Grendel

Getting ready to go to work, which is to say I am sitting on the sofa after standing outside for not one but two cigarettes in the grey, dreary morning. I have twenty or so minutes before I need to shower and dress and catch the bus downtown where, even though I have told myself I don’t need one, I will smoke another cigarette in order to calm my nerves before walking  through those double doors to the darkened restaurant, where the owner will be sitting, waiting to pounce. No doubt he will have found something to piss him off, something about which to be suspicious, and the calm I have spent this morning cultivating will be replaced with anger and frustration that if I stick up for myself and tell this tiny Albanian immigrant what he really needs to be told, I will be fired. Even worse is the possibility of being kept on, and treated with even more suspicion and hostility.

Money is a bitch. And I think I’m working for her son.

How Love Turns Out

This morning I was going to send you an email wishing you a great day because it was so beautiful outside and I'd had fun last night and let go a little bit for the first time since getting back here and Manny had called me on my shit about being hard on myself and making up even harsher things I think other people are thinking of me and he was so right man and I saw it and we all laughed about it. I have to change. I've been trying to change that all my fucking life. But it was beautiful out this morning and I thought of telling you I hoped you had time to get outside and enjoy it maybe take your dogs for a walk because it would be so good for your soul but before i logged on this morning I went for cigarettes. I walked through this historic district that turns abruptly and without notice into the crack district where I bought smokes and toilet paper because I am still not organized enough to remember such things when i should and I'm sorry I let you feel like you needed to take care of me and my shit because the truth is I hate that more than ANYTHING yet I somehow find myself with people who do that and then resent it and I resent the resentment as well as my very existence and it all goes downhill from there.

Before I could send your email I had one from you. Move on. That's what you said. As if I am a dog who stayed too long in your yard. I have been waiting for it. Known it was coming.

Thank you for finally doing it.

Even more than that, thank you for finally being the one to break me of that bad habit I had of trying to be the better person. I have needed it done for years. No one else will hurt me. Not ever again. Thank you for teaching me the very thing I have needed to learn most.

Ruthlessness.

An Argument for the Differently-Thinking

I prefer to spend my time imagining possibilities (daydreaming), watching and sharing in my nephew’s growth and development (playing with children), indulging my need for culture (goofing off), discussing possibilities and growth and culture with others (goofing off), and then writing about all of it at the end of the day (goofing off), when other minds are sleeping off the number-crunching and customer-pleasing and profit-mongering of theirs (using various substances to keep them hard asleep so they don’t have those freaky dreams that keep them awake and make them think about the decisions they’ve made all day and whether or not they make any real difference).

Apparently, this makes me one of two things: Batshit crazy or “High as a kite.”

Those are the choices offered. I have finally been feeling like myself again. More like myself than I have felt in a long time. And the best part is, I’m feeling like an even better self each damn day. I kinda like it. It makes me want to do stuff. Gives me confidence that I can do stuff and do it without screwing it up. And it makes me want to write. And I write. And I keep writing. And I don’t think I would ever stop writing if I could ever figure out how to stop letting them get to me, but I do and I start to give in just a little bit and feel guilty (GUILTY! Ha!) about spending time “writing my little stories” when I should be out there earning money and making the lives of everyone around me more comfortable.

Then I start to resent having to pretend being one of you and I slowly give up on the writing and turn my attentions toward giving you everything you think you want even though I can see how it’s going to end for you, for both of us, for all of us, because I know in the end that you wouldn’t listen to me if I told you the truth anyway and it’s just easier to get along by not disturbing the pack.

It never works.

I end up back here each time.

Maybe, just fucking maybe, the reason we are lagging in development and design is because we’ve medicated away all the creativity. Differently thinking. I am not mentally ill. Fuck you. Fuck you all. I just think differently. And guess what, you assholes, you bloody motherfucking assholes, I know and trust what I think is right and I have sifted the monuments and remains of thousands of years of thinking before mine to back me up. But even more importantly, I have sifted the remains of thirty some years of my own thinking and am working hard to shed the ways that keep me back. 

I am not part of your pack. Stop trying to make me run along and hunt with you. I'm not even a damned predator.

Wasted time, wasted chances

I have spent far too much of my limited time in this existence trying not to become him. I should have just focused on becoming myself. Being myself. Because I am better than him. I know how to control it. And when I stop obsessing about it, I don't even need the control.

Power is nothing but a construct.

I will no longer let my life be controlled by other people's made up rules. I know what is right. I will do it. As I have always tried.

Trust yourself, and you shall know how to live.

I am not

a teenager.
your doormat.
happy right now.
letting my unhappiness get the better of me.
putting up with this bullshit for one more day.
spending my life waiting for you to fly over that wall and join me.
hovering over this tiny bit of land when there is an entire world waiting to be seen.
going to be consumed by the hatred and fear that seems to have eaten away at your zombie souls.

Letters to my 'guests'

To the divorced dad who brought his children in for dinner:

I was standing at another table when the hostess sat you, and as soon as I finished taking their order, I greeted you. I could tell you did not think this was fast enough. I could tell by the way you tapped your polished leather shoes impatiently until I turned around. I also greeted your children who couldn’t be bothered to look up from their notebook drawings – your daughter’s of a home with two children and a mother in front of it, your son’s of a similar house on fire – long enough to acknowledge my presence or that they had been spoken to. I came right back with the tea you ordered for yourself, and nothing for your children because you bought them sodas which they brought into the restaurant. I smiled while I waited for you to decide what to eat, even though I had other tables to greet, even though you told me you were ready and seemed annoyed when I politely suggested I come back in a few moments. I only tell you this because you weren’t looking at me while you barked your order at me. And I wanted you to know. And when you told me to bring you a plate of biscuits, then as an afterthought said, “That comes with it” almost as a question, but not quite, I told you it didn’t, but I would hook you up. I did not do this because you are entitled to bread. I did it to be nice. And when I brought you the bread, and you said “the kids need some waters” – still not looking me in the eye – and put your arms behind your head, making sure to shake your shiny gold watch behind your head as you stretched and your son picked up the orange crayon to add accent to his flames, I did not “accidentally” drop the plate of bread in your lap. This too I did to be nice. And when I brought the children their water, and offered to top off your glass of tea, I understood that you were too busy staring off into nothingness to acknowledge that you had been asked a question, so I refilled it anyway. And when I brought your food out, including an extra plate so your children could split a meal, and they couldn’t be bothered to move their crayons and notebooks to make room for the plates of food and you said nothing, I only laughed and commented on how we needed to make bigger tables. And when you growled at me to “put that down over there!” even though I could not reach “over there” because your son had chosen that moment to lean across the table and throw the orange slice garnish on the ground at my feet, I did not knock him in the head with the plate, and teach him about being aware of his surroundings as I reached over him. Because I’m nice like that. And later, as I rushed down the aisle with another table’s tray of food and you stretched your foot into the aisle, almost tripping me, I did not scuff your expensive shoes. Even though I wanted to. And after you left, and I came back to bus your table, and I saw the untouched water glasses, the outside soda bottles, the pieces of wet pancake on the table and the floor, and the dollar fifty tip you left me on a twenty dollar tab, I wondered why it took your wife so long to leave your sorry ass.


To the older woman who needed to complain about something, to somebody:

You ordered roast beef with no gravy. Even though it is cooked in gravy. So I stood behind the cook while he put your portion of roast onto the grill and cooked the gravy away. I watched while he added the sides to your plate, and the moment he was finished, I brought it to your table. You might imagine my surprise when I stopped back to ask how your meal was, and you complained that it wasn’t very warm. I was almost as shocked as you were when my manager refused to comp your meal and most definitely more shocked than when you and your husband left without tipping me at all.


To the guests who come in with thirteen of your closest friends and complain to management about my service when your food does not arrive within fifteen minutes during a dinner rush on Friday night:

Go to McDonald's. Or a buffet. Or the real world. Your choice.


To the couple with the adorable little girl and the teenage son, both of whom said “please” and “thank you” and wished me a good evening as you left:

I think I love you. Please dine with us every night. Please.

dhf and the newbies

Turnover in a restaurant such as the one in which I work is high. Anyone who works in any sort of retail or service position will probably echo this statement. This is true for many reasons – the main being low pay and having to put up with unreasonable customers. These are two reasons I don’t want to wait tables, but unlike the college students still living at home and the suburban moms who are just working to get a few hours away from the kids, I have no choice. I wait tables because I need the money. I wait tables because my son expects to eat dinner every night. Spoiled brat.

Anyway, turnover is high. Of the original sixty or so servers I trained with before the store opened last February, I am one of maybe ten left. There are probably only four of us left working the night shifts. Servers don’t last at my restaurant. What this means is that every few weeks I show up on a Monday evening to work with a new batch of co-workers, of which only two, maybe three, will still be working with me in another three weeks. Some won’t last that long. Some won’t be back on Tuesday. One might even walk out mid-shift. You just never know.

Working with so many new employees, some who have never before waited tables, makes the job difficult. Although I’ve never been asked to directly train anyone (partly because of the hours I’m available), those of us who’ve been there a while are constantly placed in the position of coaching the newbies. They need to know how to ring in a salad with no tomatoes. They need help substituting hash browns for fried apples. They need to be reminded to put ‘out’ on their bread and soups so we don’t run it out again with their food. They need to be reminded to spot seat, spot seat, and spot seat. And all of this would be fine, it would be no big deal at all really, if it didn’t mean taking time away from my tables to help out.

This Monday was the same as most – one other server who started with me and one who’s been there a couple months but who’s waited before and is awesome, and five or six who have been there no more than two weeks. Mondays are usually a bit slower than the rest of the week and a nice break from Sundays, which are crazy busy with the pre- and post-church crowd.

But we got in a party of twelve and a party of twenty at the same time, right in the middle of our dinner rush. The manager gave the twelve top to two of the new servers and split the twenty into two ten tops, giving one to me and the other to the other more experienced server. I had three other tables including one in the smoking section at the time, so it was a little hectic, but things were going smoothly. Then another party came in.

Since I’m one of this particular manager’s go-to people (his words), he sat them at three tables – two of which were in my section and one in another newbies’. We only had two grill cooks in that night and they were slammed with the three big tables we had just put in, plus all the other tables in the restaurant, so I greeted the new table, introduced myself, and in order to stall a little and give the grill some time, told them I had a large order to put in and that I’d be back to get their drink orders in a just a few minutes. They seemed agreeable and went about chatting, and I headed to the kitchen to get salads and bread for my first ten top.

When I came back out to the diningroom, there was one of the newbies at my table, taking their drink order. Already. Then I checked the board, thinking maybe that the third table was in her section. When a party is sat across tables like that, and the tables are in different servers’ sections we can either split the party (and the tip) or trade the party for the next table we get sat in our section. It’s not even an unwritten rule – it’s in our handbook. Tables are like real estate. We own them. We keep them up. And once the hostess has rented them out for us, we take care of the tenants and collect the rent.

But the third table wasn’t even in this newbies’ section. It belonged to someone else. So when she came back to the kitchen with the drink order, I walked over to her and said, “That party is in my section, so I’ll help you with it. I already greeted them and we were trying to stall them to let the grill catch up.”

I thought this was reasonable. I thought I said this politely, as opposed to something like bitch, that’s my table, what the hell are you doing?

Apparently, I was wrong.

The newbie snapped. “Well, just take it then!”

“Uhm, no,” I said. “We can split it. [The manager] sat them in my section for a reason (because you’re new and can’t handle your four-tops, let alone a twelve), so I’ll just help you.”

“Just take it,” she said again.

I reiterated that I wasn’t trying to be a bitch, but two-thirds of the party was in my section and we could split it.

She rolled her eyes and agreed.

Then the manager asked why we were splitting the table when it wasn’t even in her section. I told him I didn’t know and he moved another newbie over to help me (the one who actually had that table), so the original newbie walked off in a huff.

The second newbie and I took the drinks out and started getting orders from the twelve-top. I took my two tables and she took hers. Then she handed me the order slip and as I stepped up to the micros to put it in, the first newbie and another told me my ten-tops’ food was ready and they started out the door with the trays. I grabbed the third tray, assuming they had checked to make sure everything was there and walked out to the table. I started passing out the food only to discover that I was missing grits for two orders and one sandwich had mayo when there wasn’t supposed to be mayo and two entire meals were not even on the tray.

I was, to say the least, a little irritated by this point. Not only had another server tried to steal my table and been an ass to me about doing so, but now they had sent me out to a table, a big table, potentially worth big tip money, with trays that hadn’t even been checked, making me look like a fool. I rushed back into the kitchen and called for the food I was missing. And I complained. Not at anyone directly. But I was frustrated, and I said, so all the new people could hear, “If you’re going to set up a tray, make sure everything is on it. Otherwise, don’t bother.”

And of course, we’re all expected to run trays, so not running isn’t an option, so what I really meant was, “Get your shit together!”

While I was rushing around getting the missing meals and a new bun for the messed up sandwich and grits and a manager to visit the table and pretty much anything else I could do to salvage my tip, a couple of the newbies said to each other, “I don’t see what the big deal is.” I was pretty frustrated but didn’t have time to argue, so I ran what I could out to my table then came back and had to enter the order for the second party.

I put in all the orders for the part of the party that I took, then picked up the sheet from the other newbies’ order pad to put in the rest. Only she hadn’t done any spot seating. And I couldn’t find her anywhere. But it had been a good five minutes since we’d taken their order, so I just put the plates in and figured we’d auction off their food at the table. Annoying, but better than going out to the table to ask and letting them know we hadn't put the order in yet.

Then I discovered that she’d written catfish for one guest, but hadn’t specified grilled or fried. This was slightly more important. I finally found her and asked her about it, but she hadn’t even bothered to ask the guest. So I had to go back out to the table and ask the guest his preference.

Back at the micros, I mentioned to the newbie that she hadn’t spot seated, to which she responded that she wrote down the meals in the order in which the guests gave them to her. I stared blankly back at her for a moment.

I told her why it is we spot seat. Guest one is always the first person to our right. Always. If I know what meal goes to the guest in each seat and I have to run another servers’ tray, I can just drop the food off ask if they need anything else and go back to serving my own guests.

Why is this important? Because in the fifteen minutes between ordering and receiving food, many guests have already forgotten what they had their hearts so set on earlier. Having it all written down on a ticket, in a format all servers recognize, saves a lot of time. Time which I can spend at my own tables, earning my own money, instead of helping other servers earn theirs and neglecting my own guests.

The newbies response?

“It’s no big deal. They’ll get their food. Who cares if it takes longer?”

My response: “That’s fine. But I won’t split anymore parties with you then.”

This apparently angered her enough that she followed me halfway to my table, asking me to repeat what I said. I ignored her, refilled my guests’ drinks, and walked her back to the vestibule where I reiterated, “If it’s no big deal for you to do your job right, then I won’t split a table with you anymore because it is a big deal to me to get it right.”

Of course, I said this in front of several other new employees as well.

And then I rushed back out to my tables to see if anyone needed anything, since you know, they were going to be paying me and all.

During my absence, all the newbies formed a dhf hate-club. They decided they wouldn’t run any of my trays, wouldn’t refill my guests’ drinks if they had a pitcher already in the diningroom, and I think they even ordered t-shirts for their new club. Then they all went in the back to smoke and plot my demise.

Okay, so I could have been much more pleasant. And I could have not let the frustration of so many screwups in a fifteen minute timespan get to me. I won’t argue with that. I understand that they are new. I understand that some of them are not accustomed to the quick pace. I understand that mistakes are going to be made. What I don’t understand, and what ultimately pissed me off, was their complete lack of concern for having made mistakes or any acknowledgement that maybe they should do their job the way they’ve been asked. Because, you know, we might do things for a reason.

Also pissing me off:

The ten-top with the missing meals left me a twelve percent tip and complained about me forgetting their food.

The second newbie never came back to the twelve-top after we took their order. I refilled drinks three times, got them more bread, brought them dessert and to-go boxes, pre-bussed the tables, and reset them after they left and I still had to split the tip with the newbie.

The other four tables I was working, who didn’t get spectacular service from me while I was trying to recover the ten top, and didn’t get refills as quickly as they wanted (since the other servers weren’t helping out) left me lighter tips. One completely stiffed me.

Making me feel better:

I work my ass off at the restaurant and will help anybody with anything (despite my apparent grouchiness). The newbies will come crawling back once they figure out they sparred with the wrong server.

Letters of praise

To the administrator who is too afraid of his own employees to effectively administrate:

When my friend scheduled an appointment with you to complain about her supervisor, my former supervisor, you must have been blindsided. I mean, the supervisor had gone through seven assistants in six years, but I was there for almost three years, so it must not have been so bad. And she was often abusive in department meetings, so much so that most people, including your own boss, refused to participate in those meetings, but come on, she couldn’t be that awful. And while she may have had a reputation on campus as a legendary bitch, well, reputations are often built on rumor, not fact. So when my friend came to you, and told you how it had really been working for her, how the woman had driven me away, how she was now abusing the new assistant, how she was ruining my friend’s career with unfair and overly critical performance reviews and personal attacks, how she wandered into the office hours late each morning, reeking of beer, what were you supposed to do about it? Deal with the supervisor? Ask her to change her behavior? Tell her to check into rehab? Ask her to step down? No. Not at all.

You did what any suit would do when faced with such a problem – you offered to reassign my friend to another department. And for not sugarcoating anything, for teaching my friend a cold, hard lesson about life and telling the legendary bitch who has been making my friend’s life a living hell that my friend, herself, requested the move, well, for that, sir, I salute you.


To the couple who came into the restaurant ten minutes before close last night:

I know what you were thinking: they’re not closed yet. Oh, and look, honey! There are no other cars in the parking lot! We’ll be able to get right in, and it will be quiet and romantic, and we’ll be able to sit and talk. But I also know what you weren’t thinking: Oh, they close in ten minutes. It will take us at least ten minutes to order because I don’t know what I want – Do you know what you want? And then it will take them another ten or so to cook the food and we’ll want salads and soup and that will add another ten and then we’ll want coffee after dinner and we’ll talk about our mundane lives for at least another twenty minutes while the waitstaff cleans up the place and then glares and plots our imminent demise, possibly by food poisoning, because by the time we finally get our overstuffed asses up and pay our check we will have held them up at least an hour when, since there are no cars in the parking lot NOW, it probably means they could go home to their beds just a few minutes after closing time, so maybe we should go to the Ihop down the street. They’re open all night.

For thinking the first thing, and not the second, you are my heroes. Thank you. Come again.


To the graduate student who was the last one admitted to the program, after everyone else had turned it down, and who nevertheless thinks she is the shit:

You are my favorite. I know I shouldn’t have favorites, but I do. Could this be because I have only seen the others one time each, and can not distinguish one from another, so you, by default, must be the favorite? Could it be that in the two weeks since you first stepped on campus, you have visited my office no fewer than twenty-nine times, and each time you make yourself at home, dropping your book bags on my floor and sinking back into the chair on the other side of the desk, ready to hang out like we are old friends? Or could it be that you keep me on my toes, that you apparently stay up into the wee hours, thinking up new and interesting ways to ask the same question again and again and again? Could it be because you were the only one with sense enough to complain about the unlockable drawer in the fourth generation desk in the makeshift GTA office space in what was formerly a hallway, when obviously we have so much more to offer you? Perhaps it is the fact that you helped me to be a better employee by going to one of my coworkers and then another coworker and finally my boss when I did not give you the answer you wanted.

Or it could be that today, while walking down the hallway with your employment packet in my hand, I found myself unable to stifle a sneeze, and when I had to use your paperwork to block the spray, I had a secret moment of perverse joy in an otherwise crappy day. For that, I thank you. Really.

My bad form

When I woke this morning, forty-five minutes after my alarm should have and probably did go off, I had the briefest notion to just call in and tell The Man I wasn’t coming. I should have done it. I’ve been about an hour behind all day long. I missed a meeting. I realized I didn’t have access to not one, but two databases to which I’ll need immediate access. And I got a parking ticket because I forgot that I parked in the two hour parking zone – because of my tardiness – and not in the deck where I usually park. Don’t even get me started on the parking ticket.

But in those few moments of eye-fluttering, what-the-hell-time-is-it, rising to consciousness, when I considered not coming in at all, I convinced myself that work was a necessity. Why? For one, I have only been at the new job a couple of months and I don’t want get a reputation as a slacker. And second, if I don’t go to the daytime job, I can’t in good conscience go to the night time job either. It would just be bad form.

And I need the money.

I hate money.

Yet I need it so.

I am money’s bitch.

See, I’m between homes at the moment. I’m not homeless, just staying with friends until I find suitable habitation. And by suitable, I mean something I can afford located within a decent school district. The kid will be back in a few weeks and he will need to be in school. Apparently there’s a law.

You would think that finding such habitation in such a school district would not be that difficult. But no.

Virginians were the last to practice Massive Resistance. What is Massive Resistance, you ask? Basically, it was the good ol’ boy way of giving the finger to those liberal nut jobs in Washington who desegregated the school systems. The short version is that instead of integrating, local governments were allowed to shut down public schools and grant money so families could send their kids to all-white, private academies. The practice ended sometime in the mid 1960’s. Sort of. It still pretty much happens in Richmond. The only difference is, they’ve left the public schools open.

Here’s how: The city is spread over the county line between Chesterfield and Henrico Counties. Each of these counties have excellent schools, for the most part. The problem is, the “city” of Richmond (ie the poorest part) is not a part of either county. Richmond city has its own public school system. Richmond city’s school system is not on par with the counties. It gets better at the high school level, but many of the schools aren’t fully accredited (not enough of the students meet the minimum Standards of Learning as set forth by the state of Virginia – thank you, GW and No Child Left Behind), are generally under-funded, and are in physical disrepair (an understatement). And because the Richmond City School System is so bad, most of the (white) people who can afford it send their kids to private schools.

So what happens is that in very lovely, racially and socially mixed neighborhoods, only the poorest kids go to the public schools. And generally, because of institutional failures, and yes, racism, there are few if any white kids in Richmond City schools.

And, yes, I am part of this racist behavior. And I hate it.

The first year my son was in Richmond, for fourth grade, I lived in Oregon Hill, a basically all-white neighborhood near campus and I sent the kid to the neighborhood elementary. I knew when I enrolled him that he was it – the one white kid in fourth grade. But I didn’t care. He didn’t either.

But with kids, anyone who sticks out, anyone different is the object of bullying. I made him stick it out for the rest of the year, but that summer I sent him back to his father. Partially because even the best schools in the county don’t compare to those back in Iowa, and partially because I was having my own difficulties and thought it was best for the kid to be with his dad at the time. It wasn’t. But lesson learned.

When I decided to bring him back to Virginia last year, we moved out to the middle of nowhere with a friend, in an excellent school district. But that didn’t work out either. So now I am between domiciles, looking for a place I can afford, that isn’t in a school district where only half the kids are passing the state’s Standards of Learning.

This is why I had to jump out of bed and endure the day instead of rolling over and going back to sleep.

You're new here, aren't you?

So, not to make this blog all about the trials and tribulations of a chain-restaurant worker, BUT . . .

We have this new server, we’ll call him Matt (because that’s his name), and I hate him.

I save the venom most of the time, and hating isn’t really my thing. Ask my friends, they’ll tell you I put up with a lot of bullshit. A lot of bullshit (I give it too. Another story). But I do not like Matt one bit. Matt has been around the chain for awhile: he has three little stars on his apron (figured out where I work yet?) and he has recently moved from whatever the hell location he used to work before he came to ours.

Our particular link in the chain opened last February. We are a new store. And as a new store, the corporate folks sent a crack team of red-apron servers, cooks, cashiers and hostesses to set up the new store and train all us brand-spanking new to the company employees in the ways of the restaurant. For two weeks before we opened, we spent five hours a night studying the corporate handbook, learning our table numbers (there are a lot of tables), practicing on the Micro ordering machines, and role-playing our new positions. It was a mini server boot camp. Very exciting. After we opened, they stayed on for another three weeks to continue training us, helping us out with tables, keeping after us about pre-bussing and tray running, etc. Then, when they felt we were ready to operate the joint on our own, they dispersed back to their own stores and left us to our own.

Most of the people who trained with me are gone now. Quit, fired, walked out on a shift – gone – but those of us who are left have been tasked with training new employees in the ways of the server as passed down to us by the Red-Aprons. Subsequently, the most any of us has on our little aprons is two stars. There are one or two exceptions, employees who have come over from another location because we are closer to their home or whatever, but for the most part, two stars is it.

Matt is one of those exceptions. And because Matt is an entire star ahead of the rest of us, and despite the fact that last night was only his third working with us, Matt has taken it upon himself to tell us how much we suck.

I do not like Matt.

Perhaps I mentioned this.

Maybe it’s just me, but I think when a person’s a stranger, they should act a little strange. In other words, you’re new around here, Matt, so back it the hell up.

But does Matt heed Mother Brice’s advice? No. At every turn for the past three nights, starting with the very first hour of his employment with us, Matt has consistently pointed out all the things that we do wrong. And by wrong, I mean different from how “we did things at our store.” And by different, I mean who the hell cares?

According to Matt, we do not ring our orders in correctly. According to Matt, our side-work chart is inefficient. According to Matt, we do not greet our guests properly. According to Matt, our kitchen is set up backwards. According to Matt, we are all a bunch of incompetents who are damned lucky he showed up to save us from tarnishing the corporate name and running the place into the ground.

I do not know how we managed to stay open for the six months before Matt arrived, but hallelujah, he is here to rescue us now!

And it isn’t just that he insists on pointing out our “faults” that makes me loathe Matt so. No, it’s that he also insists on telling us how much better his other store was. To hear Matt tell it, his store was some sort of freaking Shangri-la and ours is the seventh level of hell. Which leads me to this question:

Why did Matt leave Paradise for the Trailer Park?

A little venting . . .

Now that I’ve been waiting tables a little while, I’ve found that you can pretty much tell what your tip will be like the moment you walk up to the table. Some people are super friendly from the moment you say hello. They joke around a little, they are polite, they ask for things as opposed to ordering you to bring them. Generally, with decent ticket times, these people don’t overtip, but they tip well. Others are busy talking to each other, or on their cellphones chatting, and seem annoyed that you have interrupted them to ask for their order. I can usually recover enough to earn a respectable tip as long as I wow them and take care of their needs without making my presence known.

Then there are the tables like I had last night. I hate to admit this, but the guests (that’s what we call them – guests – even though I would invite very few of these people to join me anywhere) are generally women. Before I even open my mouth to greet them, they are eyeing me up and down, scowling, and letting me know, in no uncertain terms, that I will not be able to meet their ridiculous expectations. Their drinks will have too much ice (or not enough), their silverware will be too spotty, they will not have enough napkins, the mashed potatoes with steam rolling off them will be too cold, they will need extra butter, etc.

The worst part about these guests is that they seem to make sport of it, of trying to knock me down. They do not want to tip, do not believe in tipping, and will go out of their way to justify tipping very little or not at all.

They start with the order.

As happened last night: two women were seated in my section while I was waiting on a large party. I refilled drinks for the party, and then I walked to the two-top to greet them. I could tell how it was going to go before I even said hello. They complained that it was too cold in the restaurant. I said I could ask them manager to turn off the ceiling fans. The first woman said, No, don’t bother. Then they complained the table was too small. I offered to have the hostess move them to another table since it was late and the restaurant was fairly empty.

No, we’re fine.

Then why complain?

Then the order – two pancake combos, both with substitutions (which we don’t do, but whatever), both with specific instructions (make the bacon extra crispy, but not burnt or I’ll send it back). Then they want biscuits and cornbread (these don’t come with pancakes, and technically I’m supposed to charge them, but again, whatever) and extra butter and jelly. I ask what kind – they don’t care.

In less than five minutes, I put in their special orders, fix them drinks and bring them their bread and an assortment of jelly. Plus extra napkins.

They need more lemons. Which I bring.

And some water. Which I bring.

And they wanted strawberry jelly. Which I bring (Can't they just ask for this all at once?).

I even bring them, within ten minutes of their order, extra syrup with their pancakes and crispy bacon with hashbrowns instead of eggs and a side of grits instead of bacon.

Woman #1 puts a fork into her pancakes as I ask them if there is anything else I can bring them, and before I can even step away, she shoves the plate back at me.

These are like rubber! I won’t eat them. And she takes Woman #2’s plate and shoves it at me too.

I tell her to shove them –

Okay, I apologize and tell them I’ll have more cooked and out to them immediately. I do not argue. I do not ask her if she’s sure they’re not okay. I do not ask her friend to try them and see what she thinks. I do not even point out to her that she has yet to take a bite of the pancakes, that she hasn’t even put syrup on them, that she hasn’t done anything more than put her goddamned fork in them!

But she says it anyway.

I want to speak to a manager.

For the record, this is the point at which I, as a server, no longer care about her as a customer. I no longer care about refilling her drinks. I no longer care if she has a pleasant dining experience; I just want her to eat her damned food and drink her damned drinks and get the hell up from my table so I can get some new guests and earn more than the two dollars an hour the restaurant is paying me to put up with her bullshit. But as I posted yesterday, my mother taught me better than that. Damn my mother.

Absolutely, I tell her. And I rush into the kitchen, send a manager to the table, and get the pancakes recooked and back to her table within three minutes.

She doesn’t even thank me when I bring them back. Or when I come back to ask if this stack of pancakes (identical to the previous stack) is to her liking. Or when I bring them extra biscuits. Or drink refills. Or to go boxes. All without being asked.

And when they leave, for all my trouble, they leave no tip.

Which is what I expected when I got to the table.