Misadventures In Waiting

Okay:

I waited tables and bartended for five years or so. I hated waiting tables with a bizarre sort of passion that none of my co-workers seemed to share with me. Upon graduating from college I realized that I wasn't really qualified to do anything special and there was no six-figure job waiting for me. I was damn near unemployable.

I was drinking a lot of scotch and smoking a lot of weed.

I was working double shifts Monday through Friday so I could drive up to DC every weekend and see my newborn daughter. But working that hard, and that much, and living as hard as I was living then, began to take its toll.

My slip was showing, so to speak.

I can recall waiting on a table of middle-aged white women. I even remember what section they were sitting in and what time of it day it was, which is odd considering I was as high as I've ever been.

I moseyed on up to the table with my pepper grinder and feature menu in hand. I can remember barely being able to walk straight. I had to concentrate and envision a straight line on the floor that I was following. When I got to the table I smiled big and wide and began rattling off the featured dishes.

"Today we have on our feature menu the grilled salmon, served in a red pepper teryiaki sauce with a side of spinach orzo pasta and the sixteen ounce porter house...."

I trailed off.

I stood there for a moment, unaware that I had not completed my spiel but had faded out like the end of a song. To their credit, they just stared at me politely, fully anticipating that I would recover and finish.

It was a long, pregnant silence.

Finally, I said, "Can I get you guys something to drink? Sweet tea?"

Another time I was so drunk I could barely stand up. It was an angry drunk too. One of those drunks where you start thinking about everything that's wrong with your life and how most of it is not your fault. Yeah, I was drunk like that.

I approached the table, real slow-like. It was a table of young white guys. They were all teenagers probably. I hated them immediately. I don't know why. I just did. I walked up to the table and just stood there silently with my hands behind my back. They looked at me curiously then looked at one another. Nobody said anything.

Finally one of them said, "I'll have a lemonade."

I went and got his lemonade, brought it to him and stood there like the Fruit of Islam. Again, they looked at one another and looked at me and looked at one another. The guy with the lemonade, apparently the brains of the outfit, asked earnestly, "Do you like this job?"

I took a deep breath and replied a slow, meaningful, "No."

Another time I was opening the restaurant in the morning, doing prep work in the kitchen. I can't remember if I was high or not. I may have quit by then.

At any rate, I was in the kitchen chopping chives. I had gotten really good at it. The sous chef, Jim, had taught me how to do it. I was so good he had been trying to talk me into leaving the floor to come work in the kitchen. To this day, if given a good knife, I can chop food like nobody's business. You'd be impressed.

You already see where this is going.

Anyway, maybe was high. Maybe I wasn't. The point is, I wasn't paying attention and I didn't have on a cut glove. I felt a nick on my left ring finger. Instinctively I covered it with my other hand, wincing in pain. I saw the blood flowing but was reluctant to look at the actual cut. But when I looked down at the cutting board, I saw, lying innocently on the blade of the knife, a dime-sized piece of the tip of my finger.

I yelled out for Jim and he came running. He told me he needed to see my finger to find out whether or not he needed to call the ambulance. I showed him my finger.

"GOOD GOD!" he shouted. "I've been working in kitchens for 20 years and that is the nastiest shit I've ever seen."

"Do I need an ambulance?"

"No, but you gotta cover that thing up. I think I'm gonna be sick."

You'll be glad to know that everything grew back good as new. Except the new skin is really tough and lighter than the rest of my finger and it has no feeling. But you wouldn't notice unless I told you.

Well, I hope you found these stories interesting. If you've ever waited tables, post a comment about one of your misadventures. Let's make an unproductive Friday at work out of it.


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

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Confession: It has not gone unnoticed by me that I have no feeling on the tip of my wedding band finger. I think it may be, like, a metaphor or something.