Preparation

November 17th, 2008 by Waiter

I’m at the laundromat folding my freshly cleaned underwear when Mike, a waiter I know from a local restaurant, walks in dragging a laminated paper bag of dirty clothes behind him. He doesn’t notice me as he starts stuffing his white shirts, black pants, server aprons, and civilian wear into the cavernous mouth of one of the extra large machines. As I stack my boxer briefs into neat little piles, I watch Mike pour in detergent, select the “HOT WASH” option, and start dropping five dollars worth of quarters into the coin slot.  When the twentieth quarter registers, the machine’s motor springs to life with a fluidic whoosh and the waiter’s clothes transform into an agitated soup of cotton and suds.  I guess Mike’s never heard of washing whites and colors separately. Oh well.

“Hey Mike,” I call out. “How ya doing?”

“Hey Steve,” Mike says. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s okay. How are things at the restaurant?”

“Ugh,” Mike says. “Things suck.”

“That bad?”

“Monday though Friday we get a third of the covers we used to get.”

I let out a low whistle. “That is bad. How are the weekends?”

“We get the usual Saturday crowd,” Mike says. “But they’re eating and drinking cheap.”

“Is the tipping percentage down?”

“You get the occasional jerk who thinks he’s recession proofing himself by tipping eight percent,” Mike says. “But most people still hover in the fifteen to twenty percent range.”

“It’s just that twenty percent of a fifty dollar check is not as good as twenty percent of a hundred dollar check.”

“Exactly.”

“During the downturn in 2000,” I say, “Some of my regular customers just disappeared. People I was friendly with. Never saw them again.”

“Probably embarrassed they couldn’t afford to spend as much as they used to,” Mike replies.

“You’re probably right,” I say. “I wouldn’t've minded if they ate pasta instead of steak. At least they’d still be in my place spending money. I guess some people are all about appearances.”

“Talking about that,” Mike says. “You know the rich yuppie mommies who go out to lunch around here? The ones who go shopping all day while their Wall Street husbands earn all the money?”

“I remember the type.”

“I haven’t seen any of them at my restaurant in months.”

“Maybe their Wall Street husbands got laid off and they’re tightening their belts,” I suggest.

“I think it’s worse than that,” Mike says.

“How so?”

“Did you know that thirty-four homes in this town went into foreclosure last month?” Mike asks.

“Holy shit,’ I reply. “That many?”

“And not just crappy houses either,” Mike says. “But showpieces that cost eight hundred grand a year ago.”

“So you think the yuppie moms lost their homes?’

“Makes sense,” Mike says. “A lot of these people were overextended and borrowed against the value their homes to maintain their lifestyles. When you combine dropping home values, the stock market tanking, and the husbands getting laid off, they probably got wiped out.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s brutal.”

“Screw ‘em,” Mike says, waving his hand dismissively.  “Assholes like that thought the party would never end. Maybe some of those yuppie fuckers will be waiting tables alongside me soon.”

There was a time when I would’ve commiserated with Mike in his schadenfreude but not today. Too many friends and family have told me horror stories about massacred retirement accounts, dwindling 401Ks,  job anxiety, postponed dreams, and being maimed by the grinding  struggle to make ends meet. They’re all good, hardworking people. I suspect the vast majority of the “yuppie fuckers” Mike’s referring to are good people as well. But I was a waiter once. I remember watching my cash flow dry up and sweating the rent.  And even though it’s not in anyone’s best economic interest to feel this way, when you’re broke and bitter, misery loves company.

“Anyway,” Mike says. “You should be grateful you’re out of the biz. There’s never been a worse time to be a waiter.”

“How are you managing?” I ask.

“I used to make my nut working four nights a week,” Mike says. “Now I don’t make that working five doubles.”

“Double shifts, man,” I say, shaking my head. “They’re murder.”

“Now my girlfriend and I are having problems because I’m never home,’ Mike says. “The shit never ends.”

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

“So how you doing?” Mike asks. “How’s the book?”

“The book’s doing well,” I reply. “Now I’m writing another one.”

“About what?”

“Tipping thought the service industry,” I say.  “Waiters, bellhops, skycaps, barbers, strippers – stuff like that.”

“Cool,” Mike says. “And you and your girlfriend? Still going strong?”

“Actually we broke up last month,” I say.

“Oh shit,” Mike says. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. She’s a great woman. It just wasn’t working out between us.”

“Still.”

“Sometimes the bitter comes with the sweet.”

“Like the economy being in the toilet,” Mike says. “But gas getting cheaper.”

I pause for a moment to gather my thoughts. “I wouldn’t put it that way,” I say. “But sort of.”

“Did you see the gas stations down the street?” Mike says, looking like he desperately wants to change the subject. “They’re in a pricing war. One guy’s selling gas for a buck-seventy-nine a gallon.”

“Those guys have been slugging it out for weeks,” I say, giving Mike his out. “I think they have the lowest prices in the state.”

“They’re causing traffic jams,” Mike says. “It’s crazy.”

Mike and I talk about superfluous stuff for a few more minutes while I finish folding my laundry. When I’m done I pack my clean clothes into my own laminated paper bag, wish Mike luck, and drag my laundry out to my car. The moment I get behind the steering wheel another car pulls up like an automotive vulture, ready to prey on my spot. Parking is tight this time of day and I’d do the same thing if the situation was reversed, but somehow this driver’s annoying me. For some reason I can’t explain, I don’t want to be rushed.  I roll down my window and wave car onward. The car’s horn beeps angrily in response. My frustration tolerance has been low this past month so I’m surprised I resist flipping the driver the bird. After thirty seconds the driver of the car gets the hint and pulls past me. I get a glimpse of his face, He’s one of those red face choleric types who look like they’re a temper tantrum away from a brain aneurysm. Just great. I’ve deposited my bad energy into another person. Maybe it’s that misery loves company things again.

I lean back in the driver’s seat. I am well and truly pissed off. What’s worse, I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the breakup. Maybe it’s the economy. Maybe I got up on the wrong side of bed. I take a deep breath and start going through my own little anger management routine. It doesn’t involve mantras or visualizations of beachfront property. I get a handle on my emotions by observing what’s going on around me. Getting absorbed in small details usually soothes my nerves and gives me the emotional headspace to start working out a solution.

As I concentrate on the stone wall fronting the courtyard of the church I’m parked next to, I spy a squirrel munching on an acorn. He’s all plump and ready for winter. Probably has secret caches of nut protein stashed all over town. Maybe he’s hidden some of his loot in the front yard of my house. Maybe he’s buried acorns in front lawns of all the foreclosed homes in town. That’d be ironic.

But that squirrel’s started something stirring inside my brain. That something spins around my mind, churning the memories, images, cognitions, and sensations that make up who I am like the agitator blade inside a washing machine. On a preconscious level I realize that I need to be saving something for a rainy day. I need to start squirreling that something away. And that something’s not money or nuts. But what is it?

Just wait for it, I tell myself. The answer will come. Then, just when I feel the truth bubbling to the surface like a long forgotten name or fact, a blaring car horn shocks my ears and rudely shoves the answer back down into the  depths.

“Are you leaving?” a whiny female yells from inside her car. “I wanna park there if you’re leaving. You’re gonna leave right?”

“The spot’s all yours,” I reply, “I was just leaving.”

“Thanks mister.”

I turn the ignition key and power up the engine. As I start to pull away form the curb I look at the grey rodent perched on the stone wall. He’s too busy adding that last layer of fat before winter’s chill to even notice me.

“Brother,” I say to the squirrel.  “You probably know something I don’t.”

I drive away and the lady swings into my parking spot. Oddly enough, I’m not stressed anymore. That something rattling around my brain will emerge later. I’ll have my answer. And probably when I least expect it.

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A Waiter’s Tips to New York

November 7th, 2008 by Waiter

I wrote an article for the Guardian.co.uk about where waiters like to eat in New York City. I’d be interested to hear other NYC servers’  opinions and suggestions about restaurant and bars that I might have overlooked. Many thanks  to the  “waiter mafia” who let me tap their knowledge and considerable expertise for this article. Enjoy!

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Life’s Too Short for Bad Porn

November 6th, 2008 by Waiter

I’m lying on my couch watching This Gun for Hire, a film noir classic from 1942 starring Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake. I made myself linguine in white clam sauce earlier for dinner and chased it down with two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. Now, as my stomach noisily digests the mash of pasta, clams, and white wine, my eyelids start feeling heavy. My joint custody dog Buster whimpers softly as he sleeps near my feet. Probably chasing a squirrel though canine dreamland. I look at my watch. It’s almost eleven o’clock on a Friday night.  What an exciting life I lead.

As the black and white images on the television screen tell the story of a killer’s brutality and eventual salvation, I think about other movies I’ve seen with similar themes. Whether its James Cagney’s tough guy in Angels with Dirty Faces or Luc Besson’s illiterate hitman, Leon, in The Professional, I’ve always enjoyed stories about people who redeem their lives at the last moment through acts of truly selfless heroism. Maybe that storyline appeals to my hardwired Catholic sensibilities. Anyone can be saved, everything will be all right in the end. That’d be nice.

Suddenly my roommate shouts from inside his bedroom, “FREE PORN!”

“What?” I say, rousing myself from my sleepy theological reverie. “What did you say?”

“Come in here!” my roommate shouts. “Before it goes away!”

Much to Buster’s annoyance, I toss aside my blanket, get off the couch, and walk into my roommate’s bedroom. When I look at the LCD television on top of his dresser, my eyeballs are immediately greeted by the sight of two shapely, naked, and big breasted women doing intimate things to each other. Well, they’re almost naked. But somehow I don’t think thigh high leather boots counts as clothing

“Wow,” I say, involuntarily.  Impressive breasts always make me say “wow.” I think that’s hardwired into my system too. The nuns of my youth would whip me with their rosary beads if they could see me now.

“I told you someone was watching porn over at the cable company,” my roommate says. “Now do you believe me?”

“How do you know that a person’s watching it?” I reply. “Maybe it’s just a glitch in the system.”

“Keep watching,” my roommate says. “You’ll see.”

My roommate and I continue watching the “actresses” as they grind against one another with practiced enthusiasm. The moaning and groaning coming out of the television speakers, however, sounds like someone in the throes of demonic possession instead of orgasmic rapture. Then, without warning, the film fast forwards to a part in the scene where the actress are, ah, a little more exposed.

“”Holy shit!” I exclaim. “Somebody’s watching porn at the cable company.”

“They’re probably jerking off right now,” my roommate says.

”Probably.”

“We should call the cable company and complain.”

“Nah,” I reply. “I’m not going to get some guy in trouble just because he wants to rub one out at work.”

“How do you know it’s a guy?” my roommate asks. “Its two lesbians having sex. It could be a woman watching.”

“Only a guy would be stupid enough to watch porn and jerk off at work.”

“True,” my roommate mutters. “True.”

Buster decides to make an appearance. He walks into my roommate’s bedroom, looks at the television for a full 30 seconds, and then walks out – unimpressed.

“Buster doesn’t like porn?” my roommate asks.

“Why watch porn when he can see the real thing?” I reply.

My roommate laughs. “I’ve seen what happens when you try kicking him out of your room. He goes nuts.”

“Oh my God,” I say, shaking my head. “The whining and scratching at the door got so distracting that I finally had to start letting him in the room.”

“Doesn’t he bother you?”

“He usually hides under the bed or falls asleep on the easy chair in my bedroom. Occasionally, however, he tries joining in.”

“A threesome?” my roommate asks, grinning.

“Nothing like being in the throes of passion and having a hairy dog trying to lick your ass,” I reply.

“Oh no!”

“What can I say? Sometimes dogs just wanna have fun.”

“What do you do when Buster does that?”

“I toss him back under the bed saying ‘The woman is mine!’ He usually gets the hint.”

“That’s so weird.”

“Trust me,” I say. “Most couples that have dogs encounter this problem.”

“How about cats?”

“They just sit on the headboard and watch. Very creepy.”

“I’m never getting pets,” my roommate says. “Never.’

Suddenly the video fast forwards again. Now a man and woman are on the screen. Dissatisfied, the viewer at the cable company fast forwards past the obligatory “dialogue” until he gets to the part where the “action” starts.

“So why do you get free porn on your TV and I don’t?” I ask.

“Because the digital signal going to the plasma in the living room gets filtered by the cable box,” my tech savvy roomie replies. “My digital television’s hooked up directly to a coaxial cable so there no way to block the signal.”

“The TV in my room’s hooked up directly to cable,” I say. “Why don’t I get dirty movies?”

“Because the TV in your bedroom’s not digital. It’s analog. You won’t get the signal.”

“So the only way anyone can see free porn is if their hi-def television get its signal directly from a coaxial able and not the cable box?”

“Exactly.”

“How many people hook up their expensive hi-def televisions to coaxial cables and bypass the cable box?”  I ask.

“Almost no one,” my roommate replies. “By using the coaxial you don’t get all the channels you’re paying for and the hi-def signal’s not as good.”

“Looks like our porn loving friend at the cable company found a loophole in the system,” I say.

“That makes sense,” my roommate says. “He can watch his porn in the control room and almost no one will notice.”

“Except us.”

“These cable people are idiots anyway,” my roommate says. “A couple of months ago a mother ordered a Disney pay per view movie for her kids and got porn instead.”

“Sound like someone mixed up Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs for Snow White and the Seven Whores,” I reply dryly.

“Huh?”

My roommate’s from a far away country, I explain to him that many porn movies take their titles from established Hollywood films.

‘Little Oral Annie?” my roommate exclaims. “That’s disgusting,”

‘You should see what they did with Forrest Gump,” I reply.

“I don’t want to know.”

As I watch the man and woman frenetically humping each other on my roommate’s television screen, I chuckle to myself. Come to think of it, there are probably porn equivalents of The Professional and Angels with Dirty Faces too.  I wonder what the San Fernando Valley would do to This Gun for Hire?  Hmmmm.

“Oh well” I say, “That’s enough fun for me. I’m going to finish watching my movie.”

“You’d rather watch that old stuff than this?”

“My movies have better dialogue,” I reply. “Besides, life’s too short for bad porn.”

“You’re right,” my roommate says. “Goodnight.”

I flop back down on the couch and finish watching a young Alan Ladd trade shots with an impossibly young Robert Preston. When the movie ends I floss and brush my teeth, check the locks on the doors, and go to bed. My dog burrows under the covers and takes up station near my feet – but otherwise my bed is empty. No “real thing” for Buster to watch tonight. As I drift off to sleep, images of Veronica Lake and the two lesbians in thigh high boots compete for space on the back of my eyelids.

What an exciting life I lead.

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Vote

November 4th, 2008 by Waiter

Today is Election Day.

Vote. I don’t care who you vote for. Just vote.

Americans have suffered lynching and torture so we can vote.  Americans have faced down fire hoses and dogs, been bombed, murdered, and maimed so we can vote. Americans have labored in unpaid obscurity and have been ridiculed and ostracized so we can vote. Americans have gone to prison so we could vote. Americans have had their reputations ruined so we could vote. American servicemen and women have returned home with grievous wounds and psychological scars so we can vote. Americans have fought and died so we can vote.

It doesn’t matter if the lines at the voting booth are long or we think we don’t have enough time to cast a ballot. We have time. Countless unsung heroes made the time for us.

Vote.

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Waiter Rant Habla Espanol!

October 28th, 2008 by Waiter

I’m very happy to announce that the worldwide Spanish language rights for Waiter Rant: Thanks for the Tip - Confessions of a Cynical Waiter have been purchased by Debolsillo: Random House Mondadori, S.A. of Barcelona, Spain. Many thanks to the good people at Debolsillo and my agents Farley Chase at the Waxman Literary Agency and Elizabeth Atkins of A.C.E.R. Agencia Literaria.

Waiter Rant in Spanish! How cool is that?

Posted in Uncategorized | 36 Comments »