Playing waiter
I got a call a few weeks ago from a very tired, heavily accented voice. It was Hassan, the general manager from the restaurant I pretended to work at while looking for work, money and validation.
He was calling to reserve me, apparently none of the restaurant staff was available on Sunday, Feb. 25. I left on great terms, and I loved the multicultural characters I worked with at the restaurant. The only thing I didn’t love was being a waiter. I want to join tables, have a glass of wine and hang out. Or I hate them, and wish they would go away. Neither of those are waiterly traits, and the dichotomy killed me.
Also, I apparently have a panicked look on my face during any rush, and I spin around. I don’t feel like crying, but I give off that vibe. Also no good. I’m much better at being served rather than serving, and luckily that’s how it is.
But I accepted, wanting to see my restaurant friends and help out Hassan, who, as most small-time restaurant managers are, is the most over-worked man in the history of Man. But back at the restaurant, I felt it, I knew that I had put in my time, and I was right back where I started, doing real work, because waiting and bussing is real work. But then something amazing happened — it was Oscar night. I don’t care about Oscar night, but most people do, so come eight-O-clock, the restaurant was scant. Very scant.
The other waitress and I drank, we ate, we ordered desert and we ate more. I caught up with Jesus, made sex jokes with Cesar, and talked family … and more sex … with Eddie. I caught up everyone with my life, caught up on theirs, in a perfect snowglobe of a moment, preserved from the blizzard outside, candlight playing liquid off the wine glasses.
Waiting tables was never that bad after all.