Tales of a New York Waitress

by Samantha Garman

  I paused. “You’d think so, huh? I still don’t really know what to think—or feel, for that matter.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “That was a loaded ‘hmmm’.”

  “I wonder if your heart is even broken at all or if it’s just your ego.”

  “Broken ego?” I mulled over. “Yeah, sounds about right. How did I not know he was gay? Come to think of it—how did you not know he was gay?”

  “It wasn’t like he did anything flamboyant. And the guy is into sports.”

  “I feel like an idiot,” I said. “Yeah, this is all about my pride.”

  She was quiet for a second. “If you change your mind and want to come out—”

  “Thanks, but I think I’m in for the night. I’ve got an early morning appointment tomorrow.”

  “Oh? For what?”

  “I’m going to see the gynecologist—and let me tell you, I’m so not looking forward to that conversation.”

  “Just do it before you’re in the stirrups,” she recommended. “It’s hard to keep your dignity when your legs are spread.”

  “You would know,” I teased.

  “Bitch. I’ll allow it, though. Your life kinda sucks.”

  “Great. Now you pity me.”

  “Do something nice for yourself after the doctor. Get a mani-pedi, or a massage.”

  “I’m getting my hair cut.”

  “Tell them your story and maybe you’ll get a free scalp massage. Just do me a favor. Don’t chop off all your hair. No pixie cuts.”

  “I did that once and looked like a Q-tip head. No danger of that happening again.”

  “What about that new hipster haircut—where half your head is shaved and half of it is long?”

  “No. I’m just getting a regular haircut.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay. How about I come to Brooklyn in the next few days and hang out. We can watch bad movies and eat crap.”

  “You’d come to Brooklyn? For me?”

  “What can I say? I’m a really good friend.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. You are.”

  “You should paint,” Annie said.

  I looked around the living room. The walls were stark white, like I’d never really moved in. No posters or framed photos. “Yeah, I should paint.” I peeled the label off of my beer bottle. “It was weird, sleeping alone. I had to sleep in the middle of the bed at a diagonal.”

  “How did that go?”

  “Around 3:00 AM, I got up to take a sleeping pill.”

  “I think that’s what killed Judy.”

  “Great, the Judy Garland jokes have started.”

  “Sorry, it was just too easy.” Annie reached for the plate of lukewarm nachos.

  “Well, thanks for not wearing kid gloves.”

  “One day, you’ll laugh about everything.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah. Trust me.”

  “Okay.” I let out a deep sigh and then changed the conversation. “Tell me about your night out.”

  Annie scowled. “I didn’t score.”

  “No?”

  “I spent most of my night talking to this really cute guy, and I was totally prepared to take him home. He then had to go and inform me that he’s a vegetarian. Soyfucker.” She frowned in disgust. “I have standards, ya know?”

  “You’ve got a weird check list.”

  “I’m a chef and bacon is my favorite food group. I’m forgiving of a lot of flaws, but not that one.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So, have you started thinking about a new job yet?”

  “Not yet,” I evaded.

  “You need money, right?”

  “Who doesn’t need money? I have a little bit in savings to get me by a while.”

  “Not enough if you continue drinking the way you do.”

  “Whose fault is that?” I demanded. “You’re a bad influence.”

  “I’m a great influence.”

  “Whatever.”

  She looked at me. “What are you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. The idea of networking, calling head hunters, applying to endless jobs in the field that I’ve been working in for the past five years is giving me hives.”

  “Dramatic much?”

  “Hello. Theater major.”

  “Yeah, I recall.”

  When I was studying theater in school, Annie had come to every one of my shows. There had been a lot of them—and most of them were pretty bad. God bless her.

  “I don’t want to edit textbook copy—and I don’t think I want to work in an office again.”

  “All you’ve ever done is work in offices. What else are you gonna do?”

  “This is a chance, Annie, a chance to do something different. What is it people say when shit goes wrong? A blessing in disguise? That’s what this is.”

  “So what do you wanna do?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “Well, as long as you have a plan…” she teased.

  “I don’t have one of those either. I’m jobless, boyfriend-less, plan-less.”

  “You’re not freaking out, are you? That’s so unlike you.”

  “I’m freaked out because I’m not freaking out.”

  “Still no Matt tears?”

  “None. It’s like, none of the water in my body will come out of my eyeballs.”

  I went into the kitchen and grabbed two more beers. I handed her one and she said, “So, are you gonna sit around and collect unemployment while trying to figure out your life?”

  “For the time being. But unemployment doesn’t go very far. I won’t even be able to afford Thai takeout. And besides, I think I’m one of those people that need to do something. If I don’t, I’ll go crazy.”

  “You mean, being a slug doesn’t work for you?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Will you sleep here tonight?”

  “Okay, but I’m the big spoon.”

  The next morning, I sent Annie off to work with a cup of coffee in a travel cup and a full stomach. I felt like a wife in the 50’s. After I puttered around a bit on my computer, I finally got serious.

  LinkedIn.

  Just to see what was out there in the way of jobs. Not that I knew what kind of job I wanted. It was overwhelming and I didn’t even know where to start or what to look for. My phone vibrated. Matt. The guy just wasn’t getting it. But instead of ignoring him this time, I answered.

  “What?”

  “Sibby, can we please talk?” Matt asked. He sounded desperate.

  Good.

  “What do you want to talk about? You wanted out of our relationship, and instead of being a man and coming clean with me about it, you had sex with someone in our apartment—on our brand new sheets. That we got on sale. At Pottery Barn. You know how much I love Pottery Barn!”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Yeah, well, it’s too little, too late! Stop calling me.”

  I hung up on him and then blocked his number, grabbed my keys, and went to go find me some paint.

  Annie squinted and frowned, cocking her head to one side in confusion. “I know you said you wanted to paint, but this is not what I thought you’d do. It looks like you hired a kindergartener to throw paint on a wall.”

  I’d gotten a headache from the paint fumes, so the windows were open and I had no interest in finishing the rest of the living room. That one painted wall would remain, to remind me of my day of infamy; to remind me that I needed some color in my colorless life. I was certainly feeling poetic.

  “Were you sober when you did this?”

  “Uhmmm,” I hedged. I’d had tequila with a side of coffee. Patron Espresso. I was wired and tipsy.

  Phenomenal.

  “You’ve become a tequila monster.”

  “There are worse things, I suppose. So, do you like it?”

  “It’s weird. But you’re weird, so
it makes sense. And yes, I like it.”

  I smiled and we took a seat on the couch. “I want a new bed. And new towels. New everything to replace all the stuff I bought with Matt.”

  “That costs money.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think unemployment will cover that.”

  “Which brings me to this: you know when my boss Heather throws those luncheons and I have to hire cater waiters?”

  “I don’t want to cater waiter. I hate bowties.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “Wasn’t gonna ask you to be a cater waiter. Besides, it’s way part time. You’d make more on unemployment. No, one of Heather’s cater waiters works at an Italian restaurant in the West Village, but he’s leaving to tour with a Midwestern theater company. They have to hire his replacement.”

  “Huh,” I said.

  “I threw out your name and history.”

  “History?”

  “Yeah, you waited tables.”

  “In college,” I pointed out. “At a barbecue joint. I was always covered in barbecue sauce.”

  “Oh…yeah. Might have forgotten about that.”

  “Looked like a freakin’ extra for Braveheart,” I muttered. “Besides, I don’t know crap about Italian food.”

  “You need money, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t want to work in an office or go back to editing textbook copy.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So, wait tables while you figure out what you really want to do.”

  I went quiet.

  “Is this a pride thing? You don’t want to be a twenty-seven-year-old waitress? Rachel on Friends did it.”

  “She has better hair than me. And that was a TV show. Her life magically worked out because writers wrote that her life worked out. And, oh, yeah, she’s fictional.”

  “Lots of artists do the waiting tables thing while pursuing their art.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not pursuing art.”

  “What are you talking about?” She pointed to the wall. “You’re a painter.”

  My sigh was labored. “How does one even make a restaurant resume?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they’ll make you carry a tray of drinks. Kind of like an audition.”

  “Um, I spill things. I’m totally screwed.”

  Jessica, the general manager at Antonio’s stared at me. I tried not to twitch. Her brown eyes surveyed me. I was wearing my black glasses, skinny jeans and checkered shirt, and my dark, somewhat frizzy hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

  “You’re a Hipster,” she said finally.

  “No, I… Yes.” I paused. “Please don’t hold that against me.”

  She smiled faintly. “You’re a friend of Tom’s?”

  “Friend of a friend,” I corrected. “He cater waiters for my best friend.”

  “You’ve worked in a restaurant before?”

  “A barbecue joint.”

  “You like people?”

  “Sure?”

  Her brown eyes flared with humor. “Do you know anything about Italian food or Italian wine?”

  “I can fake anything.”

  Jess raised an eyebrow. I smiled.

  “You’re an actor.”

  “Writer,” I amended.

  “Same thing.”

  “Not the same thing at all.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “I like you.”

  I smiled, hoping that meant I had the job.

  “Can you start training tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “4:00 PM. We’re only open for dinner. If you survive training, you’ll work four shifts a week. Got it?”

  Survive training?

  “Got it.”

  “Jess!” a male voice called. “I can’t find the new Barbaresco shipment!”

  “I got it,” Jess yelled back, standing up. “Come meet our newest employee!”

  I heard someone tromping up the stairs and a tall, lean, familiar body appeared in the doorway of the dining room.

  “Sibby, meet our assistant manager, Aidan.”

  Chapter 4

  Tartufo [tar-too-foh]

  1. Italian for “truffle”.

  2. You know it’s a fungus, right?

  I waited until Jess left us alone to go tend to the lost wine shipment before I looked skyward and said, “You’ve got to be kidding me. What are you doing here?”

  “I work here,” Aidan, hot guy from the other night, said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I work here now, too.”

  “No more textbook editing?”

  “I’m making a change. How do you remember that, anyway? I thought you were too drunk to remember much of anything.”

  “No, you were drunker than me. I was pretty sober actually.”

  I moaned. “Really? After tequila shots?”

  “Kind of hurt my ego when you snuck out of my apartment before I woke up. Didn’t even kiss me goodbye.” His smile was slow.

  I shook my head. “This is bad.”

  “Why?”

  “How we met was—embarrassing. No one needs to know my drunken idiocy.”

  “You mean, they shouldn’t know that we spooned the night we met?”

  “Exactly.”

  “This isn’t like working in an office, Sibby. Co-workers can date.”

  I held up my hand. “First of all, we aren’t co-workers, you’re technically my boss. Second of all, we’re not dating. And D, did you get the money I left on your coffee table? For the shots?”

  “All thirty-eight dollars of it?” His grin was still in place.

  “Thirty-eight dollars and some change,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah, I got it.” We stared at each other for a long moment. Aidan shifted his stance. “Well, if you’re working here, then I should give you the menu descriptions.”

  “Excuse me?” I blinked.

  “Menu descriptions, so you know what’s in the food.” He gestured for me to follow him to the host stand. He rifled through a stack of papers before handing me a packet. I flipped through it.

  “You’re kidding, right? This is like thirty pages of intensive reading.”

  He smiled. “We like our guests to have options.”

  “The menu is huge.”

  “Yep.”

  “I feel like I need a PhD in Food to work here.”

  “There are wine descriptions in there, too.”

  “Joy,” I muttered.

  “The thing about wine, though, is you have to taste it so you can make notes and speak confidently about it. Why don’t you stick around and I’ll take you through a tasting?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that as my boss or as the guy who got me drunk after I had the worst day of my life?”

  He grinned. “Your boss.”

  “Damn it. Okay. Bring on the wine.” We headed to the bar and he pulled out two wine glasses and some bottles. “Aidan?”

  “Yeah?” He looked at me.

  “What did Jessica mean when she said ‘survive training’?”

  “The chef is a bit…high-strung.”

  “High-strung?”

  “Passionate.”

  “Passionate?”

  “Okay, he yells a lot,” he explained. “And sometimes he throws dishes.”

  “What?”

  “Not at anyone. Shit, please don’t quit before you start.”

  I shook my head, wondering what mess I was walking into. I turned to the last page with the list of wines. “There are at least fifteen wines by the glass on here.”

  “Yep,” Aidan agreed.

  “Isn’t that overkill?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m gonna be drunk by the time we’re done tasting the wines.”

  He grinned. “Hope so.”

  Aidan poured me my first taste of a red. I put it to my nose and smelled it, swirling it around, pretending to know what I was doing. I was a beer and tequila kind of girl. Sometimes bourbon. I didn’t know squat about wine.

/>   “Caleb is into Annie,” Aidan said suddenly.

  “This is personal talk,” I said as I took a sip. I wrote down ridiculous word descriptions: big, bold, spicy, leathery.

  People just made up wine descriptions, right?

  “You never said we couldn’t be personal. Besides, personal is good.”

  “Boundaries, Aidan. Boundaries are necessary.” I glowered at him.

  “There’s no one here,” he said. “The servers don’t come in to set up for another hour. We can talk about personal stuff all you want.”

  “But I don’t want to talk about personal stuff.”

  Aidan ignored me completely. “I’ll go first.”

  “Please, don’t.” He needed to stay ‘the guy from the bar’ or ‘my new manager’. Those boxes made sense to me. Details about his life would make him a real person. I couldn’t have that.

  “You’re harsh. Okay, I won’t talk about myself. Annie kicked Caleb out the next morning, sans phone number.”

  “So, we’re not gonna talk about personal stuff then?” I said with blatant sarcasm.

  “Oh come on, I’m not asking about you. I’m asking about your friend for my friend.”

  I sighed. “Annie doesn’t do repeats.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Repeats. She bags them once and sends them on their way. That’s as personal as she gets.”

  “Caleb wasn’t hoping for a repeat performance. Or he was, but only after he took her on a date.”

  I frowned. “Date? Really.”

  “Really.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Annie would have a hard time believing that, too.”

  “Believe it or not, it’s true. So if I pass along Caleb’s number to you, and you give it to Annie…”

  “She’s not going to call him,” I vowed. “And do me a favor. Please don’t tell Caleb that I work here. Let’s keep real life separate from work life.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “You gonna finish that little taste or dump it out?”

  I looked affronted. “One thing I do know about wine: you never waste a sip.”

  A few days later, Jess introduced me to a tall, thin guy with spiky blond hair and diamond studs in his ears. “Zeb, this is our newest recruit, Sibby.”