Moiré

Wendell peered through the swirling branches jutting out from the large Podocarpus tree above him and determined that he was, at long last, drunk. He and Alice usually didn't hit the red wine so hard during their Sunday afternoon picnics in Tenroot Park, but they had started drinking early and the overcast weather had warned off the judgmental families that tended to swarm around the park on nicer days. The low, grey clouds spun above the bushy trees' limbs in Wendell's vision as Alice, also lying face up on the large, plaid blanket, softly sang "Lido Shuffle".

After a joining her for a few "whoa oh oh ohs", Wendell sat up and topped off their red plastic cups with the remaining wine from the fourth (and final) bottle. He turned away from Alice, sitting on his side, and admired the distance between the real world and their quiet green spot on the far northwest corner of Tenroot. These afternoons had become something of a ritual when they had relocated back to Tulsa, just after that rocky year in Salt Lake City. The wine was a welcomed late edition, and Wendell was beginning to think that Alice would rather keep these afternoons than ever consider having a baby - not that he was sure they were ever headed in that direction. He envisioned a near future where this Sunday afternoon activity would bleed outwards, spreading its warmth into Saturday nights and Monday mornings.

Through glassy eyes, Wendell glanced over his shoulder and noticed that Alice's side of the blanket was sinking into the ground. He wondered if he was having a rare drunken hallucination, or perhaps it was some odd optical illusion gained from his vantage point. Then the ground beneath Alice completely gave way and pulled her and the entire blanket underground, causing Wendell to spin/roll onto the cold grass. Alice, the blanket, and the picnic basket full of empty wine bottles had all disappeared into a hole in the earth; Wendell had spilled red wine all over himself in the process of losing them.

Wendell stared at the hole, dumbfounded, and finally called for Alice. No response, nothing but a new chill in the air causing gooseflesh to cover his arms. He shivered and, without thinking, was about to crawl into the hole himself when Alice's arm launched out from the void and she dragged herself to the surface. Disheveled and out of breath, she stood up for a moment before plopping back down at the side of the hole. In one of her hands, Wendell saw that she was clutching a fresh bottle of red wine.

"Sorry, lost the blanket and the basket. Couldn't get them back up. Got this, though," she said, giving Wendell a closer look at the bottle. The label wasn't a brand he knew and appeared to be written with an alphabet he had never seen before. He struggled to speak, to make sense of the moment. Alice wiped some sweat from her brow, smearing some dirt across her forehead as she did so. After a moment, Wendell silently pulled the wine key from his pocket, opened the new bottle, and poured.

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.