Waiter Rant (25 page)

The third servant, the guy who received one talent, knew his master was a hard ass, so he buried the money he was given in the ground for safekeeping. He simply returned the original amount. The master freaked and called him a wicked and lazy servant. At minimum the guy should’ve put the money in a CD to make a little interest. The master commanded that the one talent be taken away from that lazy servant and given to the servant with ten talents. The master then ordered the lazy servant to be thrown outside into the darkness, where there was weeping and gnashing of teeth, saying, “Everyone who has much will be given more, and whoever has a little, even the little that he has will be taken away.”

This woman was once a bright, industrious person. Whatever resources she had, whatever talents she possessed, are now buried under a sea of booze. She’s literally wasted her talents. Everything’s being taken away from her. I don’t know why this woman is the way she is, but it’s obvious she’s in the grip of some awful pain. Instead of confronting her anguish, she’s self-medicating with cheap wine.

I can relate to this woman’s pain. I’ve wasted my talents, too. I’m like that fearful servant who just buried the one talent he was given. I know I shouldn’t be a waiter anymore. My friends and family, the people who know me and love me, see me doing something else. Don’t misunderstand, there’s nothing wrong with being a waiter. But if you’re a waiter who knows he should really be doing something else, the tension between what you are and who you think you should be can tear your psyche apart. It’s like marrying one person but being in love with someone else.

The reason I’ve been fearful to utilize my talents is because I’m afraid of failure. I’m always waiting for disaster to strike, for the other shoe to drop. That’s why I never opened that coffee shop. That’s why my relationships have turned sour. It’s why I’m still fearful my writing will amount to nothing. That’s the real reason I haven’t quit The Bistro. I’m afraid I’ll fail if I try to do anything else.

My anxiety’s been manifesting itself in awful nightmares—angry, wild visions where I howl in rage as the world takes everything away from me. People tell me I’m a fraud, old girlfriends taunt me from the shadows, hard-faced men chase me through the streets, sadists torture my dog, and old people cry as they point at dead babies rotting in the gutter. On the rare occasion I manage to trap one of my tormenters, the dream devolves into a hellish orgy of violence, where I use every weapon at my disposal—including my teeth. These are the dreams of a man who feels his life floating away on the current of time. I am in a place of “darkness and gnashing of teeth.”

“I can’t serve you alcohol,” I say to the woman, pulling myself back into the here and now. “But I’d love it if you ate with us this evening. We have that fettuccine carbonara you always used to order.”

The woman slumps in her chair, defeated. “That’s okay,” she says. “I wasn’t really hungry.”

“Stay here,” I prod. “Drink some water. Get some of your strength back. I’ll bring you some coffee.”

“That’s not necessary,” she says, getting up. “I should be going.”

“I’m sorry things didn’t work out, but please come back again. We miss having you.”

“Thank you.” As the woman walks past me she grabs my arm. “Thank you for being gentle,” she says.

I look into her eyes.

“You’re welcome,” I say.

“Bye.”

I watch the woman walk away, and Louis comes up to me.

“Well, you got her out quietly,” he says smugly.

“You couldn’t have done it,” I snap testily.

Louis just blinks at me.

“And you think you can do my job?” I say mockingly. “Please.”

A nervous grin spreads across Louis’s face. Like a little boy who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar—or in a lie.

“I—”

“Forget it, Louis. If you want my job, you’re welcome to it.”

I walk back to my section by the front window. The entire Bistro clatters and hums with the sounds of happy people eating. Through the expanse of plate glass I watch the drunken woman as she stumbles down the street into the coolness of the night. About a block away from The Bistro she stops and sits on a park bench and puts her head in her hands. I can’t be sure, but I think she’s crying. I feel my own eyes moisten with tears. This woman’s burying her life and talent under booze. I’m burying my talent under fear.

Ever since I was a kid I thought I wasn’t good enough. I was always afraid that if I tried to do something, I’d fail, and if I failed, I would be destroyed. My psychological makeup is composed of many factors, but I think that my fear of destruction is partly related to learning I had a twin brother who died at birth. When my parents, gently and with good intentions, told me the news, I cried uncontrollably. I was inconsolable. I would burst into tears just thinking about it months, even years, later. Of course, that ten-year-old boy had no idea what he was feeling—but I do. He was feeling
fear
. As a kid I learned that not even the intimacy of a loving womb could prevent bad things from happening—my brother’s fate could have easily been my own. It was a 50/50 proposition who would live and who would die. There was no pity, no second chances, no happy ending. My brother died right next to me. I learned early that the world can be a cruel and unforgiving place. If my brother could be destroyed, so could I. Thus, through some mishmash of survivor guilt and neurosis, I equated failure with annihilation.

So I hid.

I thought God could protect me inside a powerful two-thousand-year-old institution. I was wrong. I tried hiding in a corporate executive fantasy and armoring myself with expensive suits and the pretensions of a wannabe-yuppie lifestyle—but that didn’t work either. Eventually I stumbled into the restaurant business and hid there. The Bistro’s been like a womb I’ve been
afraid to leave. For all my criticism of Fluvio, I admire him for starting this restaurant. He’s a man who’s failed many times in his life—and yet he’s still plugging away. He’s rough around the edges, frustrating, a pain in the ass, fearful, and paranoid as hell, but he’s not paralyzed into inactivity. I can learn some lessons from him.

I’m burning out from the fire of my own demons. It’s not just the restaurant business or customers—it’s me. The man I want to be is fighting the man he’s becoming. I want to use my talents before what little I have is taken away. That’s what’s been causing all my angst. That’s why I’ve started snapping at customers. It may be clichéd, but it’s true—the biggest battle is the one you fight inside yourself.

Like a light switch going off in my head, I realize why I’ve always been attracted to the solitary hero, the man who dwells in loneliness and ambiguity. The man beset by demons who still manages to stand on his own and find beauty in himself and those around him. A man who understands the cruelty of the world but remains unafraid. That is the man I want to be. I want to be like Philip Marlowe—“The best man in his world and a good enough man for any world.”

“Down these mean streets a man must go,” I say silently to myself, watching the drunken woman cry as the summer night sweeps away the remains of day. “Who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid.” It’s time to stop burying my talent. It’s time to set childhood fears aside. I’m a man. I need to get my shit together. I can’t stay at The Bistro forever.

“Waiter,” a woman calls out from my section, “I need another drink.”

I walk over to her table and take the martini glass from her outstretched hand. I go to the back, make another, and deliver it to her.

“Mmmm,” the woman says, sipping her drink. “You make the best cosmopolitans.”

“Thank you, madam.”

“I always tell my husband you’re a great waiter,” she says. “Very capable.”

“Thank you.”

The woman looks at me. She’s about fifty, her face shows the life she’s led, but her eyes are warm and young.

“But overly capable,” the woman says. “I saw how you handled that woman. I was watching. You’re more than just a waiter. Aren’t you?”

I smile broadly. Customers can be very observant.

“Yes, madam,” I reply. “Yes, I am.”

I
t’s the Saturday night before Halloween. A decomposing hooker wearing fishnet stockings and teetering on a pair of oversize stiletto pumps wobbles past the restaurant’s front window. Her boyfriend, dressed up as Jack the Ripper, energetically chases behind her theatrically waving a long rubber knife. Pausing in front of the window, the hooker vigorously waves at the customers, causing the fake intestines hanging out of her short shirt to jiggle nicely. Her breasts jiggle nicely, too. Some of the patrons laugh and wave back. There must be a masquerade party somewhere. The streets are crawling with tipsy creatures and inebriated things that go bump in the night. Not all of the monsters, however, are outside The Bistro.

“So how can I buy that picture?” the drunken middle-aged woman standing in front of me barks. “I haven’t got all fucking night.”

The artwork adorning The Bistro’s walls is for sale. These numbered reproductions of paintings have been languishing unsold for years.

“I’m sorry, madam,” I reply apologetically. “I’ve never sold one of these pictures. I need to call Fluvio to find out what the procedure is. Please allow me a few minutes.”

“You don’t know how to sell a picture?” the woman fumes. “Take it off the wall, wrap it up, and give it to me.”

“I believe you have to deal directly with the artist, madam—”

“I don’t care,” the woman says, stamping a high-heeled shoe on the floor. “Hurry up and find out.”

I don’t have time for this lady’s crap. This is a restaurant, not an art gallery. Ordinarily the hostess would take care of this situation but, since it’s near closing, I thought it was safe to let her go home. Mistake. The second she left a surge of last-minute walk-ins piled through the front door. Thinking the other waiters were busy, I threw all the new arrivals into my empty section. Saroya immediately began crying foul, whining that I was using my authority to steal customers from the other waiters; she even got Beth to start sniping at me. And Louis? He’s not even speaking to me. Earlier in the evening I disciplined him for shouting obscenities within earshot of the customers. He’s still pissed off that I told him to shut up. I can’t blame him. Once when Fluvio and I were fighting, I shouted a litany of obscenities so foul that the entire dining room was stunned into shocked silence. I’m not unaware of my hypocrisy. I just don’t give a shit.

Three weeks ago I scaled back my workweek from five days to four. I tried preparing the staff for my eventual reduction in hours, but they laughed it off, thinking it wasn’t going to happen. Now that it’s a reality, the bad blood between us is reaching the boiling point. Saroya told me point-blank that I shouldn’t wait tables anymore because I’m “rich.” That’d be nice if it were true—but I’m not in a position to retire to Tahiti anytime soon. My goal’s been to keep working and write, but deep down I know my time here is limited. I’m hurt and angry. The worst parts of my personality are starting to run rampant. I’ve been coming off as arrogant, pompous, rude, and—
gasp!
—entitled. My attitude toward The Bistro’s staff is basically “fuck ’em.”

The staff hates me. Since all my new customers arrived at once, they’ve all ordered their desserts at once. This drunken lady’s siphoning off the time I need to whip up the fifteen cappuc
cinos. I’m having a very bad night. I’m not about to go into the weeds over cappuccino. Besides, my inebriated little doyenne’s so plastered, she’ll be lucky if she can walk bipedal in twenty minutes much less talk about art.

“As soon as I find out about the pictures,” I reply evenly, “I’ll let you know.”

The woman glares angrily at me. At least I think she’s angry with me. It’s hard to tell. All the plastic surgery and Botox procedures she’s endured have frozen her face into an expression of perpetually surprised grimness. Despite her short skirt and StairMastered rear end, if I had to make a choice, I’d take the decomposing hooker.

“Make it snappy,” she blurts drunkenly.

“Yes, madam.”

As soon as the woman stumbles out of earshot, I call Fluvio at Bistro Duetto. In the background I can hear the other restaurant’s packed.

“Why can’t I just give the lady the picture off the wall?” I ask.

“NO!” Fluvio shouts. “She has to talk to the artist.”

“So what’s his number?”

“It’s on the card that comes with the painting.”

“The card just tells you to ask the server for more information,” I reply. “There’s no number.”

“Isn’t the artist number in the computer?”

I quickly scroll through the important phone numbers stored in the reservation computer.

“No dice, boss.”

“Go look for it in my office.”

“Are you nuts? I’ll never find it in that mess.”

“Wait! I try and find out,” Fluvio says, putting me on hold.

After two minutes of listening to bad Muzak I hang up the phone. I call Bistro Duetto back and tell the hostess to have Fluvio call me when he gets the information. Then I head toward the kitchen to fetch my desserts. As I pass by the drunken woman’s table she grabs my arm and pulls me toward her.

“So what’s up with the picture?” she asks.

I resist the urge to pull my arm out of the woman’s hand. “We’re trying to get the artist’s phone number,” I say.

“Jesus,” the woman yells, digging her nail into my arm. “Can you believe this shit?”

“What’s so hard about selling a picture?” the woman’s husband snaps. Wearing an open-necked blue silk shirt and expensive black-framed glasses designed to project an aura of success, the man looks like he spends every spare minute at the tanning salon or the gym. The effect of his expensive clothes and personally trained physique, however, is somewhat offset by the bad hair plugs stapled in precise intervals across his receding hairline. The couple they’re with look like a pair of semi-retired porn stars—staving off old age with gleaming veneers, cartoonishly enhanced bodies, and oversprayed hair. The holes where their eyes should be stare out at me with flat indifference. Something tells me these four all use the same plastic surgeon.

“Sir,” I say, “I’m doing the best I can.”

“That’s not good enough,” the man’s wife blurts.

“Sorry.”

The woman lets go of my arm. No one says anything else, so I take that as my cue to leave. I walk back to the kitchen to start on my cappuccinos. I get only two of them made before there’s another demand on my attention.

“Oh, Mr. Manager,” Saroya says, tapping me on my shoulder, “Fluvio’s on the phone, and that lady at my table’s furious about the picture.”

“Saroya,” I reply, pulling some more cappuccino glasses off the shelf, “I’m really backed up. Could you talk to Fluvio and find out what’s going on?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not my job.”

“But I’m going in the weeds here.”

“Tough,” Saroya says, clearly enjoying my discomfort. She’s not going to help me. No one is.

“Why are you being such a bitch?” I snap.

Saroya’s eyes flare with anger. “Because if you weren’t so greedy,” she says hotly, “you wouldn’t have so many tables, and you wouldn’t be in the weeds.”

“You’re a piece of work, Saroya,” I reply. “You steal tables, too.”

“Go talk to Fluvio,” Saroya says, trying to push me out the door. “I’m not going to do your job.”

My temper flares. “You know, Saroya,” I say. “Just because you’re dating the chef doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.”

“What!” Saroya yelps. “You said because I’m
fucking
the chef I can’t tell you what to do?”

“That’s not what I said…” I blurt. There’s a difference between the words
dating
and
fucking
.

A glow of triumph washes over Saroya’s face. “I’m telling Armando what you said. He’ll beat you up.”

I shake my head. This is a no-win scenario. I decide to end this conversation.

“I’m finishing bringing my desserts out,” I say menacingly. “It’s your table.
You
deal with Fluvio.
You
deal with that woman.
You
deal with that godddamn picture.”

“Jerk!” Saroya hisses, storming out of the kitchen.

For the next twenty minutes I totally focus on getting desserts to my tables. I’m so angry I ignore everything and everyone. The house phone’s ringing off the hook, but I know it’s Fluvio, so I don’t answer. Fuck him and his disorganized bullshit.

As I’m hustling around I notice Armando talking to the crazy art lady in the middle of the aisle. Saroya must have asked him to intervene. I’m surprised. It’s rare for Armando to talk to the customers. Then something happens. Armando, obviously thinking the conversation’s over, starts walking away. Startled, the art lady starts snapping her fingers and calling after Armando like he’s a little dog. Armando ignores her, so the woman races up and grabs him by the arm. I see an angry look flash over Armando’s face. He recovers quickly, pulls the lady’s hand off his arm, and
politely walks away. Good, I think to myself. It’s about time Armando saw how crazy the customers could be.

Armando walks up to me. “Why weren’t you able to take care of that lady and talk to my cousin?”

“I’m a busy man,” I say. “You saw how many desserts I had to take out.”

“You’re busy because you took all the tables.”

“Don’t you start,” I grunt.

“I’m not here to do your job,” Armando answers calmly. “If you can’t handle it—”

“It got crazy at the end,” I interject. “There was no hostess so—”

“I don’t care,” Armando says. We eyeball each other for a few moments. I think about how young lions in the wild push an old lion out of his turf and take over. Suddenly, I feel like the old lion. After a few more seconds of staring Armando quickly walks away. When he disappears into the kitchen, Saroya comes running up to me.

“I told him what you said to me,” she says in her smug, singsong voice. “He’s really pissed at you.”

“Great,” I murmur. “Now everyone hates me.”

“You deserve it.”

“You know he’s going to believe you over me.”

Saroya sniffs and walks away. The art lady drinks herself into mental retardation and forgets about the picture. The night ends. The staff leaves without saying a word to me. Armando walks out of the restaurant without shaking my hand—the first time he’s ever done so. Uh-oh. When kitchen staff turns against you, it’s all over. The bus people are eyeballing me strangely, too. I get the same odd feeling I had just before I was fired from the psychiatric clinic. I feel like a dead waiter walking.

When The Bistro’s dark and empty, I lock up, go home, and pour myself a large whisky. My brain’s in overdrive, so I know I won’t be able to sleep. I start reading some Raymond Chandler, but, after a few minutes, I slam the book shut. I’m disgusted with
myself. Philip Marlowe would never take the crap I’m taking. Then again, he wouldn’t be overthinking things like some whiny introspective little bitch, either. I’m not good for The Bistro, and The Bistro’s no longer good for me. It’s time for a change. I need to be that man of honor. I need to go. I remember something my seminary rector told me a long ago. “Never be the corpse at your own wake.”

I drain my whisky and turn off the light. I need to sleep on it.

At nine in the morning the phone rings. My head aches dully, and my tongue feels like it’s coated with wax. I pick the cordless off the nightstand and squint at the caller ID. It’s Fluvio.

I lie in bed and let voice mail take the call. Through half-closed eyes, I watch the tree branch outside my bedroom window rise and fall in the autumn wind, its red and orange leaves dripping like embers from the rigging of a burning ship adrift on a rolling sea. A leaf suddenly gets pasted against the windowpane. It defiantly flaps against the glass until it’s peeled away and hurled into oblivion.

I toss myself out of bed, walk into the kitchen, and put on a pot of coffee. While I’m waiting, I toast a bagel, smother it with cream cheese, and throw a few slices of tomato on top. As soon as the coffee stops perking I pour myself a large mug and eat my breakfast standing up in the kitchen. When I finish, I put my dish in the sink, refill my coffee mug, and listen to the message Fluvio left.

“Eh. Call me. I don’t like what I hear went on last night. Call me as soon as you get this message. I expect you to watch the restaurant for me. Not cause more problems. Call me. Bye.”

I sigh deeply and dial Fluvio’s cell phone. He picks up on the first ring.

“So what happened?” he answers. No preamble. No hello.

“It was nuts last night,” I say. “What can I tell you?”

“You can’t handle it?”

“Fluvio, the lady wanted to buy a picture. I’ve never sold one of those pictures. I tried talking to you, but you were busy and I had a
full section. I asked Saroya to talk to you since it was her customer. She said it wasn’t her job and got Armando to talk to her.”

“So why you can’t handle it?” Fluvio repeats.

“C’mon, Fluvio. These things happen. I was taking care of my customers, there was no hostess”

“I pay you to take care of things while I’m not there. I don’t need to be worried you can’t handle things.”

I want to tell Fluvio he shouldn’t be worried since he’s already promised my job to Louis.

“Sorry, Fluvio,” I say instead. “I wish things had gone differently.”

Fluvio says nothing. As I listen to his pressured breathing my breakfast starts boiling in my stomach. I used to be able to tolerate my boss’s craziness, but after six years I can’t deal with it anymore. Maybe I should tell Fluvio I quit. But for some reason, I can’t.

“Anything else, boss?” I ask.

“No,” Fluvio replies. “I just don’t want to worry anymore.”

“I know.”

“I talk to you at work.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

A few hours later I walk into The Bistro with my dry-cleaned shirt slung over my shoulder. Saroya’s eagerly waiting for me.

“You’re in trouble,” she says, once again in that singsong voice; she’s like a little girl tattling on a sibling. “Armando wants to talk to you.”

“Oh yeah?” I say, clocking in on the POS system. “What about?”

“About what you said to me last night.”