is, she's powerless when a customer complains. She visits the table before telling me to comp the bill.

"The entire bill?!" I am incredulous. The woman eats almost all of her meal, the husband ate all of his meal, and they aren't going to have to pay a single cent.

"Yes. She say the food awful and you not check on them." Valerie is pissed.

"Valerie, how long have I worked here? Do you really think I didn't do a check back?" I'm even more pissed.

"I know. I think she full of shit." Valerie adjusts the check.

I return to the table to let them know that their bill is taken care of. The woman smiles.

"Harold, take our coats. We're leaving." She throws him her full-length leather coat. They leave the restaurant, the man trailing behind the woman like a lost puppy. No tip.

Less than a week later, I have the same couple again. To my utter surprise, she orders the exact same dish. Half an hour later, I find myself in the same predicament. She has eaten 75% of her dish, and yet now she says it's awful. I'm wondering... if the food was so bad last time, why would you come back? Further, why would you come back and order the exact same dish?

I know these people are Scammers. Valerie knows these people are Scammers. Hell, I bet these people even know that they are Scammers.

But they still pay nothing for their meal.

---

-Epilogue-

Last week, I ran into one of the servers from the Restaurant. I asked about the 75% Scammers. They still come into The Restaurant about once every two weeks. They have yet to pay for a meal. The woman still orders the same dish.

Soldato's Host Shift

2005-07-01T09:22:00.000-07:00

-A Description of Soldato-

Soldato is in his early 30's. He stands about 5'7", weighs about 190 lbs. He has a small potbelly. He has short dark hair and a goatee. His voice is raspy and deep from smoking 2 packs of Reds a day.

In Italian, "soldato" means "soldier." In this case, Soldato's name has a double meaning:

-Soldato is an Italian-American from New York City. He harbors an intense interest in the Mob lifestyle. "Soldato" is the foot soldier/enforcer position in the Mob. I think he'd be honored to have this name.

-Soldato spent time in the Army during the first Gulf War, and he has the tattoos, scars, skin condition, and stories to prove it.

Soldato is loud, obnoxious, funny, and incredibly volatile. For some reason, my presence seems to calm him, so I rarely experience the volatile side. He is one of my good friends.

He has years of experience in restaurants. His father owned a restaurant in NYC, and he's been working in a restaurant for the past 20-odd years. He knows everything from fine-dining service to what size shrimp to order for a shrimp cocktail vs. a shrimp scampi. What he's doing in The Restaurant, I have no idea. But I'm glad he's here. He keeps us entertained.

-Soldato's Host Shift-

It's a Tuesday morning in the summer. It's a beautiful day outside. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and you can smell the fresh-cut grass. I know The Restaurant is going to be busy. I'm working a double, so I'll walk with a good chunk of change at the end of the day. Life is good.

I walk through the double doors and into a shit storm. Valerie is arguing with Soldato.

"Valerie, I don't want to host. I took a cab to work today, so I'm already in the hole for fifteen bucks. I need cash to get home."

"You get ride home with The Server." She noticed me walking in.

"Great, but what about tonight when I come back? Valerie, read my lips...I need cash!"

"You get cash on your shift tonight. I make sure pm manager give you good section."

"Valerie, no."

"You work host or you not work here anymore." Soldato is defeated and he knows it. It's easy to find another job waiting tables. But when cash is tight, switching restaurants can cripple you financially because of the time it takes to train. Servers need to be on the floor to make a living.

"Fine." Soldato is pissed. Valerie turns and marches towards the back. Soldato flips the bird to her departing back.

"Beautiful day, huh?" I love getting Soldato wound up. I expect him to go off on a rant. I want him to get it all out of his system before the customers arrive. Surprisingly, when he turns back to me, he's smiling.

"Stay close to the host stand. You don't wanna miss this."

Oh shit. There are millions of ways to mess with customers. I try to avoid all of them, unless the customer really deserves it. However, Soldato has no reservations about screwing with people, and he's not picky about which people he screws with.

A quick aside here: the host/ess is one of the most important spokes in the restaurant wheel. These people must be part metronome, psychic, and personality profiler. And they must maintain a cheery disposition the entire time.

Metronome- The host must seat tables at a steady rhythm. If they seat the restaurant to full capacity in too short a period of time, they are going to mess up the server's rhythm and the timing in the kitchen. If they do this early in the shift, the entire shift gets shot to hell. Instead of slow, continuous table turn-over, servers experience something more like a line-change in hockey. Full section, running around like madmen, towel off, start all over again.

Psychic- They must know when the server is ready to take another table. Servers move at different speeds. The ideal time to seat a new table lands in between dropping off drinks and taking the entree order. This is a small window of time, and only a skilled host/hostess can make this work.

Personality Profiler- The host must read the customers and place them with the correct server for their needs. If the customers seem to want to enjoy a slow lunch/dinner, then the host should seat them with a server who will best accomodate those needs. A slow, friendly, talkative server. If the people have twenty-five minutes to eat because they're catching a movie, then the host/ess should seat them with a fast server with a good knowledge of what items can be prepared quickly.

Many restaurant managers make the mistake of hiring young people that can't handle the stress of being a host. The consequences are often disastrous.

Back to Soldato.

The first table walks through the door. They're regulars. Here we go.

I feel like I'm watching a car wreck in slow motion. There is nothing I can do to stop what's going to happen, I'm horrified what the end result is going to be, yet I can't turn my eyes away.

Soldato is grinning like a fiend.

"Hi folks, welcome to The Restaurant. Three for lunch?" So far, so good. I relax a bit.

"Yes please! Outside, if there's any seating available." The Restaurant is empty. Customers are hilarious. Original too. We only hear this one fourteen times each week.

"Hahahahahahaha!" Soldato laughs for a good ten seconds, finishing with a coughing fit.

"Of course. Would you like to be on the patio or on the roof?" He says this completely deadpan. I have to stifle a laugh. Our roof is filled with heaters, air conditioners, and bird nests. No tables.

"Ummm... Uhhh..." the customers are confused. Then I see the light go on. "Oh, haha! Good one. Patio would be just fine." They are enjoying this. Good.

Soldato takes three menus. He walks the customers in a complete lap around all the tables in the restaurant before leading them outside. They laugh the entire time.

While he seats them outside, a solo diner comes in. I jump in and take him to one of the tables in the new server's section. I don't know her name. I do know that she won't last. She's been here two weeks, and she's struggling. I figure a one-person table is a good way to start her off.

As I'm heading back to the host stand, Soldato is heading towards me. He's still smiling like a lunatic. He's got three people with him. I hope he's not heading to New Server's section.

As he passes me, he winks. Oh no. He is heading to New Server's section. I turn around and watch.

He sets down one menu. One of the three peels off the group and sits down. What the hell?

There is an unwritten rule for seating customers. One table at a time. No exceptions. There is also an unwritten rule for seating servers. Don't overload a section. Some servers can handle getting double-sat (two tables at once), and a handful can even handle getting triple-sat. New Server is not one of these servers.

Soldato walks to the next table and sets down another menu. The second of the three sits. Finally, he drops off the third menu and the last remaining person sits down. All three are sitting in New Server's section. Shit. New Server has just been quadruple-sat.

I run to the back to tell her. She's just arrived, and is tying on her apron while examining her section on the floor chart.

"Hey Newbie! I'm so sorry. You just got quadruple sat."

She looks at me. "Shut up. You're joking, right?" She looks half-bemused, half-terrified.

"No joke. They're all one-tops, so try to treat them like one table. I'll talk to the host."

It looks as though New Server's brain is going to liquefy and ooze out of her ears. Not wanting to witness that, I hustle back towards the host stand. I arrive just as another table is walking in.

"Hello folks, welcome to The Restaurant. Two for lunch?" It's a 30-something woman in business attire and another woman that looks to be her mother. The business woman is talking on her cell phone.

"Yes, please. Something by a window?" The Mother is polite.

Soldato takes two menus and leads them to the waiting area. Plenty of windows there. Apparently Mother should have specified that she wanted a table by the window.

"Here you are, ma'am." Soldato sets down the two menus on the bench, right in between the gumball machine and the cigar store Indian. Mother and Daughter don't know how to react. I rush in to save the day.

"Right this way, folks." I swipe both menus off the bench. Shooting Soldato a menacing look, I lead the women to our best window table. They look confused and slightly put out.

"Please don't mind the host, folks," I say, setting down the menus. "The Restaurant is an equal-opportunity employer." I say the latter in a conspiratal tone. Their confusion is replaced by pity. They think Soldato is retarded. At this point, I agree. "Enjoy your lunch."

I return to the host stand.

"Dude, knock it off. I had to tell those people that you were retarded. You're actually acting like such an idiot that they believed me. Seriously, quit it!" I'm sort of pissed, but not really. I'm having a good time. Soldato just smiles and grabs menus for the next group of people walking in the door.

Thankfully, The Restaurant gets incredibly busy, and Soldato doesn't have time to mess with people. He's running around seating people like crazy. He actually does a really good job. The Restaurant is hopping, the servers are making bank, and New Server even manages to serve her quadruple-sat section without incident. The flow is perfect. Busy enough that nobody is bored, yet paced well so nobody gets in the weeds. Life is good.

I head back to the host stand to talk to Soldato about making first cuts. He's speaking to a young boy who looks to be about ten.

"Can you tell me where the bathroom is?" Honest question with a straightforward, easy answer. Unless Soldato is answering the question.

"Yes, sir. You just head right up that ladder there. The bathroom is up top."

Apparantly Soldato isn't done for the day yet. The ladder he is referring to is located near one of the side stations. It provides access to all the junk on the walls if it ever needs to be cleaned or replaced. No bathroom.

The kid walks up to the ladder. He looks back at Soldato, looks up the ladder, and then back at Soldato again. He looks skeptical. Soldato flicks his hand in a "go-on" gesture and nods. The kid puts a foot on the lowest rung.

I sprint over to the ladder.

"Actually, Buddy, that bathroom is out of service. You should try the one over there." I point him in the direction of the real bathroom. I look back at Soldato and mouth "Asshole!" He's laughing so hard, tears well up in his eyes.

Soon afterward, the rush dies down. Mother and Daughter have finished their meal and are on the way out the door. Mother pauses on her way out and looks back at Soldato, who is cleaning up the host stand. She turns back and walks towards him. Smelling trouble, I make my way up front. I listen while pretending to clean a booth. I'm ready to jump in at a moment's notice.

"Young man?" Mother is standing a comfortable distance from the host stand, so as not to alarm Soldato. He looks up.

She looks him right in the eye and says, as slowly, loudly, and clearly as possible, "YOU...ARE...DOING...A...GREAT...JOB!" She quickly turns and leaves. Soldato and I look at each other and break out laughing. It's moments like these that I cherish being a server.

Soldato was the BEST and WORST HOST EVER!

Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, and a Classic Arcade Game

2005-06-28T10:50:00.027-07:00

-Preface-

A bit of knowledge about a certain classic arcade game will make this story much funnier. This story takes place in The Bar.

-A Description of Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde-

Dr. Jekyll is in his early 20's. 23 to be exact (I carded him). He has reddish/blond hair, which is cut short. Almost a flattop. He is in great shape. He must work out regularly, because his arms lightly strain the seams of his long-sleeve dress shirt. Either that or he spent some time at Balco. He stands about 6' 1'' and he weighs about 210 lbs.

-Dr. Jekyll's Story-

It's a Wednesday night around 7:30, and The Bar is hopping. On this late fall weeknight, it's filled with yuppies.

Everywhere I look I see men with gelled hair wearing long-sleeved striped shirts open at the collar, a flash of gold chain visible around the neck. The sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled up twice. No more, no less. Fossil must have made a small mint selling watches to this crowd.

The women are wearing blond highlights and those goofy shawls that enjoyed a few months of popularity in late-2004, early 2005. Personally, I don't like the shawls. They leave too much to the imagination.

Three guys sit in my section near the entrance. One is younger, early 20's, with short reddish-blond hair. The other two are in their mid-30's. They both wear their hair slightly over the collar. All three are wearing name tags. "Hello, my name is..."

"What's going on, fellas?" I love the informality that The Bar takes on as afternoon turns into evening.

"Not too much. Just got out of a seminar at the hotel across the street. What do you have on tap?" One of the 30-somethings. He seems friendly. Good. I hate assholes.

"Sir, we have 34 beers on tap here. I could name them all, but it may be quicker if you just tell me what you'd like, and I'll let you know if we have it on draft. If we don't have it on draft, we'll definitely have it in a bottle. We carry over 400 different beers in a bottle." This is one of the main reasons our bar is jumping tonight. Yuppies love exotic beer.

"American Beer for the Masses Light?" Chimes in the 20-something. Cheap beer with very little taste. Still, it'll get you drunk. I deduce that the 20-something must still be in the past-fratboy stage.

"Of Course, Sir. And for you gentlemen?"

They order two of the higher-end, fuller flavored ales. Experienced drinkers, more interested in the flavor than the buzz.

"And would you like 16 or 23 oz. drafts?"

The 30-somethings order pints, while the 20-something opts for the 23 oz.

I ring in their orders, deliver their drinks, and offer menus. I depart to ring up another round for a neighboring table.

When I return with their drinks, I notice that the 20-something has downed his beer. Oh boy, here we go.

"Would you like another, sir?"

"Yes, please." Maybe he was just thirsty.

"And are you folks ready to order?"

I take down their orders. Three burgers with fries. I ring them in and bring 20 his second beer. He immediately downs half of it. The other two gentlemen don't seem too worried, so I don't say anything. I just don't want Dr. Jekyll turning into Mr. Hyde. I've seen it happen, and it's not pretty.

I make a point to tell the manager on duty, Janine, that I have a customer who is mainlining beer like a rock star on a bender.

At The Bar, management likes to make sure that nobody gets wasted. One trashed person can ruin the atmosphere in a hurry. Every time a customer has four drinks, we have to tell the manager. We write down what they've had over "x" amount of time, whether they've eaten, and what Level they're at. Here's a quick breakdown of the Levels.

Level 1: OK to be served more alcohol. Customer may become more talkative, and may have slightly slurred speech.

Level 2: Slurring becomes more pronounced. Customer may become overly loud. Motor skills may deteriorate slightly. If they are not driving, they may be served another drink. Manager must give the OK.

Level 3: Customer is a raving lunatic. The customer can barely walk. If they are still able to talk, it is usually non-sensicle babble at a decibel level slightly below that of a jet airplane warming up the afterburners. The customer will light the wrong end of a cigarette and smoke it anyways. These people need to be put into a cab and sent on their merry way before they vomit in the bathroom.

"Janine, I've got a guy who's downed two 23's in about 8 minutes. He's at 34. Can you keep an eye on him?"

Janine is cool, and she knows that I'm still relatively new. She'll keep me out of trouble. She's also got a bit of sass in her. She'll have no trouble booting this guy if he gets out of hand.

"No problem, dude. Go ahead and give him another one for now, but give him a glass of water too. Hopefully he'll get the hint." I order another beer for Dr. Jekyll. She's the boss.

The burgers come up a short time later. I bring them out. Sure enough, the beer's gone. The other two have finished their first 16 oz. beers. The kid is ready for his fourth 23 oz., which is like drinking 8 12 oz. bottles.

"Would you like another round, gentlemen?"

The two thirty-somethings nod, and Dr. Jekyll orders on as well. He seems completely normal. Kid must be able to hold his liquor.

I look over at Janine, who is hanging out at the door, near my table. She gives me a nod.

I bring the table their round.

They eat, and thankfully Dr. Jekyll nurses his beer throughout dinner.

I clear their plates. Dr. Jekyll has finished his fourth beer. I don't offer him another one. I'll let the boss make this call.

Janine sits down at the table. She's making small talk, but she's really looking to see if Dr. Jekyll is ok to have another beer. A few minutes later, she finds me in the kitchen.

"That guy's ok for another beer. I can't believe it, but he still seems sober."

"You sure?" I don't want to get fired. I like this place.

"Yeah, it's on me now. Don't worry, I got your back." Janine is an awesome manager, the type you work hard for out of respect.

I set down Dr. Jekyll's beer. He looks up at me. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. Uh-oh.

"Thanksth" This is the first time I've heard him slur. He doesn't touch his beer. He sits back in his chair, and his eyelids start to drop. One of the 30-somethings reaches over puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey buddy, you OK?"

No response. The guy gives Dr. Jekyll a little shake. Dr. Jekyll transforms into a crazy-eyed Mr. Hyde. He bolts upright in his chair. His fraternity training takes over. He grabs his beer, opens his mouth, and pours the entire thing down his throat. He slams the empty glass back down on the table.

In college, I would have been impressed at this performance. At work, I'm horrified.

Janine comes flying out of nowhere. She's witnessed the whole thing.

"You guys need to pay your bill and get your friend out of here." She's talking to the 30-somethings, but all eyes are on Mr. Hyde, who is now sitting with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He's looking at the floor and moaning softly.

The 30-somethings look at each other, shrug, and look back at Janine.

"This is so weird. We've known each other since we were kids (he motions to his 30-something friend). We just met this guy today at the seminar. He's from out of town, and he's staying at the hotel across the street." Unbelievable. Did the kid think he was cool, showing these guys (that he just met!) how he was a hard-core drunk?

"I don't care," Janine is pissed, "Get him across the street. If you can get rid of him, you can come back." Not a bad move.

The 30's get up and try to pick up Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde has other ideas. He stands up and makes a beeline for the bathroom. He's running into people, knocking over tables and chairs, and slamming into walls. It looks like an out of control car speeding down the highway, careening off the guard rails.

The 30's book after him. A couple minutes later, all three emerge. The 30's are on either side of Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde has an arm around each of the 30's, and it's obvious he's dead weight. His head lolls from side to side with each step.

"We had to hold him while he peed," explains the 30 on the left. Probably not what he thought he'd be doing when he woke up this morning, but hey, good times.

They make their way to the parking lot. Janine and I follow. She's making sure they get Mr. Hyde away from The Bar. I haven't been paid yet.

Suddenly, seeing the lights of his hotel, Mr. Hyde breaks for freedom. He shakes off the 30's and sprints through the parking lot. I try to catch up, the 30's hot on my heels, but he's got a big head start and he's moving!

In between our parking lot and the hotel is a busy road. It's a step below a highway, and the speed limit is 50 mph. People drive at 60. There's still a lot of traffic. Cars are flying by.

I figure Mr. Hyde will have to stop and I'll be able to take him down so he won't hurt himself. I'm wrong.

Mr. Hyde barrels into the intersection full-speed. A minivan brakes hard and swerves to avoid hitting him.

Mr. Hyde falls down. He gets back up and he's disoriented. He takes two wobbly steps back towards me. I'm frozen in horror.

He sees me and turns back towards the hotel. Cars are barreling past, horns-blaring. The way he's moving back and forth in the street... for some reason, all I can think of is playing Frogger in the arcade.

Mr. Hyde falls again. There is a large SUV heading straight for him. It brakes, but it's too late. Mr. Hyde is going to get squished like a bug.

Miraculously, Mr. Hyde regains his footing. He takes off at a dead sprint towards the hotel. He makes it across the street!

But for some reason, he doesn't see the large concrete sign bearing the name of the hotel. He plows into it, headfirst, and lies motionless on the sidewalk.

At the next available break in traffic, Janine, the 30's, and I run over to check on Mr. Hyde. He's out cold, and there's a large knot on his forehead. He's breathing heavily.

The 30's pick him up and carry him into the hotel. Janine and I return to the restaurant.

About an hour later, the 30's walk back in.

"How is he?" I have to know.

"He'll live." The 30's are pissed at being turned into babysitters. "We forgot to pay our bill."

"Understandable," I reply. Janine notices the 30's and walks over.

"You guys have had a long night. Can I buy you a drink?" Like I said, Janine is an awesome manager. The 30's gratefully accept. They pair their bill. They leave me $20 on a $60 tab.

I'm happy, they're happy, Janine is happy, and Mr. Hyde is alive. Plus we've all been privy to the BEST GAME OF FROGGER EVER!

The Miss Illinois Pageant Contestants

2005-06-27T08:03:00.000-07:00

-Preface-

This story took place about a week ago. I am working at The Bar now. The Bar is trendy, upscale, and well-kept. There are three rooms. The Main Room is long and symmetrical, with five booths framing about 50 tables. The bar is located in this room. The other two rooms are filled with tournament-size pool tables, plush leather couches, and at least 10 big-screen TV's each. The two side rooms are called the Maroon and Blue Rooms because those are the colors they are painted.

-The Miss Illinois Pageant Contestants' Story-

I pull into the bar at 11 am on Saturday. I'm tired and hot. It's 95 degrees outside, and our uniforms are all black. I also have a touch of a hangover, which doesn't improve my disposition.

I'm looking forward to a relaxing day of work. Saturday mornings are rarely busy, which means the servers have time to talk, hang out, and eat.

As I pull into a parking space, I notice three younger girls heading into the restaurant. This in itself is not odd, as there is a clothing store next door and their patrons often come into our place to use the restrooms. What I do find odd is that they are dressed like slobs in ratty t-shirts and shorts, yet their hair is done up, and someone painstakingly applied their makeup. Weird.

I walk through the doors and come face to face with Jackie, our Event Coordinator. Jackie has a great job. She gets commission off of every pre-scheduled party that comes into the restaurant. She uses the servers to set things up, take care of the partiers, and then tear the decorations down. Servers covet these parties because we get an automatic gratuity. The work is brutal, but it's worth it in the end. The final bill often tops $1,000.

Jackie is flipping out.

"I need you now."

"Jackie, I'm flattered, but you know I have a woman." Hungover and saucy. Good combo.

"Shut it. The Miss Illinois Pageant girls are here in the Maroon Room, and I need you to take them. They have food coming out in fifteen minutes. You need to get their drinks." Big smile from me. Life doesn't get much better than this.

"Oh, and the entire party is comped."

SHIT! This means that I get no automatic gratuity.

"Hey, do they know they're supposed to tip me?" I ask as Jackie turns to leave.

"I hope so. We'll see." I am happy she's so concerned about my welfare.

I clock in and head to the back. I fill a pint glass a coffee. I drop some ice in and chug it down. I'm going to need all the energy I can muster for this one.

Walking into the Maroon Room, I take in the scene in front of me. There are about twenty five girls scattered throughout the room in groups of four and five. They are all dressed like the three I saw walking into The Bar earlier. There are two chaperones sitting at a table towards the back. They look haggard. I decide to start with them.

"Hello! My name is The Server, and I'll be taking care of you and the ladies this morning. Your food will be ready in about fifteen minutes, so can I start you off with something to drink?"

"Coffee. Black." The first chaperone doesn't look at me.

"Hello young man! I'd love some iced tea with sweetener." She looks around before beckoning me closer. "You know, one of these girls' life is going to change tonight." She's dead serious.

Great. I've got one chaperone who believes I am to be seen and not heard and another who is trying out the pageant catch phrase on me.

I speak with the chaperone briefly before moving on and taking drink orders from each of the contestants. It's the same each time I go to a new group. If the first person to order looks me in the eye and is friendly, the rest of the girls follow suit. If the person ignores me while giving me the order, the rest of the girls refuse to look at me.

Some of the snippets of conversation I hear...

"My Dad is a really important man. We have apartments all over the world, but we sub-lease them to make more money."

"Can we get drink drinks? I love drinking."

"My favorite part of this whole thing is meeting all of you. You're all so special!"

"This competition isn't just about how you look in a bikini. You have to have a personality too!"

Gag me. Out of the 25, 2 seem like real people. The rest seem as fake as Britney's cleavage.

I get their drinks and bring out their food.

They each eat half a plate of food. No more, no less. Only two of the girls head to the bathroom immediately after they eat.

Everytime I bring them a refill, they act like I've saved their puppy.

"Thank you so much!"

Every now and then, a couple of our Saturday regulars wonder into the room. Some are looking to score, others to see what this whole thing is all about. All are quickly turned away by the chaperones.

"Move along here. These girls need their rest. Shoo!" They actually say "shoo."

I refill endless iced teas, waters, and Diet Colas. Finally, they are ready to head back to the hotel to get ready for the pageant that evening.

The chaperones approach me. Here it is, the moment of truth. Will I get a tip, or have I wasted 4 hours of my life?

"You've been so wonderful! You should come see these girls tonight. We're at the local high school. Aren't they all so amazing?"

"Absolutely amazing ma'am. Unfortunately, I am saving for a house, and I don't know if I can afford tickets." Trying to work in the fact that I need money.

"Oh, don't worry about that! The tickets are free! Have a great afternnon, and try to come tonight!" She turns around, and walks out the door. The girls follow, single file, like goslings following momma goose to the lake. The other chaperone follows behind them, ready to ward off any would-be attackers from the rear.

No tip. I don't know whether I should curse the chaperones, Jackie, the contestants, or whoever told this group that we would comp them. I settle for cursing all of them, just to make sure.

I go to the back to relax for a bit, and my mind wonders...

The contestants are all in their bathing suits. The panel of judges is asking them questions. Every answer is the same down the line.

"World Peace!"
"World Peace!"
"World Peace!"

The lone gentleman judge stands up. It's me. I'm wearing a tux. It's shiny blue, with ruffles and huge lapels.

"How much would you tip a waiter?" They can't see me because the spotlights are shining in their eyes.

"Well, it would depend, but I never leave less than 15%."
"Why, 20% of course. My dad is a very important person."
"20%. Especially if the drinks are strong."
"I would tip him World Peace!"

They continue in this manner down the line. They are all pleased with the answers they have given. Until the spotlight moves away from them and focuses on me.

I rip off the tux like a basketball player tearing off his warm-ups. Underneath I'm wearing my server uniform, apron and all.

I sprint to the stage and scream at each of the shocked contestants in turn.

"Liar! Cheapskate! Phony!"

"As the head judge of this pageant, I declare all of you ineligable hypocrites. Maybe you should have tipped your server! Better luck next year!"

It would have been the BEST REVENGE EVER!

Unwanted links in stories

2005-06-26T08:55:00.000-07:00

Hi all-

For some reason, random links keep popping up in the stories. I am unable to delete them. These may be a computer virus of some sort, so I don't recommend clicking on them. The only links that I intentionally placed in this blog are Waiter Rant (on the top right of the screen) and any links that refer back to another story. New Story coming tomorrow!!!

The Actor and my First Shift

2005-06-22T09:50:00.000-07:00

-A Description of The Actor-

The Actor is in his late 30's/early 40's. He stands 6'3'', and weighs about 240 lbs. He has short, well-kept dark hair that he keeps in place with large amounts of hair product.

The Actor is gay, but he is not flamboyant. He is effeminate when he speaks naturally, but at his tables, he affects a masculine, macho persona. He says he does it to keep him and the table comfortable. Apparently, there are still some folks who get nervous around homosexuals. Maybe they're afraid they'll "catch gay" if he handles their food too long.

The Actor is dirty. Not Pig Pen from Peanuts dirty. Porn star dirty.

The Actor is an incredible thespian. He can sing, he can dance, and he can act. Working shifts with The Actor is always entertaining. Once he comes into a side station, he breaks into one of his characters. It's a sight that must be seen to be believed. Two of his more colorful characters were:

The Mildly Retarded Boy- think "Warren" from There's Something about Mary. But instead of "Have you seen my baseball?" he goes around asking "Can I touch your boob?" and lamenting, "I left my helmet on the bus."

Vlad the Eastern European Immigrant- He actually played this character onstage, and then brought it into the restaurant one night. He waited all of his tables as Vlad, and he got loads of comment cards saying how wonderful his English is and how wonderfully amazing he was as a server.

There are tons of stories involving The Actor. I will start with the first.

-The Actor and my First Shift-

I walk in the door for my first training shift at the restaurant. I am incredibly shy at this point in my life. That's part of the reason I want to wait tables. I want to reinvent myself as a socially comfortably person.

Thankfully, I won't have to deal directly with customers today. I am training on the expo line. I have to learn the plate presentations and the proper garnishes for our dishes.

It's Saturday night at 5 o'clock, and it's already busy. I make my way to the back. Valerie is doing paperwork.

"You learning expo tonight. You know Spanish?"

"Poquito." Never mind that I failed Spanish in school. I know enough to get by.

"Good, you working with Paco and Paco. Same name, different guys. Oh, and watch out for The Actor."

I walk back to the expo line. I introduce myself to Paco and Paco. Both are Mexican. On wears a backwards hat and a shit-eating grin. The other wears sports goggles and a house arrest ankle collar. They are both friendly.

I mull over why Valerie would warn me about The Actor. I ask Paco.

"Oh, he pinche Maricon, wey. He like you culo." Great. He's gay, and he'll like my ass. I'm glad I wore my tight jeans.

All thoughts of The Actor are quickly pushed to the back of my mind as the dinner rush begins.

Backwards Hat Paco moves with lightning-quick precision. He explains what he's doing as he preps plate after plate after plate. I'm trying to keep up while absorbing as much information as possible. I quickly fall behind, and I struggle to catch up.

After a few hours, the rush lightens. For the first time since I met Paco, I am able to leave the expo line for a drink. I have cotton mouth.

I turn around to head towards the main sidestation, located between the dining room and the kitchen. Standing in the sidestation are two attractive waitresses and The Actor. The Actor is holding both his hands waist-high, palms up, and he's pantomiming a squeeze. Both the waitresses are laughing.

When he sees me looking, The Actor slowly lowers his hands and smiles at me. He picks up a cup of coffee and sips on it, his eyes never leaving mine. I realize that he and the two waitresses have been checking out my ass.

After years of football training, including thousands of squats and power cleans, my ass is tighter than a drum, and I'm proud of it. I decide to test my new "socially comfortable" persona on The Actor.

"What? You want me to bend over the expo line?" I ask, thinking he'll be shocked that I'm so dirty. I was wrong.

The Actor takes another sip of his coffee, and calmly remarks,

"Sweetie, we don't have enough lube in this place for that, and I really hate making little boys cry."

The two waitresses are rolling, and I feel my face turn beat red. I force myself to smile. I know when I've met someone with superior verbal bantering skills. I've yet to meet anyone with a wit as sharp as The Actor's. Trying to think up a comeback would be pointless.

Instead, I introduce myself, and The Actor and I make small talk for a few minutes. He's a good guy, and soon we're laughing and talking like old friends. Unfortunately, I have to excuse myself to return to the expo line. He heads back to his tables.

Less than five minutes later, I hear a woman's scream from the sidestation. Thinking that she's either fallen or cut herself, I run around the corner to see if I can help.

The Actor has one of the waitresses pinned up against the wall, legs spread. She's screaming and laughing while he mock thrusts into her. He's shouting, "Take it, you dirty little whore!"

I'm speechless. I'm wondering how The Actor is going to avoid a sexual harrassment lawsuit. Then I look around. All the other servers have gathered to stare at the spectacle. Most are laughing. Some are even cheering The Actor on. The waitress is laughing so hard she has tears in her eyes. I didn't know it then, but in this restaurant, sexual harrasment is practically part of the job description. Weird.

"Ahem."

A customer is standing at the doorway of the sidestation, holding a tab book and a fistful of cash. His expression is that of a man who wants to be anywhere but where he currently is. The servers scatter like cockroaches in a NYC apartment when someone turns on the lights.

The Actor continues to pound away. He glances over at the customer and lifts his hand in greeting.

"Hi! Do you need some change?" The Actor doesn't even slow his pace.

"Uh... take it!" The customer stuffs the money into the book and exits as quickly as possible.

The Actor releases the waitress. All the scattered servers regroup. They're all laughing.

"How much did he leave you?" one asks.

The Actor checks the book. "About fifteen dollars."

"How much was the check?"

"About 25 dollars." The Actor is smug, and he returns to his coffee.

"Geez, the guy has that image burned into his retinas, and you get 40%"

"That's what he gets for coming in the back."

I return to the expo line and think about what I've just seen. I wonder if the customer will ever be able to eat out again. The thought of what goes on in the back rooms of restaurants will always hover at the back of his mind.

The Actor got the BEST TIP FOR SEXUAL HARRASSMENT EVER.

The Deaf Guy

2005-06-21T07:52:00.000-07:00

-Preface-

This story deals with a customer that has a disability. Servers are trained to deal with and be sensitive to whatever special needs a customer with a disability may have. I am no exception. I have read the menu, word for word, to a blind customer. I have provided pen and paper to help deaf customers order. My overall attitude is to make the customer feel as comfortable as possible.

This story is about a customer, his actions, and a tip. I will probably delete any posts that focus on the issue of disability. Disabilities are a side issue in this case.

-A Description of The Deaf Guy-

The Deaf Guy is in his mid-to-late 60's. He towers over most at 6'5''. I'd guess his weight at about 315. He has a substantial potbelly, and must sit at a table because he can't fit into a booth.

He wears jean shorts and solid-colored, loose-fitting T-shirts. He always wears the same faded blue/orange hat. His hair is gray, greasy and stringy. It hangs about an inch over his collar. He has a thick Santa-Claus length beard.

The Deaf Guy always walks to the restaurant. He must live close by, because he is never winded or sweaty when he arrives, even on scorching hot days. He usually comes in after the lunch rush, which is a good thing, as you'll see.

He always seems impatient and he loves to run servers, like playing with puppets on strings. I hate being a marrionette.

-The Deaf Guy's Story-

It's 3:00 on a Wednesday. I'm late-checking with Amy. Amy, odd as it may seem, is a mostly deaf server. She's a damn good one too. She lost her hearing gradually, so she was able to learn to read lips. She wears a surgically implanted hearing aid, which allows her to hear people in close proximity. Amy also harbors more neuroses and psychoses than a psych ward during a full moon. I could fill an entire other blog with stories about her, but a one word description will suffice for this story- BITCHY.

The Deaf Guy is walking through the parking lot. Amy and I are chatting at the host stand. I'm treading lightly on eggshells throughout our conversation. I don't want to do anything to make her snap, especially when we have another two hours before the PM servers relieve us.

Amy sees The Deaf Guy coming.

"Damnit! You take this guy."

"Amy, it's your turn." We've been rotating tables all afternoon.

"I don't care. I refuse to wait on him."

She hightails it to the kitchen, leaving me alone to face whatever horrors may be coming my way.

He walks through the double doors in front and fixes his steely gaze on me.

"Good afternoon, sir. Table for one?" I try to be cheery.

The Deaf Guy holds up one finger and proclaims, "Uuungghhhh!!" The grunt lasts for a full five seconds.

I'm taken aback, but I recover quickly. I grab a menu and lead him to the nearest table. As I'm setting down the menu, he taps me on the shoulder and points to a seat by the window.

"Uuungghhh!" Creepy, but OK. Who doesn't like a nice window seat? The windows overlook a large pond. Not a bad view, actually.

I nod and lead him towards the windows.

"Please sir, sit wherever you'd like," I say, sweeping my arm in the general direction of our window seating.

He pulls out a chair and folds himself into his seat. I hand him a menu, which he opens. He grabs my arm, as if I'm going to run away before he can order. I don't like being touched.

The Deaf Guy points to "Iced Tea" with his free hand.

"Uuunghhh" he says, running his finger repeatedly under his selection. He lets go of my arm. I can't be sure, but it feels like he gave me a gentle push towards the kitchen.

"Yes, sir, I'll be right back with that for you." I walk to the back rubbing my sore arm. The Deaf Guy has quite a grip.

Amy is cutting lemons for the night shift.

"What's wrong with that guy? Is he mentally retarded?"

"No, he's deaf."

I find it logical that a deaf server and a deaf patron would be a good match.

"Why didn't you take him? I don't know sign language or anything, but you do. You could do a better job than I could with him!"

"That asshole doesn't know sign language. He can't read lips. He gives deaf people a bad name!" Amy storms off in a huff.

I didn't know that someone could give an entire disability group a bad name, but I wasn't going to chase Any down for clarification.

As I fill The Deaf Guy's iced tea, I think about what Amy said. Amy worked hard to learn sign language and lip reading. She should be proud of her achievements. But does that give her the right to bang on someone who wouldn't or couldn't do the same things? I didn't think so.

Maybe Amy had treated him poorly the last time he dined with us. I made up my mind that The Deaf Guy was going to receive stellar service this time.

I return with his iced tea. He grabs it out of my hand and drains it. We've got a Chugger!

He pushes the glass back into my hand and takes hold of my arm once again. He uses his free hand to order his meal, pointing to his selections, running his finger under each item.

He orders an entree, a salad, and three extra sides. Each time, he punctuates his order with another "Uuuunghhhh."

When he lets me go, I definitely feel the push towards the kitchen. OK, I'm starting to dislike The Deaf Guy. But I've made a promise to myself. He's going to get great service no matter what.

I refill his iced tea three more times before I can get his salad out. He finishes his salad without incident. I refill his iced tea twice more before his lunch is ready.

I bring his sandwich and ask if there is anything else I can get for him. He dismisses me with a wave, and digs in to his meal. I don't like being dismissed. I'm disliking The Deaf Guy more and more as time passes.

I go to the back and eat my lunch. Two breadsticks and a souffle cup of ranch dressing. Yum.

I wipe my mouth with a napkin, wash my hands, and walk back to the dining room, another iced tea in hand.

The Deaf Guy is fast asleep.

He's sitting upright in his chair, his head leaning back. He didn't just doze off. He's in a deep slumber, and he's sawing logs.

What the hell?!

I clap a couple times, trying to wake him up. Then I realize that clapping is pointless. He's deaf.

I think for a minute, and I remember an elementary school lesson about Helen Keller. I stomp twice on the floor. Hard.

This does the trick. The Deaf Guy awakes with a snort, and resumes eating as though nothing has happened. Odd.

I drop off his ninth or tenth iced tea (I've lost count). Going to the back, I wonder how a person could fall asleep after drinking so much caffeinated iced tea.

I walk back out into the dining room. The Deaf Guy is asleep again. Head back, mouth open, snoring at full volume.

I realize that The Deaf Guy is a narcoleptic. He was probably drinking those iced teas so he could stay awake through his meal.

It takes The Deaf Guy nearly an hour to get through his meal. He falls asleep twice more, and each time, I stomp on the floor to wake him. My foot begins to hurt.

He drinks another six or seven iced teas. Probably stockpiling caffeine for the walk home.

Finally, The Deaf Guy is ready for his check. He mulls it over, nods, and pulls out a wad of bills. He counts very carefully, recounts, places the bills in the book, and hands the book to me. He nods and, for the first time since he walked in, he smiles. He points to the book and makes a cutting motion with his hand. No change.

"Thank you sir, you have a great afternoon!"

The Deaf Guy walks out into the afternoon sun.

I look at the bill. $18.27. I count the money. $19.00. He's left me 73 cents as a tip.

I refilled his iced tea damn near twenty times. I woke him up so he wouldn't fall face-first into his plate. I was friendly, courteous, and I didn't get huffy when he grabbed my arm. For this, I get 4%.

Amy was right. That guy is an asshole.

WORST TIP FROM A DEAF GUY EVER!

The Teacher and her Baby

2005-06-21T00:45:00.000-07:00

-A Description of The Teacher-

The Teacher is in her early 30's. Medium height, medium-to-slender build. She has short dirty blonde hair and pale skin that turns red when she drinks. She always wears solid colored sleaveless shirts, white tennis shorts and strappy leather sandals. She is rather non-descript, and would blend in with most crowds.

I have only seen her at the restaurant during the summer, when our patio section (outside aka "dining al fresco") is open. She has a baby who is about 16 months old at the time of this story. The Teacher and her Baby are regulars that usually come in for lunch. She's very friendly, she tips well, and her Baby is well-behaved. Great customer, except that she drinks despite the fact that she's alone with her Baby.

I've seen her with her husband once, so I know he exists.

I know she is a teacher at a local high school because she taught one of our waitresses.

-The Teacher's Story-

I've just returned from school and I'm beginning my second summer at the restaurant. It is late May, and the weather thus far has been awful. Today, however, dawns sunny and warm.

I arrive at 10:30 and help set up the restaurant. At the shift meeting, Valerie informs me that I'll be taking the patio section. It's the first day the weather has cooperated, and I have a premonition that it will be busy.

I hate it when I'm right. The patio fills quickly, and I'm stuck running eight tables. For those of you not in the industry, a normal server station is limited to three to five tables.

Eight is borderline ridiculous, especially when we have to expo our tables' food, run our tables' food and get our tables' refills.

Eight on the patio is insane. The patio is the farthest section from the kitchen and the drink stations. Every time someone wants an extra side of dressing or mayo, I have to sprint through the entire restaurant to get to the kitchen. I'm good, but I doubt there are many servers who are good enough to handle this.

I spend the entire shift "in the weeds." It's 90 degrees outside and I'm sweating bullets. I can feel my boxers sticking to the inside of my thighs, and I know when I go home I'll need to shower twice to feel right again.

Three solid hours of this and the lunch crowd begins to thin. I am about to be cut and I can't wait to head home for those showers and a nap before I return to complete my double shift. Then The Teacher saunters in.

I know I'll have to take her. The late checks (two servers who take over the restaurant when the rush is over) still have full sections, and no one else is volunteering to stay.

I've had The Teacher once before, last summer. She tipped me well, so I remember her.

During her last visit, The Teacher drank several beers, even though she is solely responsible for transporting and caring for her Baby. She got a little tipsy, but she drank a couple glasses of water and sat for a while after her meal, letting the effects of the alcohol subside.

(Quick side note- It is illegal for us to refuse alcohol to anyone of sound mind who is of legal drinking age. If a pregnant lady walks in the door and orders three fingers of scotch, the bartender has to pour away. Otherwise, the pregnant lady can sue us for discrimination. I love this litigious society in which we live.)

The Teacher is seated, and the baby is resting comfortably in a car seat/carrier combo.

"Hello, Ma'am. May I start you off your usual draft?"

"Yes, but could I have the larger glass? I'm really thirsty." She wants 20 oz. rather than 12. Not an unusual request. But the Baby...

"Of course. Would you like your usual salad?"

"Yes, I can't believe you remembered! I haven't been here in months!"

I wink. "We'll ma'am, I'm good at what I do, and customers are important to us. Your food should be ready in ten to fifteen minutes, and I'll have your drink to you in a jiffy." I'm such a kiss-ass.

I ring in her order, walk to the bar to retrieve her beer, and walk out the door, squinting to block out the blazing sun. I deliver her beer and begin my side work.

As I'm rolling silverware, my Server Sense goes off. It's been less than five minutes since I dropped off her drink, her food won't be ready for at least another five, but something seems amiss. I peak outside and see that she has pounded her beer like a fratboy on a bender. The foam is still clinging to the side of the glass.

"May I get you another?" Geez, it's hot out here.

"Please. I was really thirsty." She's sheepish, almost embarassed.

No worries. Two beers isn't that much. But the Baby...

I bring her another beer and go to check on her salad. The chicken is cooked, the salad is prepped. I add a breadstick and a dressing and her food is ready.

I bring it out to her and notice that her beer is only a quarter full.

"So hot today. May I have another?"

I'm starting to look for clues as to her state of drunkeness. She seems fine, no slurred words, glassy eyes, or loud voice. But I know from experience that on a hot day, those first couple drinks may go down easy but the alcohol will eventually hit you like a ton of bricks.

The Teacher seems OK. I'll bring her another beer, but I'll watch her closely. But the Baby...

She's gently rocking the Baby in its carrier as I return. I set the beer down and inquire about her food, which she's plowed into, full-steam.

She pauses, fork halfway to her mouth.

"Waiter, the sthallad is deliciousth!"

Awww SHIT! She's hammered. And I just placed a full beer in front of her. Time for damage control.

I immediately fill up her water glass and bring her another breadstick. I run to the back in search of a manager. Valerie is cashing out the other servers in the office.

"Valerie, there's a lady on the patio. She's getting pretty buzzed and she has a baby with her. She was fine and then all of a sudden WHAM!"

Valerie may be heartless when it comes to the well-being of most customers, but as a single mom, she has highly-honed maternal instincts.

"Cut her off. No more."

"Will do. I'll try to slow things down so she has time to sober up."

"Go." Such a great conversationalist, our Valerie.

I grab the water pitcher and start back towards the patio to refill The Teacher's glass. The scene unfolding in front of me stops me dead in my tracks. "Deer in headlights" doesn't do justice.

The Teacher has finished her salad and pushed it to the side. In its place, the Baby squirms in The Teacher's arms. The Teacher is changing the baby's diaper on the table. Where people eat. In the same spot where she was eating moments before.

Frozen in horror in the middle of the dining room, I've attracted the attention of the late checks, Deedee and Rena. They join me and we all stare out the window.

Deedee, our resident middle-aged alcoholic waitress, is the first to speak. "What the hell is she doing?" she asks calmly in her trailer park drawl.

"Changing her kid. Thank God this place is empty." Rena is half-laughing, half-gagging at the spectacle unfolding.

"I know there's a changing station in the men's room. Isn't there one in the women's?" I have to ask to make sure.

"Sure is. Must be an issue of convenience." Deedee shrugs and heads to the back. I turn to look at her go and I notice her swaying slightly. She's been hitting the flask that she keeps hidden in the bowels of her apron. Whatever gets you through the day.

I turn back, ready to tell The Teacher that she has to move to the changing station. She's already finished, and -uh oh- she's opening the door that leads inside of the restaurant, carrying the bundled diaper. She walks directly up to me and thrusts the diaper in my hands.

I'm too shocked to move. I can only stare dumbly at the disposable diaper in my hand as the smell of baby shit permeates the air, assaulting my olfactory sense.

"Take care of thisth for me pleezzzth." She turns around and walks back outside. My mind shuts off. I vaguely comprehend that I'm standing in the dining room at work, sweating like a pig and holding a diaper. For some reason, the fact that the diaper is warm piercess the haze. It's my only lucid thought.

I hear howling laughter. Rena and Deedee are holding onto the sides of the kitchen door to keep from falling on the floor. Rena is wiping tears out of her eyes.

I break out of my trance and find the nearest trash can. I dump the diaper and fight down the urge to vomit.

I find the nearest sink and scrub my hands like an obsessive-compulsive sanitation freak. They are pink, raw, and nearly bleeding when I feel clean again. I dry off with a paper towel and head back to battle.

WHAT THE HELL?!!!

The Teacher has another full beer in front of her!

"Deedee! Did you give that lady another beer?"

"Not me, man."

"Rena?"

"Don't look at me."

That left the bartender, Darren.

"Darren, did you give that lady another beer?"

"Yeah. Where were you? She said she couldn't find you, so she came to me. Tipped me five bones too. Snooze you lose."

"Darren, Valerie cut her off! She can barely stand, and you gave her another beer!" I'm pissed.

"Hey, man, I didn't know. Sorry." Darren smokes enough pot to keep a small Central American drug cartel financially stable. He's pretty much unflappable, and very little concerns him. He shrugs and walks away.

I don't blame Darren. He had no way of knowing. Except that The Teacher could barely stand on her own. Asshole.

In life, as in serving, you have to clean up your own messes. Resigned to my fate, I walk back outside. I spend the next three hours sitting down and talking with The Teacher as she slowly sobers up. I make sure The Teacher always has a full glass of water, the baby is comfortable, and that all future diaper changes occur in the changing station in the women's room. I even help The Teacher open a jar of baby food. Can't tell which smelled worse, the diaper or the pureed carrots, peas, and peaches. Pretty much the same, I guess.

I'm sweating the whole time I'm out there. My shirt is completely pitted out and my boxers cling to me like a heavy, stinky, wet second skin.

Eventually, The Teacher is sober enough to drive. She pays her bill, tipping me handsomely.

She's embarassed, but I smooth things over. I apologize profusely for overserving her. I let her know that it was my fault, and that we want her to come back soon. She'll be back often, but she'll never repeat today's performance.

Finally, her SUV pulls out of the parking lot and I have time to take stock of the situation.

I hate that I'm leaving as the PM servers are coming in.
I hate that I smell like an old shoe.
I really hate the fact that I have to be back in an hour to complete my double shift.
Worst of all, I hate the fact that it's my own fault that I'm in this condition.

However, this shift's experience was the BEST BIRTH CONTROL EVER. If I never touch another dirty diaper again, that'd be just peachy with me.

God doesn't pay my rent

2005-06-19T11:19:00.000-07:00

-Preface-

This story involves religion. If anyone posts a comment to this story regarding the religion aspect, I will probably delete it. This is a story about a customer and a tip. In this case, religion is a side issue.

-A Description of The Church-

There is a non-denominational church in a bordering suburb. The Church is huge. It has televised sermons, cushioned stadium seating, and TV monitors situated in the back of the auditorium. Makes it easier for the late arrivals to take in the pastor in all his glory. The pastor drives a Jaguar, his son a BMW. They live in a $2 million home on 3 acres of land in one of those fenced-in, rent-a-cop guarded neighborhoods.

Every year, The Church hosts several conferences for people from all over the U.S. Once a year, there is a world-wide conference.

The congregation is cheap. There are no exceptions to my knowledge. Perhaps they are taught to never tip a larger percentage than they tithe. I don't know and don't care. If the pastor can afford a multi-million dollar home and several expensive cars, then the congregation has enough to tip 15%. Here is the worst of The Church stories.

-The Church Story-

The world-wide conference is in full swing, and our servers are jazzed. We're all making money thanks to the sheer volume of customers. It helps that one of the neighboring casual restaurants has asked The Church to send its parishioners elsewhere. No joke. Their servers bitched and threatened to strike if their management didn't take action. After this night, I won't blame them.

I have already put away $80 and there is still an hour wait at the door. The hostess seats me with a party of 12, taking up three of my four tables. Cha-Ching!

The party is friendly enough. No drinkers at the table, so the per-customer check average is low for the table. No biggie. Twelve burgers and twelve soft drinks brings the bill to about $130. Not bad.

The kitchen is rocking and the food is out fast. The table bows their heads for grace, then picks up their forks. Everyone is happily digging in. I check back to make sure everyone is happy.

"How is everything, folks?"

Nods and smiles all around, except for one gentleman who looks up at me with a serious expression.

"Waiter, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?"

Now, my parents instilled great morals, but I rarely went to church. I'm a non-practicing Christian. The way I figure it, treat others as you would have them treat you. Simple, effective.

I tell The Inquisitor as much, but in much nicer and lighter terms. Big Mistake.

"Oh, waiter," he begins, shaking his head, his half-eaten burger forgotten on his plate, "you don't want to go to Hell do you?"

"No, sir. I figure if I live my life as a good person, then I've added something to the world."

I hate philosophizing with customers. I make an exception in this case because these folks seem nice. And their bill was huge by this restaurant's standards.

"Son (I hate it when anyone other than my parents calls me that), you should come to our retreat next month. Here's a flier and a pamphlet." Now the table is all smiles, looking up at me expectantly.

I accept the documents with a smile to avoid further confrontation. I beat a hasty retreat. I toss them into one of the side stations and busy myself with side work.

When I return to present the check, The Inquisitor persists, "Young man (another moniker I hate), you think about what I said. We hope to see you next month."

"I'll think about it sir. You folks enjoy the rest of your conference, and have a wonderful evening!"

The Church crowd sits for a few more minutes, finishing the remains of their soft drinks, talking and laughing. They're probably really excited about the prospect of herding another sheep into their flock. They pass around the bill, put on their jackets, and leave.

I pick up the check book as the bus boy sweeps the empty glasses into the bus tub and readies the table for the next group of church-goers.

I count the money. It appears they've left me a 10 and 7 20's. $20 on 130. Not great, but better than I expect.

Upon closer inspection, one of the 20's isn't a 20. It's the same size and color as a piece of U.S. currency. They've stuffed it in between the other 6 20's so it's easy to miss at first glance.

It's another pamphlet. It reads: God will Provide. On the back, it reads: This card to be presented in tandem with a tip.

Bastards. God does not pay my rent; tips do. The already minimal chance of my looking into that retreat vanishes.

The thing that pisses me off most is that apparently these people didn't bother to read their own card.

My only hope rests with the thought that many years from now...

The Inquisitor is waiting at the Pearly Gates with his bags packed. He's ready to enter the great Castle in the Sky, and he's wondering what's taking so long. Finally he comes to the front of the line, ready to tell St. Peter that he's accepted Jesus as his personal savior.

Instead, St. Peter asks, "Inquisitor, why did you stiff that waiter? You've given a sect of our religion a bad name?"

The Inquisitor fumbles for an answer, and can only manage, "I gave him a pamphlet!"

"A pamphlet? Right..." St. Peter's hand moves to the lever beside him. He pulls, and a trapdoor opens beneath The Inquisitor.

As he drops out of sight, all can hear his fading cry, "But, the paaaamphleeeetttttt..."

Valerie, Ranch Dressing, and a Birthday

2005-06-19T07:25:00.000-07:00

-Description of Valerie-

I introduced our GM Valerie in The Captain post. Here are some more details about Valerie.

Valerie was born in the Phillipines and is now in her late-20's. She is about 5'4'' and weighs about 165 lbs. She has short (chin-length), straight, thick dark hair, and she occasionally smokes UltraLite cigarettes (without inhaling). To best sum up her appearance, think of a Phillipina version of Monica Lewinsky.

In her youth, she was part of the upper echelon of Phillipino society. Growing up, she had servants dressing her and catering to her every need. In her late teens, Valerie got pregnant. According to her, it was her first time, and it was in a bathroom stall. Classy. She moved to America soon after she got pregnant. I don't know if she left in shame, if her parents kicked her out, or if she preferred Chicago's snowy, windy, cold-as-hell winters. In any case, Valerie was ready to take America by storm.

She landed a job as a pantry girl in the restaurant. She quickly became one of the GM's pet projects. She rocketed up the ladder, first moving horizontally from pantry girl to line cook to server, then moving vertically to Shift Supervisor, Assistant Manager, and then General Manager.

During her meteoric rise to the top, she developed a reputation as a hard-ass. She was given the nickname "Valerietnam" by one of our more clever, geographically-challenged servers.

Valerie is stingy, cheap, frugal, whatever you'd like to call it. She will do whatever it takes to make or save money, customer or associate be damned. This story is the best example of Valerie's thrifty ways.

-Valerie's Story-

Rewind to my second shift on the floor. I'm just out of training, and I'm allowed to take three tables at a time. It's a lunch shift, and our place is hopping. Our restuarant is located in an area with a lot of businesses and many of them spend their lunch hour at our establishment. Most don't tip incredibly well, but the volume and time constraint allows the servers to turn tables quickly.

As a new server, I have yet to find my rythym. I'm still making mistakes, and I'm hustling to try to keep up.

I get seated with a four-top. All women wearing trendy business casual, except for one who has donned a spiffy new blazer-skirt ensemble. I'll call her "Dressy."

I go through my spiel. They all order the same salad and waters with lemon. Dressy orders an extra rameken of ranch dressing.

I return to the computer and punch in their orders. I resume flying around, refilling drinks, clearing plates, running food, etc. The four-top's food comes up, and I deliver it with a smile. I have yet to make a mistake this shift, and life is good.

The women chow down. They only have a short amount of time to eat, so manners and etiquette take a back seat to ravenous hunger. I have to take a step back so I don't get hit with the lettuce shavings that fly out of the sides of their mouths. Seriously.

I am finally caught up with my tables, so I go in back to try to get to know the other servers better. They pretty much ignore me because I'm the new guy. They don't know if I'm going to make it yet, so they don't bother learning anything but my name. Hell, at this point I don't know if I'm going to make it yet, so I can't blame them.

I return to the floor and see that the women have polished off their salads. Another table's drinks are getting low, so I have to clear the women's plates quickly in order to get refills on time.

I notice that Dressy didn't touch her extra rameken of ranch. It's still sitting on the edge of her plate in the same spot. Oh well.

I stack up the three biz casual plates on my left arm and am going for Dressy's with my right. I feel the plates in my arm shift. Instinctively, I glance back to my left and pull my right hand over to help.

Unfortunately, I have Dressy's plate in my right hand. Fortunately, I miss her head by less that a milimeter. Unfortunately, the rameken of ranch flies off the plate.

Time slows to a crawl. Everything moves in slow-motion, and someone hit the mute button. I hear nothing, and everything in my field of vision blurs except the rameken. My entire being is focused on that extra dressing.

I see the rameken spinning end-over-end. The dressing is flying out in a widening spiral, splattering Dressy's blazer's back with line after line of creamy, oily dressing. Finally, the rameken hits the floor and bounces. It's still spinning, but nothing is coming out now. It's like someone is holding down the trigger of a machine gun when the clip empties. The chamber is still whirring and clicking, but nothing comes out.

Slowly the rameken spins to a stop, upright and empty. All three biz casual women look at Dressy in horror, mouths agape.

Life returns to regular speed and someone turns on the sound again. My first impulse is to run and hide. I regain my composure.

"Oh my goodness. Ma'am, I'm so sorry. I'm going to go grab something to clean you up, and I'll see if I can find my manager as well so we can take care of you."

As I turn to go, I hear one of the women comment, "Well, Happy Birthday, huh Mary? Ha ha!"

This stops me dead in my tracks. My mind does a quick situation recap. I've just spilled copious amounts of ranch dressing all over a lady's new business suit on her birthday. SHIT!

I book to the back.

"Valerie, you have to come out here quick!"

"What wrong?" She's testing the temperature of the soup kettle during the busiest part of the lunch rush.

When it's slow, she's preparing for Armegeddon. When it's busy, she performs tasks that have no bearing on the outcome of a shift. Outstanding.

"Ijustspilledranchalloverthisladyonherbirthday" The words spew out of my mouth.

This is the first (but not the last) time I've spilled on a customer. I don't know the exact procedure, but I'm sure it involves a manager visit to the table, endless apologies, ass-kissing, paying a cleaning bill, comping the food bill, and/or buying a new suit. Five years later, I know this is what should happen. However, Valerie has a different plan.

"Oh. Buy them a sundae" She turns back to her thermometer. The sundae bar is a unique feature in our restaurant. It costs $2 for a kid, $4 for an adult. You get a free one on your birthday, regardless of whether the server spills ranch dressing on you.

"Valerie, I can't go back out there and tell her that. I feel awful, I've ruined her suit. We need to pay her cleaning bill, not buy dessert for the table."

"Not for the table. For her. I busy."

"Valerie..."

"Go!"

Great. I go back to the table alone, armed with wet wipes and a plan. I'm not about to tell them that Dressy only gets a free dessert (one she's entitled to anyways) in exchange for my ruining her birthday.

"Ladies, your lunch is on us" I turn to Dressy, "Here is my manager's business card. Please send the cleaning bill to her. Again, I am so sorry about this."

The ladies nod, and then boogie as quickly as possible. They even leave me a $5 pity tip, which, to this day, I feel that I don't deserve.

I go to the back to tell Valerie what I've done.

"You stupid. I take employee discount off of their bill (50%), but if I get cleaning bill, you pay."

I am too emotionally drained to argue. After paying for half their bill, I end up walking out the door five dollars on the positive side.

I never got a cleaning bill, so either Valerie had a change of heart (doubtful) or Dressy wanted nothing more to do with our restaurant (likely). I never saw her or her friends again.

Today, I was the WORST SERVER EVER.

The Captain

2005-06-18T15:41:00.000-07:00

-A Description of The Captain-

When I first laid eyes on The Captain, I sensed that he was a couple ships short of a fleet (bad pun, I know, but bear with me). It was 3 in the afternoon. The lunch rush was long over, the dinner servers were probably still wiping the sleep out of the eyes, and our restaurant was a ghost town.

He was sitting by himself at the bar watching TV. Not the big screen TV, but his own portable TV set. It was probably the first model off the line in 1985. It was about ten inches tall, ten inches deep, and seven inches wide, with a three-inch screen and a three-foot antenna. Must have weighed twenty pounds. He was watching a soap opera while idly spinning a large commemorative coin.

The Captain is in his mid-to-late 60's. He tips the scales at nearly 300 lbs. His bushy gray hair, bushy gray eyebrows, and bushy gray lamb-chop sideburns attempt are harnessed under the navy blue captain's hat that provides his nickname. He wears this in tandem with a rumpled white collared shirt, faded light blue pants, and gray suspenders. He never changes clothes. I harbor a mental image of a closet filled with hundreds of rumpled white collared shirts and faded blue pants.

He isn't the worst-smelling customer that I've ever encountered, but he's close. His rank body odor is lightly masked by cheap cologne. He mumbles when he talks, so it's difficult to understand him. The longer he sits and drinks, the more difficult it is to understand him. Imagine Marlon Brando as Don Corleone playing "Chubby Bunny."

The Captain is odd. He scares women and small children at the restaurant. He's also cheap (I'll get to that). In short, he's the type of regular that you don't want to see walk through the door.

-The Captain's Story-

Easter Sunday, three years ago. I'm bartending all day to make some cash so I can afford an upcoming frat formal. Nobody else wants to work on Easter, and I have nothing better to do. It's win-win.

I've had some time off, so I'm psyched to work rather than dreading the double shift. I'm wiping the bar down after our shift meeting when the door opens. In walks The Captain, portable TV tucked firmly under his arm. Great.

He plops into his usual seat at the bar and orders a cheap American "beer for the masses." Popping the cap, I offer a menu. He orders one of our pasta dishes. For a casual restaurant, our food is decent. He's ordered one of our better dishes, and I comment,

"Nice choice, Sir."

He takes a big swig of pale amber beer and mumbles something unintelligible before turning back to his TV. Giving up on conversation, I head to the back.

Our hyperactive Phillipina General Manager, Valerie, is buzzing around the kitchen, cleaning and prepping the line. The restaurant has one customer, and she's acting like World War III is iminent. Typical.

Valerie is always under the impression that a tour bus full of hungry customers is going to break down on our block, ignore the other five restaurants that share our intersection, and march through our door demanding fast service. This has yet to happen, but there's always a chance.

"Valerie, The Captain is in port."

"OK, tell me if he get bad" The Captain is a regular, and he's gotten drunk and abusive on several occasions before. Best to let the boss know if there's a possible situation brewing. (Oh, and Valerie's English isn't great.)

"Will do. Can I help with anything?"

"Sure, wipe down wall" She tosses me a rag and I start wiping down the wall behind the soup kettle. Closers must have been in a hurry to get out the night before. Normally I'd be pissed doing any sort of menial task, but I'll do anything to avoid going back to The Captain. I'd hate to interrupt his soaps.

As I'm finishing scrubbing the remains of Potato Cheese and Bacon soup off the walls, The Captain's food shows up in the window. I toss a fresh breadstick on the plate and garnish the dish with a bit of chopped parsley.

I place the plate in front of The Captain with a slight flourish. I'm feeling saucy today.

"Is there anything else I can get you, sir?"

This is where things get strange. He chugs the rest of the beer, lays the bottle on its side and proclaims in a booming, clear voice, "THERE'S A SAILOR DOWN!"

At first I'm shocked that I've comprehended a full sentence. My shock deepens when I realize that The Captain has just referred to his beer as if it were a fallen comrade. Thankfully, my bartender autopilot kicks in, and I am able to find another beer in the cooler, pop the top, and set it in front of him. Another table walks in and seats themselves at a bar booth. Grateful, I walk away and begin my spiel at the new table.

By the time I have their drinks out, The Captain has finished his pasta. Unfortunately, he's also finished his beer.

"THERE'S ANOTHER SAILOR DOWN!!!"

Full volume now.

My new table looks up in surprise, then glances away, not wanting to draw attention. Valerie is hanging out at the host stand. She witnesses the whole thing, then walks away without so much as a glance. It's going to be a long, lonely afternoon.

My only hope is that The Captain will continue drinking at a feverish pace. I can cut him off and send him on his merry way. In doing this, I will have kept both the customers and The Captain safe. I'll sleep well at night.

At that moment, The Captain's Entourage arrives. The Captain's Entourage consists of his slightly larger but much nicer non-drinking sister and his slightly younger but much meaner and harder-drinking friend, the First Mate. Perfect. A designated driver and a drinking buddy. The Captain can stay and drink himself stupid now.

Valerie refuses to cut off anyone who has a designated driver, safety be damned. In her mind, if the restaurant is making money, all is well in the universe.

My plan in shambles and my Easter looking bleak, I steel myself for events to come.

As the afternoon goes on, the sister slurps down countless Diet Colas while the dynamic duo pounds beer after beer, each time piercing the silence with their battle cry "THERE'S A SAILOR DOWN!" It doesn't help that the First Mate has joined in. The restaurant and I are getting it both barrels.

To make matters worse, I've only had one other table. My money is going to have to come from the Captain and his Entourage. I'm screwed. The Captain is notoriously cheap.

Finally the night comes to a close. I bring the check to The Entourage. The Captain and The First Mate demand another drink. I patiently explain to them that we are not allowed to serve after 10 o'clock. We could lose our liquor license. They complain that I never called "last call", so they should be allowed another drink. I explain that "last call" is actually illegal within the suburb's limits because the police department believes that last call encourages binge drinking. They demand to see the manager.

I call Valerie from the phone at the bar. She's in the office in back. I'm not about to walk back and allow them the opportunity to walk out on a $100 tab.

"What?" She sounds angry. Sales must have been lower than last year.

"Valerie, the folks up here would like another round."

"So give to them"

"It's after 10, and they've had quite a few"

"Bigger check, more tip"

"Valerie, I don't know if that's a good idea"

"Give to them! And tell them they leave by 10:30!" Click.

Thanks, Valerie. I give them their two fresh beers. At 11:15, they pay their check. The bill is $110. They leave me two 50's, two 5's, and ten sheets of paper before waddling out the door and into the night.

I look at the sheets of paper. Each is marked as an official "1/10 ounce of silver note", redeemable for one dollar. The only problem- they are only redeemable in Louisville, KY. Why Louisville, I have no idea. I just know that I'm not going there anytime soon.

I spent the whole day catering to these yahoos, putting up with their eccentricities, and they tip me ten percent. Better still, it's ten percent that I can't collect unless I take a trip to Louisville.

I go in the back to cash out. I try to use the notes in my deposit. Valerie is having none of that.

"Give me real money."

"Valerie, please. I've made five dollars all day, and I need the money to..."

"No, real money only. You keep these" She thrusts the notes in my face and holds out her other hand. I sigh, place the two 5's in her hand, put on my jacket and walk out the door.

WORST EASTER EVER.

I take solace in knowing that The Captain will awake in the morning with a horrendous hangover.

Introductory Post

2005-06-18T15:16:00.000-07:00

Hello. This is my first attempt at a blog, so I'll start you off with some background as an appetizer...

I am a 25 year-old male. I graduated from Princeton University in 2003. While at Princeton, I played football, joined an eating club (think co-ed frat), and attempted to drink my weight in beer every month.

I started waiting tables after my junior year of college. Now, four years later, I work a desk job during the week. On the weekend, rather than blow my hard-earned money, I wait tables.

Serving helps me keep life in perspective. I have found that you can judge a person's character by how they treat a server. I'm not just talking about the tips (which are nice, don't get me wrong), but about a person's demeanor. Some folks translate "server" as "servant." These are some of the people that you will read about in this blog.

You will also read about some of the people I have worked with over the years. Servers are a different breed. They are colorful, vibrant, often amazing and, at times, strange folks.

The names have been changed, but the people are real.

I have worked at two restaurants. One is a casual (read "bunch of random flea market crap on the walls") restaurant. The other is a higher-end bar. Both are in the suburbs.

I found Waiter Rant a couple of months ago, and I got hooked. The Waiter is a masterful writer, and I don't pretend to be his equal. However, I think that I have a gift for storytelling, and hopefully I can provide any readers with a dollup of enjoyment, a dash of enlightenment, and a sprinkle of entertainment. I'd appreciate any comments- good, bad, or ugly. If you want to throw your own story into a comment, feel free. I love a good story.

So without further ado, let me introduce you to....