Stupid and Contagious

by Caprice Crane

  “Get any?” Phil asks. Which reminds me that I did get some, and worse, reminds me of the pain in my crotch. I actually took Advil this morning before leaving for work. It’s not helping.

  “I don’t kiss and tell,” I say.

  “You dirty dog. Tell me everything.”

  “Nothing to tell.” Except that my dick is now broken. What do they do to fix it? What can they do? Did I really break it? Is that possible? What’s the cure? Surely not a cast. Viagra for a week? Keep it hard and in place? I don’t even want to think about the options.

  “Fine,” he relents. “I want you to hear this band. I think I found our new saviors.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Superhero.”

  “No,” I say. Honestly, when he said the name, it didn’t even register, I had my “no” cocked and loaded, and would have fired at whatever he said. Such was my state.

  “You know them?”

  “We don’t need another band with ‘Super’ in the name. There’s Supergrass, Supersuckers, Supertramp . . . far too many in the universe already.”

  “Aside from the name,” he says.

  “Superdrag . . . Superchunk . . . Super Furry Animals—”

  “Forget the name!”

  “What are they like?” I ask. Because the truth is, we really do need a good band, or we’re going to have to call it a day with this record company thing.

  “Catchy songs, good harmonies, bluesy rock. Three kids from SoCal. Seventeen, seventeen, and the drummer is fifteen. He’s sick. I swear the kid just shreds.”

  “Did you just say ‘SoCal’?” I ask, turning to face him in disbelief.

  “That’s what they call it.” He pops in the demo, and surprisingly they’re really fucking good. The first song has a great hook. They’ve got this kind of Wilco-esque wit and depth, MC5-ish unrehearsed energy—the raw impact of the Replacements, the heart of a young Nick Drake, and the soul of the Cure (without the doom). None of that Screamo bullshit that’s been clogging up the airwaves.

  “Where’d they come from?” I ask, surprising myself by saying this aloud when I had been dead set against showing Phil even a drop of interest.

  “My cousin goes to school with them. Nobody knows them yet. It’s a beautiful thing.”

  “Can we get them to change their name?”

  “Maybe,” he says. “They’re playing next weekend.”

  “Here?”

  “No, not here,” Phil says. “In California. They’re still in school. They’re not on a national tour.”

  “Not yet,” I say and smile at him. I’m smiling for two reasons. One, I am going to go to California next weekend to see what these kids can do live. If they’re half as good as the demo they recorded, this is our next signing.

  And two, California is right next to Seattle. Sure it’s an hour or two by plane or . . . well, I don’t know how many hours in a car, but it’s right there. I can check out the band and then head up to Seattle to meet with a certain someone. I hope Jonas has the mock-ups done. And I really need to figure out the real address of Starbucks Corporate.

  And like a gift from up above, I hear the ding on my e-mail. It’s from Jonas.

  Subject: Re: Ad Mock-up

  Date: 1/25/2004 5:54:39 PM Eastern Standard Time

  From: Jonas_Richardson@usmeal.com

  To: BradyGilbert@Sleestakrecords.com

  Dude—it’s rough, but it’s a start. Tell me what you think.—J

  I click on the attachment and it starts to download. We’d discussed what it should be. A hearty breakfast sitting next to a big tall glass of Cinnamilk. Eggs . . . toast . . . waffles . . . bagels and cream cheese, maybe?

  The download finishes and it’s . . . different. There’s a girl stretching in the background wearing workout gear. I like that. Nice touch. The Cinnamilk looks good, too. But what is that on the breakfast table? I can’t be certain. There are some nice-looking tomatoes. And then some kind of bread with a smear of something on it, and then rolled up . . . something. Some kind of meat. Whatever it is, it looks like nothing I’d want to eat, and more important, it sure as shit doesn’t look like breakfast.

  I don’t want to make him feel bad because he’s doing this out of the goodness of his heart, but fucking hell. I write back, trying to focus on the positive.

  Subject: Re: Ad Mock-up

  Date: 1/25/2004 7:24:41 PM Eastern Standard Time

  From: BradyGilbert@Sleestakrecords.com

  To: Jonas_Richardson@usmeal.com

  Jonas—

  Nice work, man. Excellent color on the Cinnamilk. Not too brown, not too white. Just the right touch of color to really look right. (hey, I rhymed) Well done, brother. And I love the workout girl. Really great stuff. Thanks so much. Hey—just wondering . . . we’d talked about having the ad feature the Cinnamilk with “breakfast.” I wasn’t quite sure what we had there in the forefront. What exactly was that?

  Subject: Re: Ad Mock-up

  Date: 1/25/2004 7:31:32 PM Eastern Standard Time

  From: Jonas_Richardson@usmeal.com

  To: BradyGilbert@Sleestakrecords.com

  Thanks for the compliments. It’s fresh tomatoes, and bagels with lox.

  Subject: Re: Ad Mock-up

  Date: 1/25/2004 7:36:06 PM Eastern Standard Time

  From: BradyGilbert@Sleestakrecords.com

  To: Jonas_Richardson@usmeal.com

  J—

  Again—really nice work. I gotta say, though . . . that doesn’t look like bagels to me. Or lox even. Are you sure? Didn’t we talk about . . . like bacon and eggs or something?

  Subject: Ad Mock-up

  Date: 1/25/2004 7:41:43 PM Eastern Standard Time

  From: Jonas_Richardson@usmeal.com

  To: BradyGilbert@Sleestakrecords.com

  Dude—so sorry. Upon closer look I think it’s prosciutto on like some sort of focaccia bread. Not really breakfast fare, I guess. Ironically, and this is just a coincidence . . . Italians actually consider prosciutto a “breakfast meat.” I’ll work on the bacon and eggs.

  Breakfast meat? If I were to pick out the absolute last thing I’d want to devour with a tall glass of Cinnamilk, it might very well be prosciutto.

  But Jonas is awesome, and the fact that he’s taking time out of his busy day to create this thing for me far outweighs his inability to differentiate between an Italian snack and an all-American breakfast.

  Anyway, the copy on the ad right now reads “You may outgrow sugar-coated cereals, but you’ll never outgrow Cinnamilk.” It’s cute. Fun. But I’m not married to it. I’d like to have a few different taglines for options. And I need something really clever. I need the guys who write the Real Men of Genius Bud Light commercials. Hell, I need a lot of things.

  Heaven

  I go to work an hour early to have my “meeting,” and Jean Paul and Bruce are already there and wave me into the office. This kind of formal sit-down isn’t good at all. It tends to bring out the Eddie Haskell in me. I mean, of course I’m going to be on the defensive. It’s already them—and apparently every person I’ve ever waited on—against me. They read aloud every complaint I’ve received and then have me sign each one at the bottom, to acknowledge that I understand and agree. What kind of crap is that? I may understand what they are saying. I understand because they are reading it to me in English, my native tongue. But agree? Uh . . . no. I most certainly do not fucking agree. And who even knew they wrote all these complaints down?

  All of my complaints were transcribed by the managers into this incident book I didn’t even know existed. They seem to relish letting me know I am the only one who’s made it into this little book. Quite an accomplishment. The book should just have my name on the cover. There is even one complaint typed on law-firm letterhead. They have to admit . . . I am popular!

  So they’re sitting there reading me these complaints aloud, one after another. It doesn’t matter that there are just three of us in the room. I feel like I’m on trial and the charges are bein
g read against me in front of a jury—full of people I waited on and pissed off. I, of course, have a comment for each and every one of these complaints.

  Jean Paul starts. “Table Eleven. A Mrs. Feldstein: ‘She—’” and he lifts his eyes up to me, “that means you—‘was very cold and rude. Bad service.’”

  “Bad service how?” I ask.

  “They didn’t get into it.”

  “Didn’t you want to know?”

  “Here’s the next one . . .” and he flips the page. “From Mr. Giorgio: ‘Rude behavior. Bad service. Had been warned by the people at Table Seven not to sit in her section.’”

  “What? Who was at Table Seven?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, “but they warned him not to sit there.”

  “Did Table Seven complain to you, too?” I ask.

  “No. They complained to Table Eleven.”

  “Table Eleven is nowhere near Table Seven,” I say, which is true. “And that’s insubstantial hearsay,” I proclaim. And all three of us seem to stop, marveling at my TV trial lawyer moment. “Unsubstantiated,” I correct myself quietly.

  “Table Nine,” Jean Paul continues. “‘Rude. Said to us, and I quote, I only have two hands.’” I look at Bruce and Jean Paul and actually hold up my hands.

  “But it’s true,” I say. “I do. I only have two hands. See?”

  “You obviously are missing the point,” he says condescendingly. “We all only have two hands, but you can’t go saying that to customers.”

  “And you don’t have to have an answer for everything,” Bruce adds. “Like this one . . . ‘When I complained that my food was cold, the waitress told me that cold was the new black!’” And so on, and so on. They ramble on about my bad behavior, misheard communications, misunderstood facial expressions, and the occasional cussword, never intended for customers’ ears. After a few minutes I sort of tune them out. Thank God they don’t know about the spitting incident—which I do still think about and feel terrible about. Suddenly all these random thoughts start popping into my head, like the time my friend Franklin was on tour in Europe and he made it his mission to learn how to say “eat a dick” in as many languages as possible. I think he told me the French say, mange a bitte. The thought makes me get the giggles because Jean Paul is French, and now I have this sudden urge to say it. I don’t, of course, but now I’ve got this panicked what if thing going. Like, what if I suddenly get Tourette’s and just blurt it out.

  “I don’t know what you are doing out there, Heaven,” Bruce says. “But something has to change.”

  “Well, what would you suggest?” I ask. Someone once told me that one way to avoid conflict is to ask the person what he or she suggests.

  “I suggest you try harder to cater to your tables. Treat the customers like they are guests in your home.”

  “Guests in my home wouldn’t treat me like shit the way these people do.”

  “If this is how you talk to us—your superiors,” Jean Paul heaps on, “I can’t imagine what you do at those tables.” My superiors? Oh my God, I need a new job. You manage a restaurant. You are not superior to me. Of course I don’t say this. But I have to bite my tongue this time to keep it in.

  “I am speaking to you with candor, as my colleagues,” I say. “Believe me, if I did so at my tables you’d have a lot more complaints,” I say.

  “I think you already have a lot of complaints,” Bruce says. “Look, we are in the service industry. This is the career that we chose. It’s nobody’s fault but our own when people treat us badly. And they will, every day. It’s what we chose. So you just need to learn how to deal with it better. Much better. Because nothing is going to change. The customer is always right.”

  I want to scream. This may be what they chose, but it’s sure not, not, not what I chose. I do PR. I have a career. Things just got a little slow. I want to tell them this, but of course I don’t. I can’t. Because they did choose this as a career. This is their ceiling, pretty much. They’re managing a hip, successful restaurant. What more could they want . . . besides my discontinuation of routinely offending their customers?

  The end result of the meeting is I get a warning. Well, six warnings, if one were counting. And then a seventh, letting me know the next time I commit a restaurant sin (that they hear about, at least), I’m out. I’m actually shocked that they didn’t fire me, but I guess like they do in all professions these days, they’re keeping a paper trail in case they do let me go to prove I’d been warned and wasn’t fired unjustly.

  Oh, and in case you should ever need it, “Essen der Gockel” is “eat a dick” in German.

  We’re well into the night when Jean Paul sits these three ugly forty-five-year-old women at one of my tables which is a six-top. Three women at a table of six already qualifies as not cool, but to make matters worse they’re splitting everything. They’re splitting the spring roll appetizer three ways, two of them are splitting the lemongrass chicken, and the other one orders Ca Chien, which is a whole fried fish.

  It’s one of their birthdays, and honestly, it’s a sad, sad situation. Here are three aging, lonely, and bitter women who have come to the über-hip restaurant hoping that maybe there will be a table of three hot single guys who will send over a round of drinks, and from there it will be true love.

  But this doesn’t happen. And every time they order another pinot grigio, they get a little more depressed.

  I’m pretty nice to them all night long, trying to make them feel special and being extra attentive. It seems most of my complaints come from women, so on the offensive, I’m “killing them with kindness.” And then it comes time to serve their main course.

  I have all three plates balanced on my arms. I give the two women who are splitting the chicken their plates first. The one who got the fish is sitting tucked into the corner, as far away from me as she can be. Remember, this is a table for six people, so it’s a big, round table—but it’s positioned against a wall, and it’s impossible for me to walk around it. There is no way I can reach her to put the plate in front of her, so I lean forward and try to hand it to her. She doesn’t budge.

  I raise my eyebrows a bit to say, “Okay, ma’am, this is your cue to take the plate.” Nope. Nothin’ doin’. She should have to manually accept a plate from me? No, sir. I will have to be the one to place this platter of fried fish in front of her, or she shan’t eat it.

  So I reach over and stretch and manage, balanced on one leg, to place her plate before her.

  Unfortunately, her fish manages to slide itself off the plate. Of course it does.

  But it only lands on the pristine white tablecloth. I’m at a total loss. I don’t know what to do, so I quickly stab it with a steak knife and put it back on her plate. She’s not happy.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say. “I had been trying to hand it to you to avoid this, but . . .” She’s just staring at me with this icy stare. “I’ll bring you a new one.” She squints her eyes at me, giving me a dirty look that could rival even my best high school dirty looks. She still doesn’t say anything. I ask her, “Do you want me to bring you a new fish?”

  “You mean do I want to sit here and wait for another half an hour while my friends eat? No.”

  “Okay then,” I say.

  “I would like another plate, though.” Huh?

  I take the fish and the offending plate back to the kitchen and put it on a new plate. I even sprinkle a little parsley on it to make it look nice. I’m totally confused why she’ll eat the fish but wants a new plate. Nothing was wrong with the plate except for the light skid marks that the fish made on its hasty departure. But the customer is always right, so I do what she asks.

  I bring the fish back on the newly decorated plate, and before I can put it down, she tries to take the fish off the plate and put it on the bread plate she used for her spring roll.

  “If you just hand me that plate,” I say, “I’ll put this one down. There’s more room on it.”

  “No,” she say
s. “If you can manage to simply hold that plate for a minute, I’ll just take the fish.”

  So I stand like a good monkey and hold her plate. Once her fish is safely transferred, I take the new plate back to the kitchen and move on to another table.

  But I feel the back of my head burning, and I turn around to see the fish woman glaring at me. I walk over and smile.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” I say with as much cheer as I can.

  “Um . . . yeah! A new knife?”

  And in her hand she is holding the steak knife. The one that I had temporarily borrowed to stab the renegade fish and put it back on the plate.

  She can’t possibly use a knife that I touched—one that has already pierced the flesh of her fish.

  “Of course,” I say. And I take the knife from her and return with a new one, held in a white cloth napkin to preserve its current pristine status. I walk away laughing to myself . . . if she only knew the reality of our dishwashers.

  For the rest of the night I go out of my way to be kind. I bring them more drinks. And at the end of their dinner I even gather up all the other waiters and bussers and we all sing “Happy Birthday” to the birthday girl.

  They tip me just under 5 percent. American dollars.

  But the kicker is, they don’t even have the decency to duck out quickly after doing so. They are not ashamed at all. They walk over to the now-empty bar and stand there having after-dinner drinks, which by the way are on Doug the bartender, because he’s so desperate for a date at this point he’ll buy anyone a drink.