I'm Workin' Here

Years ago, I had a friend who had a Blue Tick Hound dog. Max was a worker dog. My friend lived on a busy street, and when he heard something in the yard, he was "on the job." He would frantically run to the window, eyes ablaze with duty to guard his home. Annie would announce with great glee what was going through Max's mind as he executed this diligent behavior: "I'm workin' here!!"

Life on the avenue is pretty lively. Keeping up with all the shenanigans of the daily grind is difficult. Snippets seem to be the most I can muster. A little laughter goes a long way when you are in the weeds as a server.

Last night, my friend "Shawn" was in the section next to me. I saw him at the peak of the crunch time balancing an ungodly amount of sundries on his arm and hands. Why everyone I work with is so against using a tray is beyond me. I use a tray all the time because my hands are small and I cannot balance even two water glasses in my palm, much less the three or four glasses I see others balancing in one palm while carrying bread plates in the other. Nope, I'll use a cocktail tray, thank you. I raise an eyebrow at Shawn as he scurries on his way with his carnival collection on his person. As I'm doing my own dance of appeasement to my diners, I hear his large table being positively gleeful. I think to myself that it's weird that they are acting so surprised about a birthday cake that they clearly ordered. Did they forget that they ordered the surprise for the birthday girl?

I continue on my mission. A few minutes later, I have to go over by our coffee station for something. That's when I see it. The small birthday cake that was thawed during the course of the diners' meal for its debut is laying upside down on the floor, smooshed out from underneath its plastic plate. I suddenly understand the shouts of delight I heard a few minutes ago. Shawn is in the back of the house, performing the tedious job of unfreezing another birthday cake with short, half power spurts in the microwave. Too long or too high of heat and he will have a melty mess. Still, those other tables he has are waiting for something while he fixes this mistake that is surely costing him in dollars. I had to laugh. In fact, it was just what I needed in the midst of the crazy night we were having. Good stuff, that.

Last week was bizarre. My best friend from the northwoods--the one who died unexpectedly--is always on my mind. I think about her daughter who I have not seen since I left the northwoods shortly after Alissa's death. I think about how my life would be different, if not for her early departure from this world. I struggle with the fact that her husband and I do not get along, and that is what prevents me from seeing her beautiful daughter. Last week, coming from the back room to the hostess station, looking to the booths that run along the front of the restaurant, I see a man who looks like Alissa's husband. I'm thinking that's pretty weird, when I hear him say my name. I go over to a lukewarm hello. The surprise of it all made him call my name, but the reality of chatting is a little tense. Add to the mix that he's on a date. Of course, I'm looking at the woman to see how many Alissa-like features she has. There are many. Todd recently moved back to the area to be near his ailing father. I knew that, but never thought I'd see him where I work.

The crazy part of the whole encounter is that I was utterly lost in trying to remember his first marriage daughters' names to ask about them! Ugh. And I was so uncomfortable at interrupting a date that I could not piece together any of the questions I really wanted to ask. Bleh. He asked about a girl who worked there. Yes, she still works here. Talking to her a few days later was wild. She knew him, knew about his wife dying, talked about their common friends. It was strange to answer her question about what happened to his wife. This is a different world, not that world. The two finding a connection felt surreal and took me back to all those empty feelings I felt when she died.

Several weeks ago, another blast from the past collided with my new life at the place on the avenue. Two women, one man, and an older couple sat in my section on a busy Friday night. They ate, drank, and were merry. When they were finished, the patriarch took the check. Coming back with his credit card and receipt, I glanced at the name. It's good customer service to address the patron by his or her name when they pay with a credit card, and I do it as often as I can. My eyes can't always pick up the name in the dim light of the restaurant, but it was serendipitous that I looked this time. The name on the card instantly clicked with the face of the man I took the card from moments before.

Arriving at the table with his card, I held it before me, looked him square in the eye, and said, "I know you. [pause] You worked with my dad. [pause] And my grandpa."

He looked astonished for only a moment before asking me, "Are you a (insert maiden name here)??" I smiled and said I was. Instant smiles all the way around. This was a family whose house I remember being at the day my father died. We caught up as much as we could in the hurried time I had to give them. Justin said something that made me sad, but somehow comforted too. He got a wistful look for a moment, then said, "I think about your dad sometimes. It's a shame what he did." For those who don't know, my dad's death certificate claims suicide. It is sad that he's not here. It's also comforting to know that Justin, a man my dad saw every work day has given thought to my dad and the family he left behind. They do keep up with my mom with Christmas letters and occasional phone calls, but I have not seen these people since I was very small.

I could not wait to tell my mom about the chance encounter. When I did relay the story, she assured me that they had to have been delighted to see me, and was sure that they would be back to see me again. When I told her what Justin said, she told me that he really thought of my dad like another son. Even though Justin is not that much older than my parents, he was the more mature type and took my dad under his wing. My mom said he took my dad's death very hard. I would love to sit down one on one with Justin to ask some hard questions that have never been answered. How amazing to see him again so by chance! It made me tingle to know that he spent so much time with the dad I have missed so much.

Yes, worlds do collide.

Two weeks ago, on a football Sunday, I wore my #4 Jets jersey under specific approval from the boss. I got a disapproving look from the manager on duty when I came through the door. I told him to lay off because this was owner-approved and if he had a problem he needed to go talk to said owner of the restaurant. I got a few snide remarks that were masked as questions of interest about my jersey. I wore it proudly. Then a drunk woman crammed into an overpopulated booth of friends stepped over my personal boundary. As I stood at the end of the table to take the order, she felt it was okay to 1) grab my shirt above my hip 2) shake it back and forth 3) give me a pathetic look, and 4) condescendingly tell me, "Oh honey, let it go." First of all, do NOT touch me. Secondly, take the attitude elsewhere--and do not tell me how to feel about Brett Favre.

I will just say that she is lucky that I am a professional, and her food was not tampered with. Others would not have been so polite. That's all on that.

Oh yeah. I'm workin' here.