Waiter Rant

by Steve Dublanica

  Suddenly, I feel a tug on my shoulder. It’s Beth. She has tears in her eyes.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The computer’s not working.”

  “Oh shit,” I say, my sphincter achieving maximum compression.

  “It just went black,” Beth says. “I’ve got a bunch of orders I need to send to the kitchen.”

  “Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath, “lemme try to fix it.”

  “How am I going to place my orders?” Beth asks.

  “Hang on.”

  I try rebooting the computer. That usually fixes things, but tonight it doesn’t. I double-check all the cabling. Everything’s hooked up correctly.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with it,” I say. “I have to call the computer guy.”

  “Oh my God,” Beth groans. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  I signal all the waiters to gather around me.

  “Listen, guys,” I say. “I’ve got bad news. The computer’s dead. We’ve got to do things the old-fashioned way.”

  “The old-fashioned way?” Saroya asks. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve got to write everything down on a ticket and add up the bill by hand.”

  “I’ve never done that before,” Saroya says.

  “Well, that’s how we have to do it tonight.”

  “This fucking sucks,” Louis says, his voice filling with panic. “This fucking sucks.”

  “You’ve done tickets before, Louis,” I say. “Help Saroya out.”

  “What about the credit cards?” Louis asks.

  Our POS system is responsible for sending orders to the kitchen, tabulating bills, and acting as a credit card terminal. It’s a state-of-the-art front-of-the-house system—until it goes wrong.

  “We’re gonna have to use the old terminal,” I say. “The one we used before the POS system.

  “That old piece of shit?” Louis shouts. “It only prints the white copy.”

  “I know,” I say. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

  “The law says we have to give the customers a copy!” Louis shouts. “I’m not doing anything illegal.”

  Leave it to Louis to get all rigid and legalistic in a crisis.

  “Just hit reprint on the terminal,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even. “The second printout can be the customer copy.”

  “This sucks, man,” Louis says, his voice taut with anxiety. “This place is a joke. I want to go home.”

  “Calm down, Louis. This is an emergency.”

  “Fuck you telling me to calm down,” Louis says, storming off. “I can’t take this shit anymore. If you don’t fix that computer, I’m leaving.”

  “Louis—”

  “You’re a joke of a manager,” Saroya chimes in. “You’re supposed to know how to fix this stuff.”

  “I’m working on it, Saroya.”

  The reality is that Fluvio is so paranoid he never showed me anything about the computers. I don’t know how to fix them. I could usually get Fluvio to fix it, but he’s an hour’s drive away.

  “You’re a clown,” Saroya huffs, walking away.

  Beth looks at me sadly. “Nice when your coworkers support you, huh?”

  I smile at Beth. We both know Saroya and Louis are sunshine waiters, happy and professional when everything’s running smoothly, bitchy and vindictive when they’re not. The minute things get hairy, they fall into that’s-not-my-job mode, and their professionalism goes out the window.

  “Stick with me, babe,” I say.

  “I’ll cocktail and special your tables while you call the computer guy.”

  “Thanks,” I say gratefully. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  I fill the old credit card machine with register tape, plug it into the phone line, and test it by charging my personal Amex one penny. Keeping my fingers crossed, I anxiously wait for the terminal to process the transaction. If this doesn’t work, I’ll have to pull the old embosser out of storage. I haven’t used one of those things since the early 1990s. After an interminable wait the old machine starts chattering out paper. I let out a sigh of relief. Finally, a break. I grab the cordless house phone and call the computer guy. I explain the problem, and we run through a checklist of procedures. None of them fix the problem.

  “I’ll have to come in and take a look,” the computer guy says. “Sounds like a cable’s severed somewhere.”

  “Can you come now?” I plead.

  “Sure,” the computer guy says. “But it’ll take a while.”

  “Where are you coming from?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “Jesus,” I say. “Just get here quick. Dinner’s on me.”

  “On my way.”

  “Oh, Mr. Manager,” I hear Louis crowing. “I need a calculator so I can add up these bills.”

  “What happened to the calculator by the register?” I ask.

  Louis smiles at me sweetly. “The battery’s dead.”

  I feel a coil in the back of my head tighten. Stomach acid leaps up my esophagus. For the first time in six years I’m afraid the restaurant’s going to crash. A restaurant crash is what happens when a series of events, none of which on its own is serious enough to cause problems, combine to spawn a perfect storm of missteps, fuckups, and malfunctions, initiating a catastrophic system-wide collapse. I saw it happen at Amici’s once. The manager had to stop letting new customers into the restaurant until the waiters and the kitchen could recover. The best way to avoid a restaurant crash is to make sure you’ve done all your prep work and have backups for everything. Losing your AC and computer systems at the same time, however, is a disaster in any restaurateur’s book.

  “Please go down to Fluvio’s office and get the one on his desk,” I tersely reply.

  “Uh-uh, Mr. Manager,” Louis sneers. “That’s your job.”

  Summarily executing Louis won’t help the situation, so I go down into Fluvio’s smelly office to fetch the spare calculator. The minute I walk inside the intercom buzzes.

  “Fluvio’s on the phone,” the hostess says. “I told him about the computer. He wants to talk to you.”

  There’s no avoiding the man this time. I snap up the phone. “It’s a mess here, boss.”

  “I leave you alone and you can’t handle things,” Fluvio says disgustedly.

  “Your AC failed, and the computer systems went down,” I say. “What do you expect me to do?”

  “I don’t have time for this shit,” Fluvio growls. “I want to go over the computer problem with you on the phone.”

  “I’ve got a section full of customers who just sat down,” I say. “They’re gonna be pissed—”

  “The other waiters can handle it.”

  “They can’t. They’re in the weeds, too.”

  “Listen—”

  “Fluvio,” I say. “The computer guy’s coming. The AC’s off till tomorrow. There’s nothing more I can do. I set up the old credit card terminal, and we’re sending everything to the kitchen by ticket.”

  “By ticket?” Fluvio exclaims. “I’m gonna lose money.”

  “I’ve got to go, Fluvio.”

  “Explain to me how you’re going to keep track of the money.”

  I can feel my heart racing with anxiety. This is when Fluvio’s control issues hurt his business. He’d rather keep me on the phone explaining minute details instead of taking care of the customers who give him money.

  “It’s a crazy night, Fluvio,” I say. “We can go over everything when you get back.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve got to go, boss,” I say, slamming down the receiver. I’ve hung up on my boss twice in one night.

  I run back up to the dining room and get over to my section. Thanks to Beth, two of my tables already have their cocktails. I’m just about to ask the other tables for their drink orders when the hostess pulls on my arm.

  “It’s Fluvio,” she says. “He wants you to talk to him right now.”

  “I’m busy,” I snap.


  “He’s really angry at you.”

  “Too bad.”

  “What am I going to tell him?”

  “Tell him if he bugs me again, I’m walking out the door right now.”

  The hostess stares at me, wide-eyed. “Really?”

  “I’m serious,” I say. “Tell him to chill the fuck out.”

  “I’m not going to tell him that.”

  “Then make something up.”

  I dive back into my section and get drink orders. All the customers complain about the heat and the slow service. I say “I’m sorry” so many times that my apologies sound like an automated recording. Louis and Saroya run around, sniping behind my back. Fluvio keeps calling for updates. The customers’ faces blur into a greedy collage of greasy, quivering lips and fleshy jowls. The heat in the restaurant’s driving me mad. My underwear’s soaked with sweat and starting to chafe my legs. I’m going to get another rash. The pressure in my head keeps building. That coiled spring I felt earlier is about to snap. I’m heading for a rifle-in-the-clock-tower moment.

  “I’m going outside,” I tell the hostess.

  “You’re leaving!” the hostess shrieks. “Now?”

  “I need some fresh air,” I say. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

  I exit The Bistro, walk around the corner, and disappear into the back alley behind the restaurant. Lined up against the wall are several plastic garbage cans. I take a deep breath, draw back my leg, and drive my foot into the side of one of the cans, smashing it with a loud crunch. I have reached my breaking point.

  “MOTHERFUCKER!” I shout.

  Experience has taught me that if I don’t discharge the negative energy building up inside my body, I’ll pay for it later in aches and pains, depression, and sleepless nights. Kicking a garbage can’s not exactly a kosher anger-management skill, but it’s a hell of a lot better than taking it out on a living, breathing person.

  After giving the can a few more swift kicks, I feel the bolus of anger pass out of my psyche like vomit being ejected out of my mouth. A wave of exhaustion hits me.

  Dizzy, I lean up against the warm brick wall, fumble a cigarette out of a pack, and light up. I look down at the garbage can. The plastic container’s already returning to its original shape—no harm done. Feeling foolish, I take a drag of my cigarette and close my eyes. Suddenly, I hear people murmuring. My eyes snap open, and I look across the street. Two middle-aged women are standing outside a bar smoking. They saw me freak out. I wave weakly at them, embarrassed.

  “Tough night?” one of the women shouts.

  “The worst,” I reply.

  “If you’re gonna get that mad,” the other woman says, “maybe you should find another job.”

  “You might be right,” I reply.

  “Take it easy, mister,” the first one says, shaking her head.

  “Thanks,” I reply, feeling like a total asshole. I grind my cigarette under my heel and slink back inside the restaurant.

  Eventually everything settles down. Armando keeps the kitchen running despite the heat; the computer guy fixes the POS system; the waiters, including myself, get their shit together; and the customers, feeling sorry for us, end up giving us some very nice tips. Even Fluvio gets over his anxiety. After I close everything up Beth and I stumble out of The Bistro and head to Café American for a well-deserved cocktail.

  “Thank God that’s over,” Beth says, holding out her martini glass.

  “Yes, indeed,” I reply, clinking my glass against hers. “Thanks for all your help.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I thought we were gonna crash,” I say.

  “We didn’t,” Beth says.

  “But we could’ve.”

  I tell Beth how I freaked out in the alley.

  She laughs. “Just don’t get angry at me.”

  “It was Fluvio’s craziness that got to me,” I say. “I used to be able to handle his bullshit but…”

  “He gets to everybody,” Beth says. “Even the wine reps hate him.”

  I stare into my drink. “I don’t know how much longer I can work here.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you left.”

  “So,” I say, shaking myself out of my fugue, “what’s going on with you?”

  “My boyfriend and I are fighting,” Beth says sadly.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “We never get to spend any time together.”

  “Restaurant schedules can be a problem.”

  “It’s not that,” Beth says. “I don’t think we’re in love anymore. It’s like we’re brother and sister.”

  “You’ve been going out since you were how old?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Five years is a long time.”

  “I just think it’s not going to last.”

  I want to tell Beth that the odds are good the person you fall for at nineteen is going to be a very different person at twenty-five. Most relationships don’t survive this process. Telling her that won’t do any good, though.

  “I want something better for myself,” Beth continues, looking me dead in the eye. “I want to be in love with someone who’s crazy about me. I’m worth it.”

  I suddenly feel my breath catch in my throat. Beth is certainly worth it. I think about telling her that. Then I remember the difference in our ages. There’s a moment, but I let it pass. I keep my feelings to myself. Beth and I live in different worlds.

  After lingering inside Café American’s air-conditioned bar for a second and third round, Beth and I part company. I stumble home after three in the morning and, without taking off my sweat-stained clothes, collapse into bed.

  In my dreams a mob of customers, like torch-wielding villagers in a Frankenstein movie, chase me through the streets demanding their money back. Suddenly, I realize I’m not wearing any clothes. I race into the backyards behind my boyhood home, terrified the cops are going to arrest me. A little boy appears in a window and points at me, screaming. I try running away, but a hole in the ground swallows me up. As I fall, I cry out.

  I wake up on the floor of my bedroom. The reddish dawn pours through the bedroom curtains and splatters the walls a bloody shade of orange. In the back of my mind the old saying “Red sky at night, sailors’ delight; red sky in morning, sailors take warning” runs through my head.

  Sitting on my bedroom floor, I realize things have to change and change soon. I remember the women watching me kick the garbage can. I remember my anger, a red blaze of frustration, coloring my vision. There have been too many frustrating nights at The Bistro. I get up off the floor and open the curtains. The sun, swollen and red, is erupting out of the eastern horizon, promising another hot day. Waiter takes warning.

  That goddamn AC had better get fixed.

  Chapter 21

  The Demons

  It’s mid-September. The air-conditioning’s still kind of on the fritz, so I’m standing outside The Bistro drinking espresso and enjoying the cool evening twilight. As the day starts crumbling into darkness I watch office girls who had been sleeveless in the noonday heat head off to happy hour with shawls and leather jackets covering their bare shoulders. I feel the briskness in the air with a small pang of mourning. It’s as if summer’s trying to sneak out of town without anybody noticing. Soon miniskirts will be replaced by long pants, and shapely legs will disappear into unshaven hibernation. I tell myself I should move to a town where short skirts are a 365-day-a-year proposition—someplace like L.A. or Vegas—but I’d miss having seasons too much.

  As the sun starts its dive below the horizon the dining crowd starts swarming the sidewalks. I can always tell which demographic is going to what restaurant. The young and hip head for Über Sushi, couples my age eat at Alain’s or Café American, and the affluent elderly come to us. You can spot The Bistro’s customers coming a mile away. Just look for the quartet of recently retired people—two men strolling side by side while their wives hang ten paces back, stopping in front of every store window.
The men look like they’re trying to project some sort of financially self-sufficient gravitas, while their spouses subtly compete to see whose children won the parenting lottery.

  I sigh to myself. Soon these people will be piling into the restaurant. I take another sip of espresso and try to savor the peace and quiet before the craziness begins. The northerly wind softly rustles the leaves in the trees. I look up. The foliage hasn’t started to change, but I know that will happen soon. Autumn is my favorite season.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the new video camera Fluvio installed under the restaurant’s wooden sign. Sourness seeps into my thoughts, and my little moment of Zen is wrecked. No longer just content with spying on us inside The Bistro, Fluvio has installed new units to cover the back alley and the front sidewalk. Now he can see the staff whenever they go outside to smoke, talk on their cell, or get a breath of fresh air. I stare into the black eye of the camera. I wonder if Fluvio’s watching me now. I’ll bet he is. Fluvio’s been keeping his distance from me. The last time we talked, I could tell he was keeping something from me, and later I found out from the staff what that something was—Louis has been running around telling everyone that Fluvio’s going to make him the new manager. I’m not surprised. Fluvio’s offered my job to other waiters when he’s been angry with me before, but Louis? The guy who faked a heart attack so he could go home early? That’s like finding out someone paid a hit man $39.95 to bump you off. It’s insulting.