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I thought I was finished for the evening. When I came out with a basket of silverware
to reset tables at five minutes to nine, I saw them sitting there. I looked at the maitre
d’ who gave me a frown and shrugged his shoulders. We closed at nine. I was the only
waitress on that night. He disappeared upstairs to do paperwork.
The woman had shoulder length brown hair, glasses over her squinty eyes and
pursed lips. The young girl she was with looked softer; long hair, puffy cheeks, the
awkward face of adolescence. They had water. They had menus. I heard the girl say
something about her mother and guessed that this was her aunt. I approached the
table.
“Good evening! Would you like a glass of wine or a soft drink to enjoy while
you’re looking at your menus?”
They looked at each other.
“Water’s fine,” the older woman said, as if to hush the song in my voice.
“I’m good with water, too.”
Of course they would just have water.
“Alright, I’ll be back in a minute if you have any questions.” I left them and
walked through the restaurant to the kitchen where the cooks were packing up for the
night.
It was a fine dining restaurant. A beautiful old farmhouse renovated into an
elegant atmosphere utilizing an indoor porch, lots of windows and light and views of
the Green Mountain range of Vermont. The silverware was shiny, the Reidel wineglasses
thin and elegant, the organic bread fresh baked in house. I was used to waiting on
wealthy clientele who ordered appetizers, cocktails and bottles of wine, cheese plates
with their cappuccinos. It wasn’t the first time a table had come in so close to closing.
The past weekend at nearly nine it was a couple out late celebrating a birthday. Off the
bat they ordered a two hundred dollar bottle of champagne. I didn’t mind staying a
couple extra hours for their hundred dollar tip, but I knew I’d be lucky if I was looking
at ten from this table.
“Deuce on table one,” I told the sous chef, pushing the doors into the kitchen.
Steven groaned. “Yeah, I heard …”
I brought them bread, and took their order.
“We’d both like the salad with the maple balsamic vinaigrette, and we’ll share the
free range chicken with the Gouda mashed potatoes.”
“Great. I’ll be back with your salads.” I left the table.
I hung out in the kitchen while the salads were prepared.
“At least they’ll be quick,” Steven offered.
I retrieved the salads from the window, and served the young girl first, then her
aunt. I noticed they had the same hazel/brown eyes, the same color hair.
“Fresh pepper?”
The young girl shook her head.
“No, thanks,” the older woman said.
I gathered dirty table cloths off tables near them. I went around the corner and
grabbed a pile of clean cloths from a hutch. I came back and put them on tables, flipping
my wrists to see how close to center I could get with one flick. It was hard not to listen
to their conversation over the soft classical music playing in the background.
“But are you sad you don’t have kids?”
The hair on my head prickled.
“Well, I’m glad I have you, Thomas and Heather.”
“Yeah, but I mean your own kids,” the young girl pressed.
I pretended to be invisible, smoothing tablecloths and replacing flowers, salt and
pepper shakers. I felt her glance over to me. I did not look.
She took a breath. “I guess I figure it wasn’t meant to be. I just never met the
right guy.” She said this quietly, though the acoustics on the porch amplified her voice.
I wanted to jump. Me too! I know! I did not look up, carefully placing silverware
on a table. But my heart sped. I was almost forty years old and still single, still waiting.
I’d always thought I’d have a family by now. I wanted so much to look at the woman
on table one. How does she feel at social gatherings being the only single person there?
How about going to a friend’s wedding? Baby showers? I meant to respect the privacy
of their conversation, but I accidentally looked at her. She looked at me in that instant
and met me with an icy glare.
I left them alone and headed back to the kitchen. I needed more silverware
and there was a rack of glasses to be polished, napkins that needed folding. I occupied
myself with busy work and thought for awhile.
I had been to a Sunday afternoon fall party days before. “It will be fun,” my
married friend said. “They just got a cider press; everyone is bringing apples and empty
containers.”
“Yeah, but isn’t it all families? Kids?”
“I’m sure there’ll be some single people there. C’mon, you should come.”
I got in the minivan with her and her three kids, a bag of apples, an empty jug
and we drove deep into rural Vermont. It was a children’s paradise. Bunches of them
running around acres in herds, moms and dads everywhere. There was a cider mill on the
lawn, fathers and sons cranking a handle, pressing apples. I tried to mingle, attempting
to be social amidst conversations about cloth diapers, private pre-schools, vaccination to
do or not to do, the safety of play structures, and home schooling. Children were near
me.
A little boy asked, “Where are your kids?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Where is your husband?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Well why don’t you get one?” he said, running away. The adults around me
shifted nervously. I smiled like it was funny.
I went back to the dining room, armed with more silverware. I put it down at the
service station. Their conversation had shifted.
“I think I want to be a teacher,” the young girl was saying.
I noticed their salads were finished.
“Can I take your plates for you?”
“Sure.” They both shifted back. “That was a great salad.”
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it.” I smiled. I rounded the corner with their dirty
plates to bring to the kitchen.
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it!” the older woman mocked.
I stopped, frozen, out of their sight, straining my ears as they laughed.
“Maybe you could be a waitress!” the woman said. More laughing.
“Yeah, right!”
I forced myself to move, my face burning. I pushed in the double doors.
“Fire table one?” Steven asked.
“Spit in it. Then fire it.”
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“Nothing.” I pushed the swinging door back out to the dining room, my thoughts
reeling.
In my mind I was suddenly a New York diner waitress. I wanted to chew gum
with my mouth open, snap it loudly, drop a plate on the table. “Here ya go, honey.” Snap,
chew, snap. “Can I getchyas anything else?” I wanted red plastic ketchup containers. I
wanted bent forks, paper napkins. I wanted them to feel like they were in a flea market
in the middle of Bloomingdale’s.
I wanted to tell that young girl she probably would be waiting tables if she
became a teacher. I’d been teaching for twelve years. I worked hard with children every
day and then worked in fine dining just so I could keep up with my bills. Did she think
I wanted to work Saturday and Sunday nights in order to pay my mortgage? No wonder
that woman hasn’t met a decent man. Because she is a BITCH. I wiped down the bar,
waiting for their food to come up. The bell rang. I went and collected it.
Steven knew me well by now. “Now, take a breath… be nice…”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I took the two plates, wishing now I hadn’t asked the kitchen to split it for them.
Wishing I could plop down one dish between them and walk away. I took a breath. I
composed myself. I walked across the dining room with their food. Serve from the left?
Who cares. My manners were gone. I gave them their food.
“Anything else?” I was distant. Aloof.
“No, thank you.” The older woman did not look at me.
I didn’t tell them to “enjoy”. I didn’t pour them more water. I headed back to do
side work at the bar and in the kitchen. I left them alone.
It would be nice to have a man around, a partner, for company, to share expenses.
It would be great to have someone waiting at home for me besides my cat.
I cleaned the espresso machine (if they wanted cappuccinos, I’d tell her the
machine was broken). I busied myself putting away wine glasses. They were far out of
sight, I didn’t care. I didn’t go back to check on them. Too bad if they don’t like their
food. Too bad if the chicken is raw and they get salmonella.
Salmonella? My conscience got the better of me. I went to check on them.
“Doing well?” I asked.
“Yeah, this is great.” The older woman said.
“Really good,” said the niece.
“Good.” I started to walk away.
“So I’m going to Nicaragua on Tuesday …” the older woman told her niece.
“I know! You already told me.”
I moved out of ear shot. Was that to impress me? Nicaragua? Is she competing
with me now? No husband, no kids, knows I know this, so she pretends it doesn’t matter
because there is worldly travel? Good for her. Great. I don’t care.
I went back to the kitchen. Put things away. Cellophane over olives and butter.
Wiped down counters. A wall around me. I pushed the kitchen door out and went back
to the dining room. They were finished eating, dirty plates in front of them. I gathered
the only lowly waitress power I had: I walked right past them. I pretended to arrange
table settings. Walked past them again. Pretended not to notice. Went to the bathroom.
Looked in the mirror. Tucked my hair behind my ears where it was falling out of the
ponytail. Lingered. Washed my hands. Went out. Passed them a third time, collecting
flowers from tables and taking them back to the kitchen to refrigerate for the night.
Then I went back to the dining room.
“Can I take your plates?” The older woman nodded, not looking at me. She
knew I’d heard her. Good.
I gave them desert menus and left them alone again. I went back to the bar,
started putting away lemons, limes. I wiped down some bottles, wiped down the counter,
the fridge. My hurt fueled into work.
When I went back to their table, she ordered a cup of coffee for herself, and the
maple glazed apple crisp with Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. They would share it, of course.
I suppressed my grimace, trying to remember if I’d made coffee. I was sick of waiting
tables.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I heard my voice sing. I put the order into the computer.
There was half a pot of burnt coffee left. I poured cream into a little pitcher and put it
on a plate with a container of white and brown sugar cubes and artificial sweeteners. I
poured the old coffee into a cup and headed back to their table.
There is a step from the foyer to the porch, right by table one. I was thinking of
going home to my own little apartment, lying under my comforter and reading a book
when I took that step, tripping over myself and sending the full cup of coffee flying.
It hit the table first, splashing over a brown leather purse, then erupted in a big brown
patch all over the table, splattering on the woman who never met the right guy.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!!” I grabbed cloth napkins from table two, leaving
one in front of the woman, and started daubing at the purse. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t
mean - ”
“It’s alright,” I heard her say. “Don’t worry.”
“No it’s not! I’m sorry! I didn’t - I mean, I never met the right guy either - ,” I
blurted. I stopped wiping the purse and dropped it on the table. Heat rose to my face.
“I’ll be right back.”
I hurried through the empty dining room to the bar where I filled a rocks glass
with club soda from the gun, feeling like a complete idiot. I jogged back to the table and
put the soda water on the table, handed her a clean bar rag.
“Here. This will help.”
“You know, it’s really not so bad.” She took the rag and dipped it in the soda
water and wiped her shirt. She stopped for a moment and looked at me. “I mean, it’s
really not so bad, is it?”
I cocked my head, afraid to look at her. I picked up the empty cup and saucer.
“I’ll go get you another cup of coffee.”
On the way, I stopped at the computer, printed out the check, slipped it in the
black book and put it in my pocket. I went to the coffee station and filled a clean cup
with what was left in the pot. When I returned, a napkin was folded over the stain on
table one, and they were eating desert and talking about the weather like nothing ever
happened. I put the cup and saucer on the table, took the check out of my pocket and
laid it on the table.
“Thank you very much. I’ll be back for that.”
The woman looked at me and I smiled, my cheeks still warm. She smiled back.
I went back and wiped down the coffee station, put all the sugars away, took the empty
pots into the kitchen to rinse out and clean.
When I went back to get the check from them, they were gone. I opened the
book on the table and counted the cash.
She’d left me a thirty dollar tip.
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