Your Server Will Be Right With You

It's only fair that I tell you this story concludes with me spilling several glasses of red wine on a woman dressed in all white. It would be absurd for me to describe her immaculate summer dress or the bright, silken scarf she wore, all the while expecting you to forget that I was a clumsy waiter that did way too many squat presses at the gym the previous day. I mean, as soon as I were to tell you the part where I take the table's drink order - six different types of red wine - you'd see disaster coming a mile away. So, it's here that I start, but now I can take it back a little.

"Five more squats, dude!" either Brad or George yelled at me.

That's too far. The next day, I showed up to work at Cobb Lane. I had been waiting tables there all summer, saving up money to move to L.A. in October. According to the schedule that assigned sections to the waitstaff, I would be serving on the courtyard terrace that evening.

The restaurant was under new ownership in those days, which had warranted renovations. One such upgrade was a multi-level terrace off to the side of the large, shaded courtyard. It was a very pretty section, with each level serving only one table and surrounded by flowering plants. There were five levels, leading to the big circular table for six on the uppermost tier.

I'm not sure why I didn't see this assigned section as a death sentence and immediately try to switch sections with another server. My legs, specifically my quadriceps, were so sore from the gym the previous day that I could barely walk, much less endure the constant stair-mastering required to work the terrace. It's possible I thought it would be a slow night, or that maybe it would rain and I would be cut early.

Early dismissal didn't arrive, though a lot of people did. Cobb Lane's regulars loved the romantic seclusion of the terrace and I had to do my best to not fill it with loud groans as I navigated the stony stairs.

I should mention at this point that there's an expression that servers use that I haven't heard used in any job I've had since. It's called being "in the weeds" and it means that a waiter has too many places to be at once. I would think this experience applies to a lot of jobs, but I guess the restaurant biz is the only place that likens it to lawn maintenance.

Anyway, I was neck-high in the weeds for most of that night on the terrace. Since my legs felt like wet noodles, it took me four times longer than normal to ascend the stairs and ten times longer to descend them. With only five tables to serve, I should have been fine, but it was a constant struggle and my leg muscles refused to stop screaming out for me to sit down.

Side note: waiters should never be sitting down. If you see one sitting down, something is wrong and you should quietly move toward the nearest exit. While we're on the subject, if a server sits down with you at your table, they are trying to show dominance. You should roll your menu into a cylinder and strike them across the nose with it.

Back to my night of panic: my brain had stopped accepting major distress signals from my body and it was helping. I hit a groove and decided to endure the remainder of my shift. It was possible that I had gone into shock, but the sensation brought such wonderful courage that I decided to roll with it.

It was during this state of newfound confidence that she appeared, my woman in white, standing at the entrance to the courtyard in a group of three couples. I've already mentioned her immaculate summer dress and the bright, silken scarf she wore that night. It was as if she could see the future and wanted to ensure the worst possible outcome. I've never been the type to notice shoes, but I'm sure hers were made from the finest white suede that money could buy. Why wouldn't they be?

My section was full when they arrived, but the woman in white's group elected to wait for the large table at the top of the terrace. My legs began to shake again. I tried to focus on the idea that maybe these new guests would be fantastic tippers. It seemed more productive than falling to the ground and crawling to my car.

Second side note: most of a server's income comes from tips, which we all know is what waiters require in order to judge the current state of American morality. The opening scene of Reservoir Dogs contains a masterful conversation on the topic and, if you haven't already, I highly recommend that you check it out. It's funny, insightful, and to it I can only add the simple rule that, if you don't like tipping, don't go to restaurants. No, it's not because a server's work is demanding and deserves a monetary reward - lots of jobs are and do. It's because tipping is customary, like keeping your eyes above the equator at a nude beach. Also, if you're traveling to or from another country, try to figure out what type of tip is expected and don't be shy about asking the next table. It doubles as a great icebreaker, if you see somebody cute.

"Six glasses of red wine, please," the six people, now seated at the apex of the terrace, said to me in unison. Okay, not really. It was probably four kinds of red wine and a couple of cocktails, but you and I both know where this story is heading.

The rest of my section was mostly empty by this point in the evening, but it was becoming more of a struggle to run back and forth from the kitchen. If I needed something as minuscule as a ramekin of ranch dressing, I had to limp down the terrace steps, trudge across the courtyard, tip-toe through the dining room, and march all the way to the back of the restaurant. This is why people stop going to the gym.

We didn't have a bartender at Cobb Lane, so the manager poured my table's drinks and I carefully carried the tray with both hands as I made the trek back to the woman in white's group. They seemed a little perturbed they'd had to wait for the table, but I knew everything would change once they got a little wine in them.

Or on them. Whatever.

Final side note: the best thing about working in the service industry is learning how to properly apologize to others. I did this several times per shift at every restaurant I've worked for: to the guests, to the kitchen, to my fellow servers, and then to more guests. I don't know if frequent mistakes are a given for everybody that waits tables, but they sure were for me. I mixed up most orders that I didn't flat-out forget and dropped more dishware than I will ever own in my life.

And yes, one time I toppled a tray full of red wine straight onto a woman who was wearing all white. However, I didn't have to apologize to her for that mistake. How could I? I wasn't allowed to go anywhere near her for the rest of the night.

Ché Boulevard

Trevor had no interest in getting to know, spending time with, or having a meal in the vicinity of Lillian Schnell, not even after she told him secrets about Solitinuum and praised his girlfriend in some truly flattering ways.

Trevor had only agreed to Lillian's company in the first place at Elena's insistence. He'd been seeing Elena for a little over a month and liked her quite a bit, but enduring any level of scrutiny from her circle of friends felt beyond tedious. Furthermore, this Lillian woman suggested they meet at the overpriced Ché Boulevard for dinner. He would have preferred midday coffee or a quick pretzel outside his office or, best option, a permanent rain check.

When he arrived at the restaurant, Lillian was sitting at a table in the center of the dining section and facing the entrance. She was a tall and still woman a few years older than Elena, attractive in a stern high school principal kind of way. She looked up from her smartphone as Trevor approached her.

"Thanks for meeting me. I hope you're not the type of man that minds sitting with his back to the entrance."

He was that type, but he shook his head no.

"This is fine," he lied. "Good to see you again, Lillian," he lied again.

They had briefly met after a concert for a rock band that Elena's company represented. Trevor had been busy the night of the show, but picked up Elena afterward to spend the night at his place. Lillian had been her date in his absence, though she hardly seemed to fit into the band's demographic. Trevor would be the first to admit that he didn't either, though he might have made an effort to blend in.

"Do we have a waiter?" he asked.

"I ordered two Manhattans. I'll drink both if you'd prefer something else."

"No need. It's the best thing on the menu."

She smiled and glanced down at her smartphone again. The pre-ordering his drink thing annoyed Trevor, but bad phone manners would cause him to become outwardly irate. He began to say as much, but Lillian cut him off.

"I don't mean to be rude," she said. "It looks like the military have a Solitinuum sect cornered in San Diego. In the Gaslamp District, if you can believe that."

"I would have thought they'd be more at home in the zoo," Trevor said, though Lillian didn't acknowledge the attempted joke.

"Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?" she asked.

Trevor gave her a brief rundown covering the basics: his education and job, favorite animal, a desire to travel more often. He was relieved that Lillian didn't stop him at the mention of his marriage and divorce to his ex-wife, Corina, thinking that would be the likely trap. However, he did realize during his discourse that it might be impolite if he didn't return the volley of interest, though he had none for Lillian Schnell.

And then she did it again. Trevor was in the middle of a story about a fire at a Japanese fish market he'd been in last fall and Lillian's eyes drifted down to her phone.

"Listen, Lillian," he said. "I don't want to be here."

She looked up to him and he continued.

"I only agreed to meet you because Elena was close to tears about how important you and her other friends are to her. But, you know, I already have friends and I'm not really looking to make more. No offense."

Lillian looked at Trevor with a sad seriousness as the server arrived with their cocktails.

"Sorry for the wait," he said, placing the drinks in front of them. "Are you ready to order?"

"Give us a minute," Lillian said.

The waiter nodded and left. Lillian lifted her glass.

"To old friends and to not making new ones," she said.

Trevor rolled his eyes and half-heartedly lifted his glass. They drank, the bitter sweetness a mild relief to Trevor. He looked around and was doubly relieved to see that he didn't know anybody sitting near them.

"Not bad," Lillian said, referring to the drink.

"Best thing on the menu," he replied stoically.

"Elena wanted to be here tonight," Lillian said. "I told her it would be a short evening, and it will be. I have no interest in dining here."

"That's a good move," Trevor said. "The food here sucks and they charge you out the ass for the privilege."

The sentence came out both louder and crasser than Trevor had intended, though he felt Ché Boulevard deserved every insult it got.

"Nevertheless," Lillian continued, "I needed this time with you. Elena speaks highly of you, but you don't seem like a team player."

"Mm, not looking to join a team."

He noticed that his right foot was tapping. He hadn't noticed music playing when he sat down, but it was suddenly very prominent. Lillian was still talking, but Trevor had to concentrate to place the band. Was it the same band whose concert he had missed that night? Didn't seem like the right atmosphere for it, but he would look it up later if he could remember any of the lyrics.

"Stay with me, Trevor," Lillian said.

"Huh?" Trevor realized that his vision had blurred a bit. "What's this song called?"

"We want the world to see us for what we truly are, Trevor. Solitinuum isn't what you and your worthless friends have heard about in the news. We are so much more than a sometimes dangerous public nuisance with tax exempt status. We are the future of this country's religion, health, and government."

The light in Trevor's peripheral vision began to dim. It took him a moment to realize the cause of the sensation, that the other people in the restaurant were gathering around his table. He reached for his drink, but someone had taken it.

"San Diego was a mistake. We've chosen this city to regroup because of Elena. She is special beyond any measure that you and your worthless friends will ever know. She will be our new haven's representative and its queen. And we can't have you standing next to her, no matter how much she wants that. You aren't for us."

Trevor steadied his hands, which were shaking now. He knew that something was wrong. People were chanting around him and he couldn't feel his legs. Somebody stood him up, or maybe it was two people. He wanted another drink, but the server was gone. Lillian Schnell was gone too, replaced by someone in a scary mask who was much too tall. Trevor's new dinner companion held a strange-looking steak knife in their hand, but nobody had ordered a steak.

In that moment, Trevor decided that he was going to break things off with Elena the next time he saw her. Her friends were too weird. The song began playing again and he tearfully admitted to himself that it wasn't any band or style of music he'd ever heard before. He glanced around the dining room through half-closed eyes at the grey twisted faces around him and decided something else.

He decided he was never coming back to Ché fucking Boulevard again.