Okay, so yes I've arrived. Yes, I'm a little late for my shift - sue me.
The restaurant sounds pretty darn packed, and the hostess points me to my regularly scheduled section, already in progress without me.
The first group (a table of four people) I go to greet seems irritated, claiming that they've "already been here five minutes, and nobody's even said Hi to us! Can we at least get some menus?" they ask.
No menus? Ah. I see. Well of course nobody's greeted you, jerks. You just walked in and sat yourselves, didn't you? Nobody knows you're even here, and I'm truly sorry for ya, but it's not your turn. I shouldn't even be talking to you people. Yeh... fine, I'll get you menus, but you're going to have to wait awhile, 'cos I've got two or three other tables I still need to get drinks for.
Twenty people in my section, and I seriously need to ask someone else to help me out. But dang, it seems like I'm the only server even here. And I have all these people to wait on. And they're all mad at me.
I start to line up the glasses to make drinks for the other tables. Then I look down, and there's no ice. I can't very well make drinks with no ice. "Who opened???????" I want to scream.
Didi walks by. Finally (!) I'm thinking.. someone who can help me.
"Guy," she says. "You have people up front trying to pay."
Aww no. Okay number ONE people.. we are NOT located on some Interstate exit. Number TWO... we do not serve breakfast. Those should be clues to you. You DO NOT pay up front at the cashier. THERE IS NO CASHIER! That's a computer monitor at the hostess stand for that matter, not a freaking cash register. You need to sit back down, and I will be all too glad to check you out, as soon as I have time.
Of course I don't say this. I want to, but then I remember that Didi was walking by me with a full tray of drinks when she told me this. Bitch. She took the last of the ice, and didn't bother to re-fill the ice bin.
Starting the lon-n-g trek all the way to the back to get a couple buckets of ice so I can proceed, I feel this odd moisture on my chest. WHAT is that?!
Ketchup? Wine? My own blood? My shirt is over a quarter soaked with a huge stain. I don't even remember how this happened, but I definitely can't wait tables looking like this.
Yes sir, I'll "bring you some mayonnaise."
And still the dark stain spreads, between your shoulder blades. A mute reminder, of the poppy fields and graves. So I have to ignore all the people waiting on me for something, 'cos dang it I need to run up to my bedroom to at least grab a clean shirt.
Throwing off this wet stained one, I start digging through my laundry, but I just find myself rejecting shirts one by one. Too dirty. Too wrinkled. Too stained.
This one has a button missing.
Hell with it, I put on a pullover t-shirt like our kitchen crew wears. Fire me, but I have all these people to wait on, and I have to wear something, right? At least it's clean.
I turn around from the closet planning to go back downstairs. Before I can even get back to my section, it turns out that my bedroom is already filled with people sitting at tables. They all looked pretty pissed off too, because of just how long I've made them wait. I go to take their orders, but then I start thinking... "Did you people just all sit and stare at me while I was half-naked and changing?"
That's pretty darn creepy. I'm about to tell them so in fact, when I see it.
Oh, please no. But yes. Some stupid, STUPID kid has spilled grape soda all over my bedroom floor. HOW did this happen? It's only a 12 ounce glass, but that has got to be at least two liters of grape soda on my carpet. My WHITE carpet. That's not going to come out.
Damn it!! We're never going to get our deposit back now. But I at least have to try, and so I'm on my hands and knees trying to soak the soda up with expensive white linen napkins.
Then the new host "Anakin" walks by and says "Guy you have a 9-top." Doesn't even tell me where. But no dude, there's no way I can take another table right now. I haven't even taken the orders for these people yet. And they're all so mad at me already. I just can't take yet another table.
I need to find a manager. He'll understand. Heck, I need to just call in sick. Well, not call in, because I'm already here. But I need to tell him I'm sick, so maybe he'll just let me leave and go home. I wanna go home. This is the worst shift I've ever been on.
I'm not really sick tho. I can't just lie about it.
Here's what I'll do. I just take off my left shoe and sock, and I start limping around the restaurant half-barefoot to go and find the manager, to show him the size of the callous on my foot. It'll be obvious I can't work like this. He'll have to send me home when he sees this.
I need to go home. I can't do this. Please just let me go home. Please.. this is just too much. Let me go home.
Please.
"Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding dong..."
It's 8:15 am. I work at 10.
Oh thank God. I'm not late.
I'll tell ya people.. and feel free ask any server you know...
We often have the strangest, most night-marish stress-induced dreams you've ever heard of.
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