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.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
NCAA Tourney and Everything Else
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."
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."
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Judging Covers
-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.
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.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
The Penguin
-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.
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...
(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!
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!
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
New Post Coming Tomorrow or Thursday
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
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
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Food Poisoning
-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.
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
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
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
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Scammer Series #3- The Servers
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...
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...
Monday, February 20, 2006
So You're Probably Wondering...
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?
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?
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Server Stories Back on the Air!
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
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
Friday, October 07, 2005
What happened to this weekend?
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....)
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....)
Saturday, October 01, 2005
New Post Coming Tomorrow
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.
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.
Monday, September 19, 2005
My New Job....
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.
Monday, September 12, 2005
The Most Interesting Server Ever
-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.
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.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
The Drunken Irishman
-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.
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.
Monday, September 05, 2005
A Night out with the Deaf Server
-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."
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."
Thursday, September 01, 2005
For the Newcomers
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
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
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
The Server Plays Manager
-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....
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....
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