I couldn't find my shoes. I'd looked under the bed, the couch, the fucking refrigerator, but they were gone.
"Goddam it!"
Already, I was close to being late for work. My apron was wrinkled and my tie smelled like salad dressing. Sure as hell didn't want to put on makeup and the only ponytail holder I could find was bright yellow. Maybe it matches my tie. Or maybe that's just dried up honey mustard.
They were under the giant pile of laundry. After digging for what seemed like an eternity through clothes I may not have even worn once, I located the first and then the second disgusting black shoe. The treads were nonexistent from walking on grease, and the laces I could barely tie, they were so short. It seemed the cat had made a snack out of the gooey strings. Lord knows I've spilt everything from tea to cocktail sauce on my feet. Hell, I've had potato soup practically poured down the back of my pants. Working in a restaurant is like being in the middle of a giant food fight, only you can't throw stuff, and everything you get splattered with, spilled on, or sit in is and "accident." Sometimes I wonder if working and managing to come home clean is miraculous.
Of course, traffic sucks. I take note not to pick up shifts on a Saturday night anymore. When the lady in the Buick finally decides to take the enormous green arrow as her cue to turn left, I screech around as fast as I can into the lane on the right. I don't forget to kindly raise my middle finger in salute as she gazes absently in front of her.
Six o'clock shifts mean shitty parking spaces: next to the dumpster or practically a minute's walk to the door. Each minute is one less blue collar asshole. One less bitch who wanted two olives in her extra dirty martini, so she won't pay for it even if you get her a new drink and buy her dessert. It really makes you hate people when you become their slave for 45 minutes.
As I clock in, I'm thankful I found my shoes when I did because I was almost six minutes late. Just my luck, too, since we're already on a 30-minute wait and my section is full.
"I greeted your 2-tops and all they need are strawberry daiquiris and a plate of croissants." Cindy gives me my update as I sigh and punch everything in the computer, readying myself for the show. Faked southern accent, plastered grin, giggly banter, you know, everything that wins an extra buck or two from these fuckers who can't make up their mind on just the soup or the soup and salad.
"It all looks so good!" I think this lady really means that if she could really afford to go out to eat, she'd be getting something that she wants. So she pretends to agonize over the salad dressings, asking me for the third time which ones were fat free.
The vinaigrette is it. Everything else is chock full of terrible things for your arteries. Especially the house dressing, but it's our specialty.
"Oh, that sounds wonderful. But on the side please." As if pouring the honey mustard and greasy bacon drippings on after you get the salad makes it any healthier.
So the night drags on and all I get is more tired. The tension headache that started when my party of 20 decided to play musical chairs after ordering was almost a full-blown migraine. What makes this even more peachy is that the floor manager is fucking nowhere to be seen and the only way to pharmaceutical relief is locked in the back office.
Whatever.
I only had one more table and then I could finish my side work. I had managed to clean the rest of my section while my old people table took 30 minutes to share a steak. Besides they drank like a pot of coffee, so starting on my silverware wasn't hard to do. I'm thankful for the low maintenance tables at the end of the night.
I finally get to sit down in my empty section to start rolling the silver. It gets to the point where even polishing turns into a robotic chore. After flinging soggy lettuce and bits of unidentified globs of food off the forks and knives and wiping them "clean," they're stacked neatly in little piles, ready to be rolled up in the starched white napkins. Tight like egg rolls. Even my stacks of rolled up silver are nauseatingly perfect. It's my only joy: the perfectionism. I find comfort in having the perfect and most geometrically sound stack of silver. While everyone else's rolls fall off because they're sloppy and crooked, I find a secret joy in being fucking anal.
So what's my prize at the end of the night? My prize for giving refills and extra lemons, birthday ice cream, more butter, not too much ice, and clean ash trays is barely ten percent.
I drive home feeling used and gross. Your food whore. Bartender. Mommy and maid. Cleaning up your mess, your crumbs, spilled coke, and dripped sour cream. Got to do it again tomorrow. But Sundays are a whole new story.
© Elizabeth Grant