It’s 5:19. Do you know where your waiter is?

I’m ahead of schedule tonight.

By 11 minutes.  It’s baby steps.  Baby steps.

So this was my night.

My FUCKING night.

Jancy came today.  She cleans our apartment every other week.  I like that she cleans.  I don’t like that she screws up the beginning of my day.  I’m stuck in our bedroom till it’s time to go to work.

I HAVE to talk to my mom.  We last talked on Sunday so we HAVE to talk today.  Which is fine.  But first Jancy.  Then my mom.  Things aren’t starting so good.

When I got up I called Adam.  I got his voice mail.  I called again after my mom.  I got his voice mail.  I didn’t actually talk to him until I was on my way to the train.  It’s not like this is some tragedy.  It’s just we have our routine.  He kisses me good bye.  I call when I get up.  I call again when I’m walking to the train.  I call again when I’m downtown.  I call on my break.  I kiss him when I get home.  I go to bed.  He gets up.  It might seem like I call a lot but you have to realize that it’s Friday a.m. and I haven’t seen him awake in five days.  It sucks.  I didn’t get to talk to him much today.

I get to work.  I order dinner.  Instead of eating my small dinner salad, and filling it out with things I can eat for free I ordered a real meal.  I got said meal and headed to the room where we have pre-shift.  There was a meeting going on.  I was sent to Chinatown.  This is a hallway between two dining rooms.  I’ll explain why it’s called Chinatown some other time.  Then I was sent to the other dining room.  By now my dinner is getting cold.  I finally sit down to eat.  My chicken is cold.  And was cooked about 20 minutes longer than it should have been.  I’ve tasted card board that was less chewy than the mashed potatoes.  The broccoli was limp.

Pre-shift starts.  They do roll call.  Then we get announcements.  I finally hear the “fag” announcement.  It’s about as white washed as you can get.  Mostly don’t say things that are offensive.  The problem is they DON’T think it’s offensive that’s why they say it.

Then the Assistant GM talks.  He tells us about the holiday crap.  And about our secret shopper report.  Then he talks about our survey scores.  The restaurant has a 5.99 score out of a possible 7.  We need to have a 6.0 to make corporate happy.  He asked if anyone knew what there survey average was.  I raised my hand and said mine is a 6.68.  No one else even knew what their score was, let alone be as high as mine.  As a result the AGM bought my dinner.  Maybe it’s not going to be such a crappy night after all.  By the way my score is actually a 6.52.  I’m still far ahead of just about everyone else.

So the shift starts.  There are 40 servers on tonight.  40.  For a Thursday night.  In October.  With no large parties.  Just GP.  General Public.  FUCK.

At 5:30 there were 98 empty tables in the restaurant.  Our host system will tell you how many empty tables there are.  It will also tell you lots of other useless information but that’s another story.  98.  Except that it doesn’t count the three cocktail sections because we aren’t sat via the host.  That’s another 10 tables.  And for some reason section 30 isn’t open yet.  That’s another four tables.  So at 5:30 there are 112 empty tables in our restaurant.

It starts slow.

VERY SLOW.

For some reason I get lucky.  My entire section fills up quickly with people who are just drinking.  This is great because no one else has any tables.

This is the end of the good part of my evening.

At 6:04 four middle aged men seat themselves at table 71.  English is clearly not their first language.  They order 4 Stellas.  Then four Heinekens.  Then four more.  And then four more.  Eventually they eat dinner.  At 10:25 I go on break.  They are still there.  There check is 300.85.  I don’t even know what to tell Connie who is breaking me.  I tell her just to pray that they tip.  I go call Adam.  Our phone reception is bad.  We get annoyed with each other because the calls keep dropping.  I text him and tell him that I love him.  And I sit there.  And wait and wait and wait.  I get up to go back on the floor at 10:45.  I have ten minutes left.  The men are gone.  I say a little prayer.  I look for Connie.  I finally see her across the restaurant and I call for her and ask her if I’m going to be upset.  She tries to play it off.  I ask if they tipped me.  She tries to play it off.  She says there was extra and a lot of change.  I say huh.  She says there was extra although she didn’t remember how much and about five dollars in change.  She keeps pushing the change issue hoping that it will make it better.  It does not.  I take the money out and count it.  It’s 312.00 and about five dollars in change.  They left me a fucking 16 dollar tip on a 300 dollar tab after sitting at my table for five fucking hours.  FUCK THEM.  FUCK THEM.  FUCK THEM.  FUCK THEM…

This was just the big story.  The rest of the tables sort of sucked too.  IF I’d tipped out as much as I should have I would have walked with exactly 10% of my sales.  Which was exactly half of what I made last night.  EXACTLY!  I cut some corners and managed to squeak out a few more dollars.

Tonight was a fucking bust!

A

FUCKING

BUST

AND I HAVE TO DO IT ALL AGAIN TOMORROW NIGHT!

FUCK!

FUCK!

FUCK!

Oh.  And I almost forgot.  I had four people plant themselves at my counter tonight with drinks they’d purchased from the bar.  At 9:30.  By 10:00 those drinks were gone.  They proceeded to sit at the counter with nothing in front of them till almost midnight.  Not purchasing anything.  Just sitting there taking up space.  I was told by management that I could not ask them to move.

FUCKEMALL!!!

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2 thoughts on “It’s 5:19. Do you know where your waiter is?

  1. Tom October 29, 2010 / 06:50

    Today will be a better day my friend! Just keep saying that!

    Love ya
    Tom

  2. Catrina October 29, 2010 / 07:12

    UPDATE ON THE ARKANSAS ASS: Mr. McCance has resigned from his job and moved his family out of Arkansas due to death threats via phone and e-mail. I saw a video clip of his apology….not too convincing.

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