“You guys went out forever,” Sophie exclaims. “What happened?”
“Things change,” I say. “But it’s all good. Allie’s engaged.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, the wedding’s next year.”
“Wow,” Sophie says.
“How about you? Any boyfriends?”
“Yes,” Sophie says, with a slight blush. “One guy. It’s pretty serious.”
“Good. I’m happy for you.”
Sophie giggles the giggle all women giggle when they’re in love. “Thank you.”
“Listen,” I say. “Go in the back and say hi to the guys. Many of them will still remember you.”
“I’d like that,” Sophie says.
“Go ahead.”
As I watch Sophie walk toward the kitchen my stomach clenches. Seeing her happy and confident throws my constrained life into sharp relief. When I worked in mental health, the elderly patients always resented the younger ones. I’m beginning to understand why. Young people seem to have their whole life ahead of them. Their options seem limitless. As I get older my limitations are starting to pile up. I remember looking recently at an advertisement for the NYPD and realizing I was too old to apply. Not that I want to be a cop, mind you, I was just aggravated that I had become old enough to be excluded from something. But I try to look on the bright side. At least I’m ineligible for the draft.
Young people are starting to remind me that I’m caught up in the swift current of time. When I watch those girls outside The Bistro or see Sophie turning into a young woman, it’s not just about sex. I’m beginning to grasp, not in an intellectual way, but in a deep-in-my-bones way, that I’m getting older. Sophie’s another reminder that time is unstoppable, that life does not wait. Sometimes, when I consider this little bit of existential angst, I feel like I’m turning into a lonely middle-aged man. A poet once said that “time is the fire in which we burn.” I’m not old by any means, but after seeing Sophie, I feel myself getting a little crispy around the edges.
Sophie comes back up front to say good-bye. We exchange e-mail addresses. We’ll probably never see each other again. That’s not because we don’t care about each other. It’s because our lives will travel on different trajectories. Sophie thinks we’ll be buddies for her entire life. That’s sweet. One day she’ll realize that friends float in and out of your life with astonishing rapidity. This is especially true in the restaurant business. You can work next to people for several years, know all their aspirations and fears; but once you move on, the odds are heavy you’ll lose touch. I’ve learned to be glad to have known people when I knew them. Artificially extending a relationship beyond its natural course is usually not a good idea. Ever wonder why girls dump their boyfriends after they graduate from college? That’s why. As Sophie walks away I contemplate the fact I was in high school when she was born. Now I’m thirty-eight, and she’s in law school.
Lately the passing of time has been very much on my mind. I’m scared that time’s moving too fast. I think that’s why I got upset in the bar last night. That’s why I drank so much. I was trying to anesthetize myself. Maybe I’m having that midlife crisis I hear everyone talking about. I look at the summer tableau milling around outside The Bistro. The fact that another season’s slipping by only accentuates my feeling of loss. I shouldn’t be surprised I feel the way I do. I think time flows differently when you’re a waiter. It flows faster.
Waiters live outside the normal time-space continuum. To waiters, people with nine-to-five jobs are alien creatures. When you’re getting out of bed, we’re just crawling into ours. When you’re fast asleep, we’ve only just begun to party. Waiters are, when you think about it, creatures of the night. At first it’s all very romantic, but after a while the evenings smear into a blur of darkness and neon, causing the months to pass by like days.
There are some benefits to this vampiric existence. Since we’re off when most people are working we never have to wait in line at the mall, there’s always a seat at the movie theater, parking spaces are bountiful, and we know all the cool places to be on a Wednesday night. As I mentioned earlier, we usually work evenings, we have the days free to pursue those romantic stereotypical interests like writing, acting, modeling, etc. The truth? A lot of waiters spend that free time sleeping.
Because of our schedule, it’s very difficult for waiters to maintain relationships with so-called “normal” people. This is a problem for anyone who works in the restaurant industry. To give up working a Friday night in order to hang out with your nine-to-five buddies can be a painful hit in the wallet. A waitress friend of mine recently gave away a Saturday night shift so she could attend her friend’s wedding. Not only did the waitress spend money on a dress that she could use only once, she also lost the bulk of her week’s income. Because she was out so much cash, she couldn’t afford to give her friend a big gift. She spent the wedding reception embarrassed that she couldn’t give as much as the other girls in the bridal party. People who’ve never worked in the restaurant industry need to understand that when servers take time off to be with their friends, they’re actually giving a gift worth hundreds of dollars—the gift of their time. When you factor in the lost wages, that waitress probably gave more financially to the newlyweds than all the other bridesmaids. Because that gift wasn’t money stuffed into an envelope, the bridesmaids cattily said that my waitress friend was cheap, and the waitress was hurt by their comments. I consoled her by saying that that’s what happens when women swim in the unmarried, bitter, and over-the-age-of-thirty pool. But I digress.
The converse of the time dilemma is also true. If waiters want to socialize on Monday or Tuesday night, they have to understand their friends might be stressed out after a long day at work. My friends understand my schedule and lifestyle, but when I visit them, they’re half asleep by nine o’clock. I have to be conscious that our schedules belong in different universes. Sometimes they get angry that I don’t attend some of the parties they throw, but they also realize every time I come on a work night I’m automatically losing $200. That’s an expensive party.
The difference in schedules really hurts romantic relationships. Waiters often hook up with people in the restaurant biz because they’re the only people who have the same kind of schedules. Waiters who become couples often try to get the same days off. If they work at the same restaurant, that can rapidly become a problem. If they decide to break up, the atmosphere on the dining room floor can quickly become toxic. Every restaurant manager’s had to deal with this headache. Maintaining relationships is even harder when one member of the couple leaves the restaurant business or hooks up with someone outside our merry little clan. It’s hard to maintain a relationship when you’re working Saturday nights and your significant other’s sitting at home alone. My schedule was one of the reasons my last relationship fell apart. My ex got sick of spending New Year’s Eve alone and celebrating Valentine’s Day a week late. I don’t blame her. Besides, I was always cranky around the holidays.
When you’re a waiter, you observe the holidays from a different perspective. You become part of the machine separating people from their money. After a few years waiting tables, commercialism hollows out the holidays and turns them into just another day on the calendar. That’s a problem.
Since earliest recorded history humans have used holidays to mark the passage of time. The Druids celebrated the harvest, the Romans partied during the winter solstice, and the Incas commemorated the movement of the stars. People use significant days to orient themselves in time. How many of us have said, “I remember that happened before last Christmas” or “Was that before or after 9/11?” Holidays remind us where we are in the year. Desensitization to the holidays is another reason time flows faster for waiters than for regular people. Anyone who’s ever waited tables has experienced the “Is it Mother’s Day already?” sensation.
Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a different dimension, separated from normal reality by an imperceptibl
e but impenetrable barrier. I can see what the normal people are doing. I see my friends getting married and their babies getting older. I see girls like Sophie growing into young women. I see the pages of the calendar turn. It’s during moments like these that I hate being a waiter. I get paranoid, thinking that the restaurant business is a trap designed to bleed away the most productive years of my life. I feel like a jealous ghost watching the living. Sure, being a waiter has given me a different perspective from which to view life. In some respects having that different point of view has paid off. People often think of that perspective as living on the “edge,” moving outside the boundaries of normal experience. But if you think living on that edge is an exciting adventure, try it for a while. It gets old fast.
I didn’t always feel so divorced from time. When I was in the seminary, I felt time was holy. The principal liturgical seasons of Lent, Easter, Advent, and ordinary time gave structure to the year. The Liturgy of the Hours, the daily prayer of the Catholic Church, gave structure to the day. I’d shuffle into the chapel with my fellow seminarians to pray every morning, evening, and night. You always knew what season it was from the readings, songs, and antiphons being used. My favorite time was Night Prayer. Just before bed, when the world outside had grown quiet, we’d gather in our dark church and reflect on how we had spent our day. We’d ask for mercy. We’d pray for guidance. We’d cling to hope. When we were finished, we’d turn to the statue of the Blessed Mother and sing a hymn to her in Latin. The sound of thirty men quietly singing themselves a lullaby is something I’ll never forget. I miss the sacredness of time. Time seems cheap to me now.
Soon I’m too busy to wax philosophical. Fluvio returns from setting up at the new restaurant and starts barking orders. Every year the local merchants sponsor a big fireworks show down by the river. Half an hour before the pyrotechnic display starts, The Bistro always fills up with customers. I hope I can get all my tables settled before the show starts. I love fireworks.
Of course, just as the first shells start exploding overhead, a couple gets seated in my section. Beth and the other servers are already outside. Most of the customers are outside, too.
“You,” Fluvio says, pointing at me, “take those people.”
I feel like a disappointed little boy. I want to see the fireworks, too. Fluvio doesn’t stick around to listen to my protests. He goes outside to watch the fireworks. I go over to my new table. Two old people, disinterested in the commotion outside, peer at their menus.
“Good evening,” I say, trying to be professional. “Can I get you something from the bar?”
“What are your specials?” the man says, not looking up from his menu.
As I recite the specials I watch the brilliant starbursts reflected in windows across the street. The kaleidoscope of fire high in the sky projects shifting patterns of color onto the onlookers’ upturned faces. The Bistro shakes and rattles while the benign artillery barrage roars overhead.
I’m angry. I’m missing the fireworks. Another holiday’s passing by, and I’m stuck inside The Bistro. I need to see those fireworks. I need to be outside celebrating with everybody else. I need to be a normal person, not a servant, for one minute. Seeing the fireworks becomes a psychological imperative.
“Excuse me,” I say to my table. “Would you mind terribly if I go outside and watch the fireworks?”
“We want to eat!” the old man protests.
“It’ll just be a few minutes,” I plead.
The old woman reaches across the table and pats her husband on the hand. A communication passes between them. For some reason I think the old woman understands where I’m coming from.
“Of course, dear,” the wife says, looking up at me. “We can wait. Go outside.”
“Thank you, madam.”
I run out the front door. The grand finale is just beginning. My eyes widen. For a moment I’m like a schoolboy. The night sky has blossomed into fire. The bass from the concussive blasts vibrates my chest and sets off all the car alarms in the neighborhood.
I feel a hand hard on my arm. It’s Fluvio.
“What are you doing out here?” he shouts. “You have customers!”
“They’re fine,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Get inside,” Fluvio orders.
I pull Fluvio’s hand off my arm and look him straight in the eye. The smudged lenses of his eyeglasses dull the reflection of the fiery magnificence exploding above him.
“I’m gonna be a normal human being for a few minutes,” I say.
Fluvio stares at me openmouthed. He starts to say something but then thinks the better of it. He storms off, muttering under his breath.
I spy Beth and the other waiters across the street and walk over to join them.
“Something, huh?” I yell over the din.
“It’s beautiful,” Beth shouts, jumping up and down excitedly.
I stand alongside my coworkers. The kitchen guys have come outside, too. For a moment we forget we work in a restaurant. We’re regular people celebrating the Fourth of July. I smile to myself. My old sociology professor would’ve said that fireworks displays are a sort of “secular liturgy.” Standing outside with the great swell of humanity, I feel the way I did when I was in the seminary chapel—connected to something bigger than myself.
Suddenly, I realize I no longer feel hungover. The explosions above are knocking time back into joint. I no longer feel alienated and disconnected. As the summer sky blazes I feel human again. The Chinese believed that fireworks chase away evil spirits. I think they were right.
The display ends. The air reeks of gunpowder. The crowds disperse as ashes sprinkle down from the sky like snow. I head back inside The Bistro and go to my table.
“Thanks for waiting,” I say to the old couple. “I appreciate it.”
“That’s okay,” the old woman says. “You only live once.”
Chapter 19
Russell Crowe and Me
It’s lunchtime a month later, and I’m half an hour late for work. Walking briskly toward The Bistro, I can see Armando peering angrily at me through the plate glass window.
“You were supposed to be here at twelve,” he says as I walk through the door.
“Sorry, man,” I reply. “I overslept.”
“What a lame excuse,” Armando grunts. “Why don’t you talk about your lame excuses on your blog?”
“Maybe I will,” I snap back.
“Be on time next time.”
“Okay, little boss man.”
Armando shakes his head and walks away. The sous-chef might be Fluvio’s cousin, but under the restaurant’s hierarchy he has no supervisory authority over me. Armando runs the kitchen; I run the dining room. But ever since Bistro Duetto opened a few weeks ago, I can feel the dynamic among the staff members shifting. It doesn’t help that Fluvio’s shanghaiing waiters from the old place to work in the new. Due to chronic understaffing, we’re all stretched thin, and tempers are flaring. As I predicted, Fluvio’s lack of organizational skills is hurting both restaurants. He has the cooks from Duetto sneaking into The Bistro after closing to swipe our supplies and pre-prepared food. Three waitresses who defected to the new restaurant are tearing out one anothers throat’s in the quest to be Duetto’s manager. And at The Bistro, long-simmering resentments that had been held in place by Fluvio’s presence are now bubbling to the surface. The change between Armando and me has been sudden and profound. Armando’s always been a hard worker, but he’s never had to deal with ordering food or negotiating with vendors full time. Since Fluvio’s been so preoccupied, Armando’s been forced to take on extra duties. Couple this with a new live-in girlfriend, and Armando’s a very busy man. I’m trying to be understanding.
Part of me is pissed at Armando, though. Ever since Saroya moved in with him, she’s been getting harder and harder to deal with. While I’ll admit I’ve never been the most punctual of workers, Saroya wins the booby prize when it comes to employee tardiness. After several
months of cohabitation with the chef, she’s been coming in whenever she feels like it, leaves the moment the money slows down, and almost never pitches in to help fellow servers when they need a shift covered. What’s worse is that she won’t listen to anything I tell her. Whenever I confront her behavior, she threatens to run to Armando and tell him I’m harassing her. And Armando’s aggravated with my being late? Please.
I clock in to the computer and grab a cup of coffee. Beth is busy telling the lunch specials to a table. The Bistro is crowded. I catch Beth’s eye and toss her a “Do you need help?” look. She shakes her head. Everything’s covered.
The house phone starts clamoring for attention. I cover the distance from the computer to the hostess stand in eight paces and pick it up by the third ring.
“WHY YOU NO ANSWER THE PHONE?” Fluvio yells.
“But I am answering the phone,” I reply matter-of-factly.
“It ring and ring…”
“I got it by the third ring. Relax.” As I’ve mentioned before, Fluvio’s got a thing with phones.
“You’re late anyway,” Fluvio says.
“And I’ll leave here late, too,” I reply. “Remember that.”
“Whatever. What else is going on?”
“I sent my book proposal to the agent,” I say brightly. “He’s going to start sending it to publishers tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh,” Fluvio says.
“Aren’t you going to wish me luck?” I ask.
“It’s probably not going to happen.”
“Gee, thanks.”
There’s a moment of silence. I listen as Fluvio breathes moistly into the receiver.
Then he blurts, “You’re never going to leave here.”
I pull the receiver away from my face and stare at it. Fluvio often speaks with the air of a man who thinks his words become law the moment he speaks them. That’s characteristic of people with delusions of grandeur, but the armchair psychologist in me knows that Fluvio’s pronouncements are a soothing technique. He’s experiencing major stress in opening the new restaurant, so he’s telling himself the things he needs to hear. He needs me at The Bistro. I’ve tried telling Fluvio that I will still be able to help him through this difficult time, even with all that’s going on with me, but my assurances aren’t stopping him from freaking out.
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