Tales of a New York Waitress (The Sibby Chronicles Book 1)

by Samantha Garman

  Bear hands, indeed.

  “I respect the fear you instill in me,” I said. “You ever see the old Bullwinkle cartoons?”

  She frowned. “No. What is this?”

  “Never mind. It’s better that you don’t know.”

  “I be back in five minutes.”

  Katrina disappeared into the bathroom and I walked through her section. Her table of four had shoved their menus aside and were talking with hand gestures. “Y’all ready to order?”

  One man looked at me. “You’re a lot shorter than our other waitress.”

  I smiled. “Good of you to notice. I’m also a lot less Russian.”

  “Excuse me!” the woman called out to get my attention. “EXCUSE ME!”

  I shot an apologetic look at the really nice couple whose order I was trying to take and said, “I’m sorry, can you—”

  “Absolutely,” the middle-aged man said. His wife smiled at me in understanding. Gosh, some people were really nice. I’d almost forgotten that.

  I turned to the squawking woman behind me. “Yes?”

  “I found a hair,” she exclaimed dramatically.

  I glanced at her plate. Three quarters of the dish had been eaten, but I saw it. There. On the fork. A curly blonde hair that perfectly matched the curly blonde hair on the woman’s head.

  All the line cooks had dark hair.

  I inwardly sighed, slapped an apologetic smile on my face and said, “Let me take that out of your way. Can I bring you something else?”

  She shook her head. “No. I want a free drink. We all want free drinks.” There were three other occupants at the table. They all stared at me with wide, not so innocent eyes. They were all brunettes, by the way.

  My smile turned into a grimace as I took the dish with a strategically placed hair on it back to the kitchen. I flagged down Aidan.

  “She found a blonde hair in her food,” I explained. “Should I also mention she’s the only blonde at the table?”

  Aidan sighed. It was a weary sigh. Very Steinback. This job got into your soul and sucked away at you until there was nothing left.

  Okay. That was a bit dramatic. What could I say, I had been a theater major.

  “Will you go deal with her? Please?”

  “All right, but if I do, you so owe me.”

  “Do not, this is your job.”

  “Oh, right.” He winked and left the kitchen. I stood by, watching him deal with the predators.

  “This is ridiculous!” the unhappy woman hissed. “The customer is always right! What don’t you understand about that?”

  “Ma’am,” Aidan began. “I am not allowed to give you free drinks. I can bring you another of what you ordered or you can look at the menu and choose something else.”

  “Will I still have to pay for it?” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Aidan brought his fingers to his third eye and began to rub his head, the classic sign of a migraine. “Here’s what I can do,” he said finally. “I’ll comp the entrée with the blonde hair. And you and your friends can pay the check and leave.”

  “But—”

  “Thank you for dining with us this evening.” He stalked away.

  I didn’t get a tip, but I gave Aidan a high five.

  “Come out with me and Caleb tonight,” Annie said over the phone.

  “I can’t,” I said. It was four p.m. on my day off, but I was still in pajamas, the rom com on the TV paused.

  “Why? Because Caleb is Aidan’s friend and you have rules about hanging out with Aidan in public?”

  “Aidan won’t be there, he has to work,” I said reflexively.

  “Ah, your knowledge says it all.”

  “What does it say except that we work together?”

  “Dude, you remember his schedule. So why won’t you come out with me and Caleb?” Annie asked.

  “Because I have a UTI.”

  Pause.

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yep.”

  “I mean, really sucks.”

  “Being a woman sucks sometimes. I mean, come on, the lady problems we have to put up with? And seriously, I can’t have some good sex without being cursed for it?”

  “Apparently, you’ve been having a lot of good sex.”

  “And now I’m being punished,” I sighed.

  “I’ve been thinking about your situation,” Annie began.

  “Clarify, because I have a lot of situations.”

  “That you do. It was a blanket reference to all your situations. And your terrible luck. We should have a cleansing ritual of some sort.”

  “I cleaned the apartment, I splattered a wall, and I burned Matt’s shirt. One that had been overlooked since it was under the bed.”

  “Wait, you burned his shirt?”

  “No, I didn’t burn his shirt. Where would I burn his shirt?”

  “I don’t know, the fire escape?”

  “Good point. What kind of cleansing ritual?”

  “Burn some sage and tell the bad juju to go away.”

  “So, in other words, just drink. A lot.”

  “Pretty much.”

  I laughed. “I’m not supposed to drink while on antibiotics.”

  “Go back to watching your rom com.”

  “I’m not watching a rom com,” I denied.

  “Yeah, right. I know you.”

  After I finished the movie, I made myself a sandwich and then fell asleep on the couch. I woke up to my buzzing phone. It was Aidan, wanting to come over. I really just wanted to sleep in my bed by myself, spread out and get better. Besides, my hair was greasy and I looked like crap. I was never going to let Aidan see me when I looked like crap.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  “You were asleep, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry. I’m done at work, can I come over?”

  “I’m not feeling so hot,” I evaded.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, just a bug,” I said. I was so not going to tell him about my UTI. UTIs were not sexy.

  “What kind of bug? Stomach bug?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I don’t want to get you sick. And I’d rather just have my bed to myself.”

  “I get it. Feel better.”

  I hung up, wondering why I suddenly felt worse. I almost changed my mind and texted him to come over, but no. Boyfriends took care of their sick girlfriends. Hot hook ups did not take care of their…booty calls.

  Booty call. I hated that term.

  I brushed my teeth and washed my face, going through my minimal bedtime ritual. I was pulling back the covers of my bed when my phone rang.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “It’s me,” Aidan replied. “I know you said you’re sick, so I brought you some soup and ginger ale.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll buzz you up.” Shaking my head, I muttered, “Ah, crap.”

  Annie was over at my place after I’d recovered from my UTI, and we were catching up over homemade food and some wine. She managed to pull herself away from Caleb and the Upper East Side. It was full on girl talk time.

  “Hold on,” Annie said, gesturing at me with her fork. “You’re telling me that even after you told him you were sick, he still came over?”

  I nodded.

  “With ginger ale and soup?”

  I nodded again.

  “Even when he thought you were puking your guts up?”

  “We’re eating here,” I said as I pushed my plate of food away from me.

  “Sorry. You do know you might have to marry this guy.”

  “You don’t believe in marriage,” I stated.

  “But you do—and this guy—holy shit. He seems kind of amazing.”

  “The other shoe hasn’t dropped,” I said. “Let’s wait a bit longer.”

  She shrugged. “I already like him better than Matt.”

  “Matt didn’t se
t the bar real high by cheating on me. You finished?” I asked, picking up my plate and reaching for hers.

  “What’s for dessert?”

  “Cupcakes,” I said. “They’re gluten free.”

  “You lie.”

  I grinned. “Totally. They’d suck gluten free.”

  “Amen. I know you Brooklynites are all about your sugar free, gluten free, vegan friendly, cardboard tasting food, but come on! Butter keeps the hinges loose.” She pretended to make a robot move with her arm, and then picked up a book, which was resting on the kitchen table. “Okay. I’ve been silent about this for an hour, but now it’s time for you to explain.”

  “You know I like to read romance novels.”

  “Yes. But Fabio is on the cover of this one. He has giant man nipples. Mipples, if you will.”

  “It’s a time travel romance,” I answered. “Pretty good actually. The Salvation Army was having a book sale. I filled a box for five dollars.”

  “Let me guess, all of them are romance novels?”

  I nodded. “I highlighted all the genitalia euphemisms.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s fun.”

  “You should write one of these,” she said, tossing the book. It landed on the table with a soft thud.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You should. You read more than anyone I know. You devour these things. Why not give it a shot?”

  “Annie,” I said quietly. “I wrote plays in college. I don’t know the first thing about writing a full-length book.”

  She shrugged. “So what? What else are you doing?”

  I glared at her.

  “I mean, what do you have to lose?”

  “These are festive,” I said, holding up a weirdly shaped yellow gourd.

  “Autumn is here,” Zeb announced. “Did you see the ginormous pumpkin by the hostess stand? For the Thanksgiving staff meal, Julian will turn that pumpkin into pie.”

  “Yum.”

  “Come December, the restaurant will have wreathes, mini lights, and red bows everywhere.”

  “I can’t believe I’ve been here four months already.”

  “Yeah, that’s the danger of the restaurant world. You blink and five years goes by.”

  “Yikes.” I glanced at the floor plan. “Oh, man. I’m in section one.”

  Section one was right by the bar where guests congregated before being seated. It was difficult to see my tables, much less actually get to them, and whenever I was in section one, I seemed to develop a twitch. Section one was what we called ‘no man’s land’. It was the section of sixty-dollar checks; people who came to a popular restaurant late on Saturday night without a reservation, expecting a table right away. Bussers hardly ventured into ‘no man’s land’, and I was usually on my own.

  “It’s Saturday,” Zeb said. “At least we’ll be busy and the pain will be over fast.”

  “That was a lie.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I had another server nightmare the other day.”

  “Ah, you really are one of us now.”

  “I dreamed I had this entire dining room to myself, and I kept getting large parties, and I didn’t understand the computer system to put in their orders. And even though technically, the kitchen was supposed to be closed, Jess kept seating me.”

  “I’m going to have a nightmare about your nightmare.”

  “I’m just glad I didn’t dream about Julian.”

  “Oh, you will, believe me.”

  “Let’s set up,” I said. “The sooner this is over the better.”

  By eight o’clock, I was elbowing my way through the bar crowd, annoyed that no one heard my many pleas for them to move out of my way. I finally reached a deuce that was ready to order.

  “Any questions?”

  “Do you have Wi-Fi?” the woman asked.

  “No. Do you have any questions…about the menu,” I clarified.

  “Do you have kosher wine?” the man asked.

  “Uh, we’re an Italian restaurant, and our favorite ingredients come from a pig.”

  “Okay, then water’s fine. My wife will have the truffle ricotta ravioli.”

  “I’m not that much of a ricotta fan,” the woman interjected, failing to look up from her phone. “Is the ricotta really overwhelming?”

  “Yeah, it’s the main event.”

  “Oh, then you order, honey, and let me look at the menu again.”

  “I’ll have the fettuccine with mushrooms,” the man said, handing me his menu.

  “And I’ll have this pasta here.” She pointed to the agnolotti filled with butternut squash. “What kind of noodle is it?”

  “Basically a ravioli. Do you guys want to split a salad? The kitchen is busy and food is fresh to order, so you might wait a bit for your dinner.”

  “Do we get bread?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll be okay.” He reached for his water and took a sip.

  “Can I get a straw for my water?” the woman asked.

  “Sure.”

  I brought her a straw from the bar and then she asked, “Can I get lemons?”

  “Of course. Is there anything else I can get you while I’m at the bar?”

  “No, that’ll do it.”

  I dropped off the plate of lemons and as I turned to leave, Mrs. Annoying grabbed my arm and asked for paper napkins and more bread. Twenty minutes later, after running around like a maniac, the Annoyings flagged me down yet again. I hoped it wasn’t to change their order.

  “Yes?” I asked, feeling a bit harassed.

  “We’re just wondering where our food is,” Mr. Annoying said.

  I blinked. “It’s cooking.”

  “But it’s pasta,” Mrs. Annoying whined. “How long does pasta take to cook?”

  I looked around the dining room, and when I turned back to them, my smile was more sugary than the crème brulée on our dessert menu. “It’s a Saturday night. Prime time. Would you like me to bring you that salad?”

  She stared at me in confusion, like I was speaking Elvish. I took a deep breath and tried again, “I’ll check with the kitchen.” Even though I knew the answer. The Annoyings were going to wait. They would have had to wait even if they’d ordered an appetizer. This is what happened when you went to a restaurant that didn’t use prepackaged food and microwaves.

  I returned to my section. I had been gone, two, maybe three minutes, and that was all it took for everything to go up in flames. I had three newly seated tables waiting to be greeted, two tables needing to be cleared, and one ready to order dessert and coffee.

  No man’s land, indeed.

  But before all that, I had to tell the Annoyings that they were going to have wait another fifteen minutes for their food. Fifteen minutes at least.

  Ugh.

  Sometimes, people sucked.

  “Sibby?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Why are you standing in the corner with your head against the wall? Did Jess put you in timeout?” Zeb asked.

  “No,” I murmured. I was near the hostess stand, off the main floor. I just needed a minute to get it together.

  “I don’t speak Crazy. Translate for me.”

  “My tables. They’re terrible.”

  He sighed. “They broke your spirit, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they do?”

  “You want the highlights?” I asked, finally lifting my head from the brick wall and turning towards him.

  He grimaced. “You have an indentation on your face.” He pointed to his own forehead. “Right in the center.”

  “Lovely.”

  “So, your tables…”

  “Right. I had a table tip in coins.”

  “Ouch...”

  “Yeah. Maybe I shouldn’t have laughed directly at them when they asked if we had smoothies.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have,” he agreed.

  Nat opened the door in between the main dinin
g room and the walkway to the host stand. She held out a black check presenter.

  “What’s this?”

  “Credit card slip from your six top.”

  “I can’t look at it,” I stated. “I can’t take any more.”

  Nat grinned. “You might want to look at it.”

  Doing as bid, I flipped it open and glanced at the tip line. An extra sixty dollars on top of twenty percent. “Holy shit!” I showed it to Zeb.

  “Damn! Is your faith in humanity restored?”

  “For the time being.”

  Chapter 12

  Nocello [no-chell-oh]:

  1. A liqueur made from green walnuts.

  2. Liquid sex.

  “Do you ladies want dessert tonight?” I asked.

  “Nah, we’re just going to drink our calories,” one woman said.

  “And emotions,” the other added.

  “I respect that.” I took the dessert menus away, smiling as I went. They seemed really familiar—maybe because they reminded me of my best friend and me.

  Good times.

  “What’s that smell?” Zeb asked as he strolled by me, carrying a tray of clean wine glasses. He set the tray on the bar and began unloading them.

  “Ah, that would be me,” I said. “I spilled a tray of dirty martinis on myself.”

  “How?”

  “This is me we’re talking about.”

  Zeb laughed. “How is it your tip average is consistently over twenty percent?”

  “Because with me, you don’t just get dinner. You get dinner and a shit show. I’m entertainment—a full on comedy of errors.”

  “You are that,” Zeb agreed.

  “How much stock is back there?”

  “Uh, seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You haven’t seen it?”

  “I haven’t been able to get back there. I had a table demand my life story. They asked if I was still in college, and thinking it would be easier to lie, I just said yes. And then told them I was a creative writing major at NYU. That opened up a can of worms.”

  “You lied to a table?” he feigned shock.

  “They don’t get the truth,” I said. “They get a smile and some food. That’s it.”

  “Welcome to the dark side.”