Hard Up

“I have to get my order out,” I screamed, but the stoic security guard didn‘t blink.

In dreams, I’ve served naked and bleeding. The customers never noticed. I‘ve dreamed of an ashram full of food servers chanting, “86 the clams. 86 linguine. 86. 86. 86. Order up.”

I hate those wallet-size tip calculators. What can you do? Give the decafs caf and wave them cheerfully goodbye.

Over the years, I learned the techniques for getting sympathy, or a bigger tip. “I’m just filling in.” Or “It‘s my first night.” Shameless flirtation. There’s always the option to blame the cook, the bussers, anybody else. The perfect explanation for why there is a delay in the kitchen? Tell them the line cook is pregnant, about to deliver, is leaving for the hospital. This always works.

But here‘s the best waitress story: Once, while working at this trendy breakfast cafe, we had “cowboy dress-up day.” It was hot and the place was mobbed. Deb’s station had just completely changed over. She was cranky. A kid bawled. Deb pulled an unregistered .38 on the screaming kid. She was carrying the gun as a prop. “Shut up or I‘ll give you something to cry about,” she threatened, as she pulled the gun, unloaded, from her red-leather apron.

“The tears rolled right back up into that kid’s eyes,” she told us at the wait station.

I‘ve felt that way, but luckily I’ve never carried a gun.

Later the kid started in again, and the mom said, “Stop that or the waitress might shoot.”#