Waiter Rant

by Steve Dublanica

  The incessant jockeying for the best table is all about competition for resources. Once, in our primordial past, we’d bash in one another’s heads for scraps of mastodon meat, breeding partners, fur pelts, and a nice cave near a clean water supply. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be able to pass on your genetic material. That impetus to survive is hardwired into our brains. We see unscrupulous businesspeople exhibit this instinct all the time—when they character assassinate each other in the press, acquire and dispose trophy spouses with astonishing rapidity, buy fur pelts (still), and get into frenzied bidding wars over a nice cave, I mean condo, in a trendy neighborhood. Of course, this crap isn’t solely the province of rich customers. You should see me in a mall parking lot during the Christmas holidays. Talk about competition for resources! I become like one of those digitally six-pack-abed warriors from The 300. Cursing the cowardice of handicapped people and expectant mothers with their preferred parking slots, I want to cry out, “Wimps! Fight it out like everyone else! Now where’s my spear?”

  It’s a tough world out there. We all want to have our little piece of the pie and our shot at happiness. Struggle is part of life. Sometimes you have to be aggressive to get what you want. Occasionally, we stiff-arm people with ambition or trample over them in pursuit of our goals. We don’t set out to hurt people; sometimes we just do. Of course, we get elbowed and ground into the dirt, too. Life can get rough. At some point we will all know what it feels like to lose. You have to learn to take it on the chin gracefully and figure out how to win the next time. That’s the great lesson of sports. Getting a good table in a restaurant, however, isn’t essential to one’s survival or happiness.

  In order to achieve their goals, some people have internalized knocking people around psychologically, economically, and sometimes even physically to get what they think they deserve. They’re like people with a faulty adrenal system or an overabundance of testosterone—it’s always game time, it’s always time to be aggressive, it’s always time to battle for any little thing they think they deserve. When I tell these people they can’t have the primo table they want, they act like I’m threatening their very survival. I may not be withholding food or shelter, but I’m holding out of their grasp a valuable “psychological resource”—the illusory feeling that they’re somehow better than everyone else. That’s what a seating chart at any high-end restaurant is all about. Ask any reservation manager or maître d’. She’ll tell you it’s a sensitive social/economic pecking order, and no status-conscious customers want to be on the bottom of the pile—or near the men’s room. That would mean, gasp, they’re somehow inferior. And if they’re inferior, they won’t survive! That explains why those four people were willing to step over a woman having a stroke so they could get the table they wanted.

  Of course, those four people will survive not sitting in the back—just like I’ll survive parking three miles from the mall entrance the day before Christmas. And don’t think I’ve got some prejudice against rich and successful people hustling to make it—far from it. Nonwealthy slackers aren’t immune from this craziness either. Middle-class America—secure in the knowledge that at least they’re better than that guy—loves watching people make complete idiots of themselves on national TV. Many of my wealthier customers are the nicest people I’ve ever met. I’ve never bought into the fiction that the rich are evil and that poor people are romantic souls always struggling for justice and equality. Talk to any cop. There are poor assholes in this world, too.

  But there’s got to be more to life than just survival. There’s got to be more to life than being better than everyone else. You have to survive for something. My godfather, a Catholic priest, once told me, “You may be the strongest and survive—only to win a life not fit for living.”

  Late the next morning Beth and I are sitting by the front window drinking coffee and kibitzing. It’s early, and we’re not expecting customers for an hour. I take a sip of my coffee and sigh. Like Grand Central Station when it’s empty, The Bistro hums with potential, as if it knows that being empty is an unnatural state.

  “So did you hear how that lady’s doing?” Beth asks me.

  “The woman from last night?” I reply.

  “Yeah.”

  “I called the hospital, but they wouldn’t tell me.”

  “What a shame. That poor lady.”

  “Yeah,” I murmur. “It was terrible.”

  “Well, the paramedics got here fast.”

  “Thank God.”

  “You know what, though?” Beth asks.

  “What?”

  “I’m still pissed at those assholes.”

  “The four top who wanted to sit in the back?”

  “Yeah. Can you believe how insensitive they were?”

  “I believe it.”

  “It’s almost criminal.”

  “‘Hell is other people,’” I say, quoting Jean-Paul Sartre.

  “You ain’t kidding,” Beth replies.

  “I wish I was.”

  Beth and I are quiet. We continue to sip our coffee and watch the world go by. Outside, people bustle along with faces set to grim purpose, running around like so many rats in a cage. Gotta hustle. Only the strong survive. I think about that four top and how coldhearted people can be. And not for the first time I remember that indifference to the suffering of others is the ingenuity of evil. When that whole survival-of-the-fittest thing goes haywire, it can damage the part of our soul that makes us care about other people. When you don’t care, when you’re wrapped up in your own selfishness, man’s inhumanity to man becomes that much easier to ignore.

  A few hours later the front door chimes. Two parents and their daughter walk in for an early dinner. My face brightens. I remember the father is a good tipper. After I seat them and bring their cocktails, they order expensive entrées and a $200 bottle of wine. It’s my lucky day.

  They polish off their appetizers and tuck into dinner. In the middle of their entrées the little girl waves me over.

  “Yes, miss?” I ask.

  “Who’s that?” she says fearfully, pointing toward the window.

  I look over. Claude, our local homeless guy, is outside looking in. I wave to him. He waves back.

  “That’s just Claude,” I reply. “He’s harmless.”

  “See, dear,” the mother says reassuringly. “I told you it was okay.”

  “Why is he out there?” the girl asks.

  “He’s always out there,” I reply.

  “Is he a bum?”

  “Claude is homeless, miss.”

  “Homeless?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where does he sleep?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why doesn’t he have a home?”

  “That’s a good question, young lady,” I reply. “And the answer is very complicated.”

  “Does he ever ask you guys for food?” the mother asks me.

  “On occasion.”

  The little girl looks at her father. He looks at her. Something passes between them.

  “Listen,” the father says, looking uncomfortable, “give Claude dinner on me.”

  “That’s very nice of you, sir,” I say, mildly surprised.

  The father gazes at his rack of lamb. “It’s the least I can do,” he mumbles.

  “Do you know what he likes to eat?” the girl asks me.

  “I know what Claude likes, miss,” I reply. “Don’t worry.”

  I go to the back and order some food for Claude. When it’s ready, I wrap it up and take it out to him.

  “Hey, Claude,” I say, “one of the customers bought you dinner.”

  “Oh boy,” he says.

  “Your favorite dish,” I say, holding out the bag.

  “Mmmmmm.”

  I watch as Claude peers into the bag. He looks very happy.

  “I’m set for life,” he says, grinning.

  I smile at the irony of his statement. “Enjoy, Claude.”

  Claude starts to walk a
way. Then he stops and turns around. “Thank those people for me,” he says, staring at a spot on the sidewalk.

  “I will, Claude.”

  He walks away, holding the bag to his chest, and I go back inside.

  “The gentleman says thank you for dinner,” I tell the father.

  “No problem,” he says sheepishly.

  “Enjoy your dinner, sir.”

  I walk back to the hostess stand. People in this country walk past guys like Claude every day and think he’s a loser—just another guy who lost out on life’s lottery. I know many people look at me and think the same thing. I see the looks. I’m thirty-eight years old and waiting tables. I can do the math. Every day I work among the successfully sleek and carnivorous beautiful people. Sometimes I wonder what these people have that I don’t have. Are they better than me? Are they smarter than me? More ruthless? Was I out to lunch when the happiness and success genes were passed out? I’ll admit it—sometimes I’m envious of rich guys with their expensive suits, artificially brightened smiles, and fit-bodied Robo-babe girlfriends. Sometimes I feel that, if life’s a game of survival of the fittest, then I lost.

  As I pause near the hostess stand, the image of the woman who suffered the stroke comes into my mind. I remember how frail and vulnerable she looked. I remember how cold those selfish table-conscious customers were. They didn’t care if that woman lived or died. Maybe they viewed her being sick as a form of weakness. Jesus, next thing you know, dying will be considered a personal failure. I remember again what Sartre said about hell being other people.

  I look out the window and see Claude sitting on a bench eating his dinner. He’s having a hot meal because something in a little girl’s eyes moved a father to feed a hungry stranger. That something was probably a mishmash of self-serving motivations and noble impulses. Maybe that dad felt guilty; maybe he was shielding his daughter from the coldness of the world; maybe he wanted to be nice.

  I stand there and try to figure out what that something was. After a while I give up. I don’t need to know. I content myself with something I read on a bishop’s coat of arms long ago—“Love is ingenious.” No matter how convoluted the motivations, love’s impulses often triumph over our more selfish instincts. Maybe that’s the very thing that makes life fit for living. With a start, I realize another great story has dropped into my lap.

  And Sartre? I chuckle to myself. He was only half right. Heaven can be other people, too.

  Chapter 17

  Substance Abuse

  Fluvio has finally made good on his promise to open a new restaurant. After months of dickering over the financing, he signed the lease and took possession of the keys for the new place a few weeks ago. Since he’s been spending all his time prepping the new restaurant I’ve been working crazy hours at The Bistro. Because it’s the busy season, idiot customers are breeding like cockroaches. The pressure of the extended hours coupled with trying to complete the book proposal is taking its psychic toll. It’s Tuesday night. I feel burned out and lonely. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy Fourth of July. I beg Fluvio to let me go early so I can get some time for myself. Fluvio hears the exhaustion in my voice and cuts me loose. Louis can play manager tonight.

  I end up having a post-shift drink at Café American. It’s a cozy restaurant housed in a Civil War–era building three blocks up from The Bistro. The café’s bar is situated in what used to be the front room of an old government building. A set of large French doors opening onto an outdoor patio stand in for the front wall, while a scuffed mahogany bar running underneath a heavy glass mirror takes up the left side of the old anteroom. Nestled against the right wall are four high-topped wooden tables with padded leather bar stools. A cutout doorway with damask curtains separates the bar area from the dining room. The subdued light playing off the embossed tin ceilings gives the place a relaxed, lived-in feel.

  There are cheaper places to drink, but there’s nowhere I’d feel more welcome. Some high-end establishments don’t like waiters from other restaurants drinking in their place. They’d prefer wealthier rear ends warming their bar stools. I’ve gotten the cold shoulder from many snooty bartenders in my time. Café American’s owner, Rick, however, actually goes out of his way to be nice to waitstaff. He usually sends out free homemade desserts or mini pizzas, which are gratefully consumed by inebriated servers. After a hard night of waiting on entitled people the last thing I want is to feel unwelcome. Coming into Café American is like slipping into a comfortable pair of jeans.

  I stare at my drink. A shallow pool of vodka and olive juice is all that remains of my martini. I drain it, place the empty glass back on the counter, and begin looking for Arthur, the bartender. He’s busy flirting with a blond woman at the other end of the bar. That’s okay. I’ve got plenty of time. I settle back in my chair and enjoy the feeling of 80-proof alcohol working through my system. I run my eyes across the bottles standing sentry on top of the bar’s underlit counter. Gleaming like understated rubies and sapphires, they glow patiently, waiting to be called into action.

  “Another?” Arthur says, interrupting my contemplation.

  “Yes,” I reply, pushing my empty glass toward him. “Please.”

  “Tough night?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, sighing. “Lots of assholes.”

  “Same here,” Arthur says.

  “I had plenty of bad tippers,” I say. “But at least I got to leave early.”

  “Is the rest of the gang coming out tonight?”

  “I think Beth and Dawn are coming later.”

  “Is Dawn still single?” Arthur asks.

  “Dude,” I reply, “how old’s your daughter?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Dawn’s twenty-one.”

  Arthur grins. “I know. That doesn’t make me a bad person, does it?”

  “It doesn’t make you a good one.”

  “So’d you hear about the waiter at Café Foo Foo?” Arthur asks.

  “What happened?”

  “Heroin overdose,” Arthur says. “Out cold on the bathroom floor.”

  “Did he die?”

  “No,” Arthur says. “But I heard the owner took his sweet time calling 911.”

  “Figures.”

  “I heard the needle was still in his arm,” Arthur says. “A customer found him.”

  “Waiter!” I twitter in a falsetto voice. “There’s a junkie in my soup!”

  “That’s cold, man,” Arthur laughs.

  “Aw, c’mon,” I reply. “You know this business. Plenty of substance abusers. I’ll bet the other waiters stole his tables before they even called the ambulance.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “You know I am.”

  “Hey,” Arthur says, “do you remember when that chef in England started screaming that all the chefs were doing coke?”

  “Jamie Oliver,” I reply, nodding. “When I heard that, I was like, ‘No shit, Sherlock.’”

  “Did he just fucking wake up and notice there were drugs in the kitchen?”

  “Blimey!” I yelp. “I don’t believe it! There’s cocaine here, mate! Help! Call me a news conference!”

  “I’ll bet his publicist put him up to it.”

  “Nothing like stating the obvious in the name of self-promotion.”

  “You’re so young,” Arthur says, “yet so cynical.”

  “I used to be in marketing.”

  “So any druggies work at your place now?” Arthur asks.

  “No,” I reply. “The usual potheads and drinkers, but no hardcore stuff.”

  “Remember Crackhead Pete?” Arthur asks. “He used to work for you.”

  “Oh my God,” I grunt. “How could I forget?”

  Pete was a neighborhood waiter legendary for his substance abuse. If you had it, he’d snort it, smoke it, or inject it. Pete, when he was sober, was an excellent waiter. But when he was on one of his benders, he’d forget things like taking a shower and doing laundry. His customers would complain that he sm
elled bad. Needless to say, he had a hard time keeping a job. He worked every restaurant in the neighborhood and earned the dubious distinction of being fired from every one of them. The neighborhood snarks started calling him Crackhead Pete. Soon, that’s what everyone called him—even the children. If people assigned me the appellation “Crackhead” anything, I’d leave town. I guess I should be happy with “sad man in the window.”

  “He worked here one day,” Arthur says, waxing nostalgically.

  “What happened?”

  “You know how we give employees a free drink at the end of their shift?”

  “Sure.”

  “Pete showed up at ten in the morning on his first day and asked if he could have his shift drink early.”

  “That sounds like Pete.”

  “Rick fired him on the spot.”

  “You’re lucky,” I say. “Fluvio put up with him for a year and a half.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Fluvio has a soft spot for drunks.”

  Substance abuse has always been a problem in restaurants. A recent study conducted by the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration states that 17.4 percent of all restaurant workers use illegal substances. And we’re not even talking about the drinkers here. The combined number of coke fiends, potheads, drunks, and pill poppers has to be, conservatively, 25 percent of the workforce. I often wonder, Does the restaurant lifestyle turn people into addicts, or are addicts drawn to the restaurant lifestyle? Plenty of sober people work in the industry, but there’s a healthy percentage of slackers who love partying into the night and sleeping in until noon. They’re waiting for lives that never quite happen, reminding me of the alcoholic characters in Eugene O’Neill’s play The Iceman Cometh.

  Customers also drag their substance-abuse issues into restaurants every day. I once had a customer, Drunky Dave, who ate at The Bistro every week. I was always his waiter. Dave would always order two cocktails, drink a bottle of expensive red wine, and wash down his dessert with an Irish coffee and two grappa chasers. Grappa’s disgusting stuff. I call it Italian lighter fluid. When someone uncorks a bottle of the stuff, I can smell it from across the street.