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.

Tempered Ice

"I know it, Davy. Negotiation sucks. It's settling a divorce on the morning of the wedding. You tell them just how much - and specifically in what way - you want to ruin their life, then you kiss them on the mouth and cut the cake. It sucks. But it can be fun."

To drive home the metaphor, Laina removed the flowers from the vase in the center of the table and tossed them over her head. They landed in the walkway of the restaurant patio she was seated at with Davis, her client of many years. Satisfied, Laina downed the remainder of her scotch and soda.

Davis was, as always, embarrassed by Laina's loud voice and big gestures, but her negotiation skills made her too valuable a manager to beg discretion. Besides, Davis knew it was her boisterous personality that made her a great negotiator in the first place. He never had much of a taste for it, preferring to save his energy for his work. But Laina's thirst for blood and tears were, if perhaps unsavory, renowned throughout the industry.

A waiter approached and asked Laina if she'd like another scotch and soda.

"No, I'm just here trying to get a rash from these cushions you let the street people piss all over. Yes, I'd like another scotch and soda."

The waiter nodded, picked up Laina's glass, and looked to Davis, who politely waved him away. Davis asked Laina what kind of concessions they could expect in the next round, points on the back end, etc.

"Look, kid. I can speculate on what they're returning with, but it doesn't matter, because I'm just getting started. Plus, I'm hoping that they take their time. I'd like to see them stall until after the holidays."

Davis began to object.

"I know, I know - you don't want to be left twisting during the break. I get it. But see it from their point of view. They're with their families for the first time all year. And believe me, they all hate it. They get bored and I want them bored. Panicked that they won't have any meetings to come back to in the new year. It's a tactic that always works. 'Yes, yes,' they'll say. 'Anything to get the project going,' they'll say."

Laina grabbed a tube of lipstick from her purse and threw it full speed at the back of another patron's head. It missed and rolled into the street. No one except Davis seemed to notice the offense and Laina immediately returned to the conversation.

"However, if they want to wrap this up before bitter winter ennui sets in, so be it. I've got lots of other shit happening in December."

The waiter returned with Laina's fourth scotch and soda. She lifted the glass and studied its contents.

"You did it again, you drippy prick. How many times have I got to tell you: no new ice. I need the cubes that were soaking in the scotch from the last one."

The waiter apologized and grabbed for the glass, but Laina stabbed at his reaching hand with her fork. The waiter retracted his hand, narrowly avoiding a serious injury.

"Forget it. It's already here, so it's here already."

She drank deep as the waiter smiled nervously and backed away, kept backing away and never returned. Laina set the glass down and smiled at Davis. She winked and kicked his shin hard under the table.

It was getting late. The stranger that didn't get hit with Laina's lipstick stood up from his table and left with his friends. The patio was beginning to thin out, the night growing too cold for outside dining. Davis rubbed his throbbing leg and thought about the upcoming winter, another without a solid deal in place.

Laina didn't seem to mind the cold at all. Far from it. She cooled herself with the condensation from her scotch and soda glass, drawing it lightly across her neck.

"Yeah, Davy. Negotiation sucks. It's capsizing the boat before you board it and set sail. You threaten deployment of every weapon in your arsenal, make them think you'd rather see the whole shebang at the bottom of the ocean. But if you stick to your cannons, they'll recognize that you're the real captain. And if you're very patient, maybe they'll even let you steer the ship."

Tread the Boards Lightly

In order to give you an accurate understanding of the incident(s) from last week, I shall devise a short play called "They Gave Him Back His Coupon". I will create characters based on the people that were involved and, in some places, combine characters in order to cast as few guild actors as possible. The story shall be kept simple and the dialogue engaging.

"They Gave Him Back His Coupon"

Lights up on the interior of a small restaurant. A man in his early 50's, ROBERT, enters from the street and sits down at a table. After a few moments, a SERVER enters from the kitchen and approaches the man. The server's clothes do not look freshly washed and the person is obviously a pervert.

SERVER: How's it going?

ROBERT: I'm fine. Thanks.

SERVER: That's good. Can I get you something to drink?

ROBERT: Uh. Could I see a menu?

SERVER: Oh, sure.

The server creeps to a counter and removes a menu from a stack of them, like an eel sucking dirt from the bottom of the ocean.

SERVER (CONT.): Here ya go.

ROBERT: Thank you.

Robert takes the menu and peruses it.

SERVER: Nice day, huh?

ROBERT: Yeah, pretty nice. Do you have Pepsi products or Coca-cola?

SERVER: Coke.

ROBERT: That's fine. Oh, and I have this coupon.

Robert hands the server a coupon. The dunce glances at it for less than one second. Far too little time to actually read it or understand the agreement by which the coupon exists and for which it was posted upon a very reputable website - prominently, one might add - for use by all paying customers.

SERVER: Just a second.

The server exits back to the kitchen area, expelling gas the whole way. Robert continues looking at the menu. After a moment, the lying fucker returns.

SERVER (CONT.): Sorry, we don't accept this coupon.

ROBERT: But it's a perfectly-

SERVER: Sorry.

After a moment, Robert solemnly nods, takes back the undeservedly refused coupon, and exits back to the street. With great force, a large black hole opens in the ceiling of the restaurant and sucks in the server, swallowing the idiot whole.

Blackout.

As intense and inviting as it is, this play cannot do justice the outrage that the author felt at the time of the offense. This exercise was meant to demonstrate the need for societal change, but also to provide ventilation of rage that can only be expressed through the medium of live theater. Rage that was certainly not relieved by following the menace home and barraging the fool with idle threats and sometimes very, very real threats that resulted in unfortunate violence. Also, the time spent writing this has helped pass the time as I await trial.