N-O. How do you pronounce that again?

One of the bittersweet joys of living so far away from family and being too poor to travel is that I get to spend my holidays alone. Just me and the kid doing whatever we want. No splitting time between my mother’s family and my father’s before rushing the kid over to his own father’s house. No family bickering. No going out of my way to accommodate everyone else’s timelines and putting up with their little eccentricities. Just peace. And quiet. And time for silent reverence.

Ahhh.

So I was getting pretty excited about Thanksgiving. The university gives us Friday off and we only work a half day on Wednesday, so I was looking forward to a four and a half day weekend. Of course, I can’t afford to take the time off from the restaurant, but still, only working one job is a vacation. And since my availability doesn’t include Thursdays (or Saturdays – I have to have one day to do housework and grocery shopping), I’ve been looking forward to the extra full day of rest for months now.

Since we weren’t planning to go to Iowa to see family, and our kitchen is much too small for me to be preparing a big feast, I thought I’d take the kid out to dinner, overtip the poor server who had to work the holiday, then go home and spend the rest of the day playing video games and watching holiday movies while further stuffing ourselves on a few well-chosen snacks.

Exciting? No. Just what I want and need? Completely.

But it was not to be. Several weeks ago, a friend of ours invited us over for a T-Day dinner. I thanked her and said that it sounded nice, but I did not say yes. I also didn’t say no. Then a couple weeks ago, she called to ask if my son could babysit and in the course of our conversation, brought up Thanksgiving dinner. It quickly became clear that by not declining the invitation, I had accepted.

I couldn’t back out at that point, so definite plans were made. This is the same friend who gave me a place to stay this summer while I was apartment hunting, and the same friend who took me to the beach for some much needed rest. And while I don’t feel an obligation to accept her invitation, I also don’t want them to feel that I don’t care enough about them to spend the holiday with them, especially when (as most people might see it) I have nothing better to do.

And they only live ten minutes away. I figured the kid and I could still sleep in a little, get in a movie or some festive zombie-killing on the X-Box, hang out, cook and dine with my friends, and still have a few hours of down time in the evening.

This also was not to be.

The other night at the restaurant, the assistant GM sidled up to me (yes, he really did sidle).

AGM: I’m only asking you this because I have to . . .
Me: You want me to work Thanksgiving.
AGM: (slumping down by leaning on the counter to make himself smaller than me) We could really use you.
Me: You know, I used to like you.
AGM: (batting his pretty blond eyelashes) You can handle the traffic. We need the experience on the floor.
Me: I’m liking you less and less right now.
AGM: You could work morning or evening. It would really help us out.
Me: I don’t like you at all.
AGM: (puts his head on his arm and looks up at me)
Me: (in my head) Fuuuuuuuck!
AGM: The shifts are eight to two or two to ten.
Me: Is the morning busy?
AGM: (stands up straight now that he has what he wants) We’re on a wait by eight-thirty.
Me: You suck. (calling after him as he walks away) I mean that. I really can't stand you!

I need the money. Fucking money.

And I figured it wouldn’t be so bad. I have a few extra hours on Wednesday between leaving the university early and my shift at the restaurant when the kid and I can hang out. I’ll go in to the restaurant and make (I hope) some great money on Thursday and still make it to dinner at my friend’s house, then I’ll have until Friday at five to do whatever I want. Plus my usual Saturday.

So I talked to my friend a little while ago to finalize some plans for me to pick up a bed she is giving me (see, how could I turn down her invitation?). And I told her that I would have to work until mid-afternoon on Thursday, but that the kid and I would be there for dinner. No big deal, she said. She even offered to pick the kid up early so I could come straight to her house from work if I wanted. Oh, and by the way, she had some bad news.

It seems her six year old daughter (adorable) came home from school last night and declared herself a vegetarian. Eating animals is cruel. And because eating animals is cruel, she forbade her parents from cooking up and serving an already dead turkey. And because my friends are very progressive and always support their daughters in whatever their endeavors, we will not be having turkey on Thanksgiving. We will be having no meat of any kind.

Again – Fuck!

So, to recap:

dhf’s original Turkey-Day plans:
-Go out for drinks with work friends after Wednesday night’s shift because I have the next day off.
-Sleep in because I have the day off.
-Watch parades on television with the kid.
-Go out to dinner.
-Come home and eat junk food and play video games with the kid.
-Maybe go to a movie (Beowulf in 3-D at the IMAX!)


dhf’s modified Turkey-Day plans:
-Maybe have one drink after Wednesday night’s shift, depending on how early we get out because I have to be at work by eight in the morning.
-Serve pre- and post-church guests in the a.m. and lucky non-cooking bastards in the early afternoon. Hope they compensate me well for working on a holiday so they don’t have to.
-Head to my friends’ house for a lovely holiday dinner.
-Go to a movie or go home and eat junk food and kill zombies with the kid.

dhf’s final next-Thursday plans:
-Go out for too many drinks regardless of time after Wednesday night’s shift because I have to be at work early in the morning and then have a meatless Thanksgiving dinner, so why does it matter if I’m hung over.
-Drag myself out of bed and head to work where I will run my ass off for ungrateful customers who will probably bring in their kids who have likely been gorging on sweets all morning and will be hopped up on sugar, running around our restaurant with cousins they haven’t seen all year and are sooo excited to be hanging out with. Know that I’ll probably get stiffed thirty percent of the time. Two, maybe three dollars on the rest of the tables.
-Go to my friends’ house and eat vegetables and potato dishes.
-Skip the movie because I’m too hung over from the previous night’s drinking.
-Kill a shit-load of zombies because I am full of much bitterness over not being able to say no to people and spent the day doing something other than what I wanted.

Letters to my 'guests'

To the divorced dad who brought his children in for dinner:

I was standing at another table when the hostess sat you, and as soon as I finished taking their order, I greeted you. I could tell you did not think this was fast enough. I could tell by the way you tapped your polished leather shoes impatiently until I turned around. I also greeted your children who couldn’t be bothered to look up from their notebook drawings – your daughter’s of a home with two children and a mother in front of it, your son’s of a similar house on fire – long enough to acknowledge my presence or that they had been spoken to. I came right back with the tea you ordered for yourself, and nothing for your children because you bought them sodas which they brought into the restaurant. I smiled while I waited for you to decide what to eat, even though I had other tables to greet, even though you told me you were ready and seemed annoyed when I politely suggested I come back in a few moments. I only tell you this because you weren’t looking at me while you barked your order at me. And I wanted you to know. And when you told me to bring you a plate of biscuits, then as an afterthought said, “That comes with it” almost as a question, but not quite, I told you it didn’t, but I would hook you up. I did not do this because you are entitled to bread. I did it to be nice. And when I brought you the bread, and you said “the kids need some waters” – still not looking me in the eye – and put your arms behind your head, making sure to shake your shiny gold watch behind your head as you stretched and your son picked up the orange crayon to add accent to his flames, I did not “accidentally” drop the plate of bread in your lap. This too I did to be nice. And when I brought the children their water, and offered to top off your glass of tea, I understood that you were too busy staring off into nothingness to acknowledge that you had been asked a question, so I refilled it anyway. And when I brought your food out, including an extra plate so your children could split a meal, and they couldn’t be bothered to move their crayons and notebooks to make room for the plates of food and you said nothing, I only laughed and commented on how we needed to make bigger tables. And when you growled at me to “put that down over there!” even though I could not reach “over there” because your son had chosen that moment to lean across the table and throw the orange slice garnish on the ground at my feet, I did not knock him in the head with the plate, and teach him about being aware of his surroundings as I reached over him. Because I’m nice like that. And later, as I rushed down the aisle with another table’s tray of food and you stretched your foot into the aisle, almost tripping me, I did not scuff your expensive shoes. Even though I wanted to. And after you left, and I came back to bus your table, and I saw the untouched water glasses, the outside soda bottles, the pieces of wet pancake on the table and the floor, and the dollar fifty tip you left me on a twenty dollar tab, I wondered why it took your wife so long to leave your sorry ass.


To the older woman who needed to complain about something, to somebody:

You ordered roast beef with no gravy. Even though it is cooked in gravy. So I stood behind the cook while he put your portion of roast onto the grill and cooked the gravy away. I watched while he added the sides to your plate, and the moment he was finished, I brought it to your table. You might imagine my surprise when I stopped back to ask how your meal was, and you complained that it wasn’t very warm. I was almost as shocked as you were when my manager refused to comp your meal and most definitely more shocked than when you and your husband left without tipping me at all.


To the guests who come in with thirteen of your closest friends and complain to management about my service when your food does not arrive within fifteen minutes during a dinner rush on Friday night:

Go to McDonald's. Or a buffet. Or the real world. Your choice.


To the couple with the adorable little girl and the teenage son, both of whom said “please” and “thank you” and wished me a good evening as you left:

I think I love you. Please dine with us every night. Please.

Feels just like I'm walking on crumpled trash

My last three shifts at the restaurant have been with our general manager as the closer. This is never fun. Our GM is an older, grumpy white dude with no sense of humor who sucks what little joy we have at work right out of the occasion.

Our GM is obsessed with the tidiness of the restaurant. Not with the cleanliness, which would make sense because, you know, we serve food to people. No, our GM is obsessed with things being neat and orderly at all times. He walks up and down the server aisle moving trays into neat little piles and organizing stacks of napkins. I’m not kidding. But his biggest obsession seams to be the floor.

Let me just say that we sweep when there’s down time. And if one of us spills something or drops a dish, we immediately clean it up. We do this because it makes sense – no matter how busy we are, no matter how much a table is demanding bread service right that moment, we know that we cannot leave liquids or broken porcelain on the floor. It’s a safety issue. Sometimes a health code issue. But occasionally, as we are rushing through the server aisle with our trays, we drop things – straw wrappers, grill tickets, sugar packets, etc.

The GM gets irritated by this. So irritated that even during our busiest rushes, his top priority is finding someone to sweep the server aisle. Should we run some of the trays in the window before the food gets cold and we have to replate it? No, we should sweep up straw wrappers. Should we go greet the three tables the airheaded hostess just sat in our section at once? No, we should pick up those two packets of Equal that spilled out of the box.

His obsession with a tidy floor has become a joke, and no longer do any of us respond to his requests for “somebody to take a broom through here” when we have hungry, thirsty guests on the floor. It probably has something to do with the fact that just a few weeks ago, he shoved a broom in my direction despite the fact that I was already carrying a tray full of drinks and asked me to sweep the floor, and I told him, “I would, but my guests need me to do something for them. And they’re paying me more than you are.”

I don’t know why he hasn’t fired me yet.

So Friday night, realizing that none of us cared about his tidy floor, he took the broom and dustpan and swept it himself. Not without grumbling of course.

“You’re walking on trash, people!” he said, as he swept up a grill ticket. “Do you walk on trash at home? Is this how you people live?”

Most everybody ignored him or just plain didn’t hear him, as the restaurant was full of guests and we were on an hour wait, but I happened to be standing near him, making sweet tea so I could take some to my tables.

“Do you walk on trash at home?” he said to me. He even said my name. Do you walk on trash at home, dhf? As if our little question and answer would be an example for all other servers. Did you hear that? Dhf doesn't walk on trash at home. Maybe we should sweep up these crumpled napkins.

“No,” I told him. “I don't walk on trash. But I also don’t wait tables at my house, so it’s kind of a wash.”

I'm very disappointed in myself.

The coffee's probably not a safe bet, either

I’ve only dropped one tray at the restaurant. Actually, it wasn’t even a full tray – just one plate of food that slid off the corner of the tray as I pulled it out of the window. It’s amazing that I haven’t dropped more. I mean, I’m clumsy. I once fell and knocked over an end table and broke a lamp by doing nothing more than turning to face a friend who was speaking to me. Another time I tripped over the sidewalk and slammed my face into the concrete outside the library. In front of a lot of people. Who all rushed to my aid, embarrassing me even further. The worst part was I had a twenty-eight hour bus ride home ahead of me and a bad case of facial road-rash, though I'm not sure I stood out that much with the other Greyhound passengers.

Regardless, it amazes me that I am able to carry a tray full of water glasses and coffee pots and plates and soup bowls and chinchillas. Okay, scratch that last one. Just making sure you’re keeping up.

Making it through the diningroom with a fully loaded tray is pretty tough. Especially when it’s busy. Sometimes, you have ten or twelve glasses of liquid on a ten inch round tray balanced on your fingertips, and you have to make it from the kitchen to the table without spilling.

This wouldn’t be so bad if it were a straight shot, but there are always obstacles – other servers, children running around unattended, high chairs sticking out in the aisle because guests don’t listen when the hostesses tell them it isn’t safe, little old people who walk damn slow or just plain stop for no reason. Our restaurant even has these infernal rocking chairs. Which rock. And rock even harder when kids jump out of them. I can’t tell you how many servers have been taken down by the backs of these quickly abandoned rockers.

As hazardous as the diningroom is, it is nothing compared to the server aisle. Ours runs the length of the restaurant, spanning everything from the dishroom and bussing station at one end, to prep and the breakroom at the other. The grill hood (where the cooks tray up the food to be served) is in the middle of the server aisle. Opposite the grill hood is the salad cooler, salad dressing station and juice machines. Beside the grill hood are the bread stations and soup stations. And at each end of the aisle are the long counters that hold the tea and soda and coffee and hot chocolate stations.

And the aisle itself is four feet wide. If that.

On a busy day, there are ten or more servers, two managers, a couple of bussers, a server assistant, and a few more random employees all fighting for space in this aisle. Imagine carrying a tray loaded with food or beverages through there while moving as fast as you can without running because you have four tables on the floor and everybody needs a refill. Now. Right now (Damnit, where is this waitress with my sweet tea!). Sometimes I think of it in terms of football, like being a linebacker and having to pivot and turn and swivel in order to avoid the other players while trying not to drop the ball.

Last night, for example, was insanely busy, and there we were short-staffed. The dish room was backed up, the server aisle was a mess, even the grill was a little backed up, and we all had more tables than we could comfortably handle. It was three hours of chaos. Still I managed to make it through the night without dropping a thing. I was the only one.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad for a shift to be over, and I was ready to just hop in the car and get home. When I started the car though, I realized I needed to get gas, so I stopped at the BP across the street and while the car was filling I went inside to grab some caffeine. Another woman reached the door just a moment before I did and she held it open for me and we exchanged smiles and I thanked her as I walked inside. I was thinking about how nice that was, such a small thing really, but such a change after a night of angry customers and the resulting short fuses of my co-workers. I was thinking this as I opened the cooler and picked out a bottle of cola.

And as I closed the cooler door, the soda bottle slipped from my hand. And it burst. Sugary, sticky liquid exploded and fizzed out all over the floor and my pants and the pants of the woman who had just been considerate enough to hold the door for me.

The woman was very sweet about the whole thing, as was the store clerk who had to clean up the soda spilled all over the floor and splashed up the cooler doors. He even refused to let me pay for the bottle I dropped.

I was mortified.

I apologized like crazy and even joked that I had made it all night at work without dropping a tray, but couldn’t seem to handle a sealed plastic bottle.

The clerk laughed and asked me where did I work. I told him and he said maybe he’d request me next time he came in. Then he said, “I just won’t order the soup.” And he and the woman laughed.

Not funny. Not funny at all.