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While all the customers tonight haven’t been racist bastards, they’ve been far from fucking pleasant. Nothing has been to anyone’s liking. Wait time even with a reservation was ridiculous. Drinks weren’t strong enough. Water was too cold. Steaks were overdone. Salad was too dry. Practically anything – besides my service – that they could complain about they fucking did. At one point, a woman complained about the orange scent in the women’s restroom. It was too “tropical” for her.
That’s great.
What the fuck do you want me to do about it?
I literally serve you at the table.
I can’t do anything for you in there.
Due to everyone’s unhappiness in restaurant – and I do mean everyone, patrons, servers and even Gladys Coogler, our main bartender – everything is shite.
Morale.
Attitudes.
Tips.
Even the goddamn air has a bit of awfulness to it.
I just wanna go home, crawl into bed, and sleep on my girlfriend’s pillow because it smells like her – Cocoa Butter –, which helps me pass out faster when she’s not home.
And I fucking hate when she’s not home. Yeah, she’s out helping save lives all across the state, but I still miss her. I still hate that our schedules don’t always match up. I bloody hate that I have hurling practice so she’s out boot shopping with Nat or fucking boat shopping with Daniel. That I’m out creating business plans with Geoffrey first thing in the morning while she’s taking hot yoga at the gym before work. Officially living together for the last three weeks has taken away a bit of the sting from our not syncing but not enough.
Upon my entering the kitchen, Rodrigo Pérez, the head chef, and Carlos Barrios, one of the main cooks, continue chatting in Spanish about sports while Burt Beaver, another cook, does his best to follow the conversation in a language he definitely doesn’t speak.
Technically, I don’t speak the same dialect that they do – they’ve both got family from the same border town in Mexico – but it’s easy enough for me to decipher unlike Burt who has begged me on more than one occasion for tutoring.
To my surprise, I find Gladys near the running dishwasher, strumming her brown fingers impatiently on the counter space right above it. The instant I approach, she hits me with a fury-filled expression. “I just had a motherfucker chew me out about the size of a fucking olive.” Her head tips to one side in increased frustration. “A motherfucking olive! Like look, Jennifer Hopez, I don’t make the olives! I don’t grow them my goddamn self! What the fuck do you want me to do? Host an America’s Next Top Olive competition just to fucking please you?!”
All of a sudden, another server, Maiz Freeman, appears at my side, twiggy, ivory-colored frame immediately slumping against mine for comfort. “My last table totally fucking stiffed me.” She lets out a sigh so heavy I can’t help but wrap an arm around her for support. “Three-hundred-dollar bill, twenty-dollar tip.”
“Yikes,” Gladys and I retort in unison.
“We talkin’ shitty tips?” Abel Bermingham, the server that’s been on patio duty for the night, interjects from behind Glady’s shoulder. “How about none on my first table of the night because they skipped out on the fucking bill?”
All three of us moan over his announcement.
His beige tatted fingers give his dark hair an irked ruffle. “Anyone else wanna go over to Foot in The Door and get fucked up?”
We can’t collectively agree fast enough. “Yes!”
“What are you guys hollering about over there?” Burt asks, pudgy stomach knocking into the counter as he momentarily abandons the other conversation he was trying to follow.
“We’re gonna go get legeled after we close up shit.” Abel casually announces. “You in?”
Burt’s brown stare grows nervous prompting me to explain, “Legeled as in pissed.”
The concern only spreads.
“Drunk,” Maiz clarifies.
I nod to reassure him she’s telling the truth. “We’re gonna go do a few shots-”
“At least seven,” Abel declares on a careless shrug.
“-and grab a couple of pints-”
“Tequila,” Gladys informs in a high-pitched tone.
