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"Don't Cry Over Spilt Juice"
I am a
server. Yes, a server… not a waitress. Why am I a server and not
a waitress? Well, the manager thinks that the term "waitress" isn't
what we're about. He wants us to "serve" the guests and not just
"wait" on them. Have I stayed awake at night trying to figure out the
difference in those titles? Nope. I'm fine… honest.
Today
started off as any other day. I went in a half hour early to sit with
my friends and have our morning coffee and gossip. This place is like
a soap opera and I'm not missing an episode for an extra half hour of sleep.
The kitchen staff sits on the opposite end of the restaurant and whispers
about us while we servers glance over from time to time and whisper about
them. Everyone knows that they want to be just like us in our jazzy
blue aprons and our green name tags. What they don't know is that I'm
wearing one blue sock and one black sock... a fact I noticed when I crossed
my legs. Well, no one knew this till I exclaimed loudly, "What the
devil is this??" bringing attention to my mismatching dilemma. We all
glance at our watches from time to time, savoring the few minutes before
pandemonium ensues, which always comes too soon.
The
doors open and guests start filing in and one of the regulars, Norman, walks
up to the bar. Now, Norman is a cool cat… seriously. You look at
this aging fellow and right away "cool cat" comes to mind. He has his
Easy Rider glasses on and his blue bandana wrapped around his brow. He
sees me and gives this two-finger wave and tosses me a Harley magazine
across the bar. Norman loves motorcycles with a passion and has
decided his goal in life is to make me interested in them as well. I
pour him a coffee and flip through the mag with slight interest and a polite
smile. I've noticed he's called me "Patricia" the last few days he's
come in for coffee and I check my name tag. Maybe I just have a
Patricia type face, or Patricia hair? Maybe in a former life I was
a... okay, I'm getting off topic. Back to the guests.
I've
waited… errr… served a few tables and have made pretty decent tips and have
had no one die of botulism or choke on a chicken bone yet today. I'm
smiling and laughing with guests and co-workers and have even decided to
share with some of the regulars my inability to match socks. I'm
walking the aisles with the coffee pot as if it's a runway and Versace is my
boss. Life is grand and my pockets are jingling. But then…
Yeah…
today I had a "but".
The
"Blue Lady" arrives. Let me describe her to you a bit. She's not
the tallest of folk, in fact she is probably one of the shortest women I've
seen. I'm 5'9" and tower her like a freaky circus sideshow act.
She is wide as she is tall and has this balding patchy thing around the
crown of her head. She thinks she conceals it cleverly with a big
floppy white bow, but since big floppy white bows went out of style in the
early… okay, I have no date here… I'm not fooled by it. She is called
the "Blue Lady" because she wears the same blue sweatshirt with a large pink
embroidered heart on the chest every single day. It's surprisingly
clean which makes me think she has a closet full of nothing else, like
Inspector Gadget and his suits. She paints her fingertips… not just
her nails. I'm talking crimson red, straight out of the old
hookeresque Time Square, from knuckle to tip. She's always carrying
bags with her, too. Not bag lady bags, but tons of plastic grocery
bags shoved into plastic grocery bags giving the impression that after lunch
she's off to recycle all the live long day. Have I mentioned the fact
that she has a friend? A friend no one but she can see? A friend
that sits with her everyday and whom I need to supply a menu and beverage
napkin for? I have now. Remember those parts… it's important.
The
Blue Lady sits in my section, in my biggest wrap around booth that I usually
reserve for parties of six or more. I was praying she'd sit somewhere
else, but the patron saint of waitresses hates me with the fire of a
thousand suns. I don't walk up right away to take her order (or
"greet" her as it's said in the "biz"). Instead, I wait for her to settle
in with her bags and her friend. That reminds me… I need a nickname
for her friend. Again, I'm getting off the subject.
Once I
walk up, she looks startled to see me standing there and almost cowers back
against the pleather. I introduce myself, quietly thankful that I have
a degree in social work (which I have used more waitressing than anywhere
else), and ask for her order. She wants a five dollar pitcher of
regular frozen margaritas. She specifies she wants no salt on her
glass, but her friend does. I act as if I'm writing this down and off
I go to fetch it. I figure the faster I can get her order, the faster
she'll be off to recycle or wash her sweatshirt. God, it's so clean
for its wear… really.
The
bartender is being slow and the drumming of my fingers on the counter and
sighing randomly in protest isn't making him move any faster. The
overhead music is playing "Starry Eyed Surprise" and I find myself singing
along as I wait. I'm disappointing myself that I know the lyrics and
just tell myself that "dance all night to this dj" is brainwashing. My
coworkers aren't teasing me as they walk past because of my singing or my
socks, or the fact that I've been leaning on the bar long enough to become a
fixture… but because I'm serving the Blue Lady. I'd so bare my teeth
at them if I wasn't already baring them at the bartender.
I
finally get the pitcher and glasses to the Blue Lady who again acts
surprised to see me. She pours both glasses as I'm asking her if there
is anything else she needs. She thinks a moment and says quite
frankly, "Why, yes. My friend is on a diet and wants to know how many
calories are in a glass of this juice."
Now
how can someone with invisible friends be so alert about things like caloric
intake? Like I bloody know.
I
decide to ask my manager, quickly, because she's starting to talk to my
other tables and I can feel my tip average dropping. I'm just thankful
she isn't a person with an invisible friend who argues with her. My
manager finds it funny that I'd even ask about calorie counts instead of
just giving an answer. I explain rather smoothly that I was afraid the
invisible friend may be hypoglycemic and am protecting his restaurant from
lawsuits later.
I make
a number up, passing Norman, who calls me Patricia so I call him Fred, along
the way, and give said number of calories to the Blue Lady who looks at me
like she could care less. I suppose I should have told her friend.
I have other tables to worry about, so I leave her… them… to their
margaritas.
I'm
standing at the table of this kindly old gent who likes to read to me from
the paper about the weather and things, who has recently lost his wife and
enjoys the simple conversation of others when I feel a tug, tug, tug at my
apron. I turn to see the Blue Lady half sprawled in the aisle to reach
me, her hefty bosoms practically dragging the red carpet so she can get my
attention without actually standing up.
I want
to laugh, or scream, or jump out the window, but simply ask, "Yes?"
"I
spilled my juice." She sits up and points. I'm surprised she took the
blame. Should I have an invisible friend and spill an entire pitcher
of margaritas, you better believe the friend is taking the rap. I'll
sing like a bird to rat that margarita spilling freak out.
I get
napkins and upon my return am handed a five dollar bill. She says
she's ready to pay. I explain that there are taxes, but am cut off in
my explanation by her whipping out her driver's license and flashing it
about while loudly yelling, "I'm old enough to drink! I'm old enough
to drink!" Lovely.
The
manager comes over, just as my sarcasm has pushed its way to my throat,
almost opening my mouth and spilling forth like a great and powerful dam has
broken. He tells her there is no charge for spilled margaritas.
He bids her a nice afternoon. He tells her he'd walk her to the door.
I'm standing like a chump in the aisle with no tip and a marinated booth to
clean up. Do alcohol and anti-psychotics mix? I'm not referring
to her here. I'm asking for myself at this point.
My
coworkers come over to help me tidy the mess. I'm not saying a word as
they tell me of all the fun I missed... a woman sitting at the bar
simulating oral sex with a bubblegum lolly. They go on and on about
how she worked that sucker and how all the men watched wide-eyed.
Lovely.
Before
I clocked out today, I had to do a final cleaning inspection of my tables.
I checked the sugar packets… full. The salt and pepper shakers… full.
My tables are so spotless I could let someone else eat off them. I
walk past the booth as the dinner shift of employees start to walk in and
have a plaguing thought…
Did
she take her friend with her? I think I'll name her "Fatty". |
