Bert nearly lost his balance reaching for the packets of ketchup. Why did they have to keep them up there on that shelf? He should complain officially. So many logistical difficulties at this new job. Not that he wished for the other job back — oh no. The people there had been nasty. They hadn’t said a kind word to him when he’d been trying so hard to make friends, or at least working buddies. Now he understood there had been an unspoken rule about bad-mouthing customers, even out of their earshot. A superficial cheer was supposed to pervade all. So much for the truth.
Right now he had a table full of demanding creeps. He returned to them with a fake smile and dumped several packets of ketchup next to the plate of the person who’d asked for them. Now maybe he could take a short “smoke” break. Bert looked around for his supervisor, but not seeing her, grabbed his backpack and slipped out the back door into the alley. Ah, the afternoon light through the trees was pleasant, so much more so than the flushed, fleshy face of the ketchup addict. He could hear the air-conditioning humming nearby; he could even feel the extra heat it was blowing into the already warm day. In his pack he had the last beer from his sixer, not quite as warm as the air. He popped the top and took a swig.
Cigarettes were too expensive, so he’d quit. No one offered him a smoke lately the way they used to, and he didn’t NEED tobacco the way he needed alcohol. He’d chosen his poison. There was a haze in the air, and it seemed full of insects. That was a good sign. Life eternal. The image of Sherry glowed in his brain momentarily, followed by the usual wave of anger. He took another swig, then chugged the rest of the can. “Bert! Your table needs service, man!” Young Ollie had opened the back door to yell that at him. Ollie sucked up to all the customers, Bert had noticed. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, throwing the can into the alley with a touch of deliberate defiance.
Was it time for another fake smile? Bert approached the table of four thirty-something friends (three guys and a gal), steadying himself to a stop at the edge, slightly shaking the table, sloshing the water left in the glasses. “Whatcha need, folks?” Oh, just the check, please. Now he’d have to focus on that. It would serve the place right if he just said, “Hey, there’s no charge for any of this! Have a nice day!” But that wouldn’t satisfy his resentment of the individual customers, a feeling he had trouble understanding in himself, but it was there all the same. Bert sat himself down at the bench near the wall to prepare the check on the little gizmo they’d given him. He had the charge card in his hand, but it wouldn’t fit into the slot. Impatient, he pushed extra hard and sent the gizmo flying onto the floor. Two of the guys at his table watched him get up and retrieve the gizmo and try again, this time with success. They seemed to be laughing. This was the kind of situation that could have turned Bert’s resentment into rage, but the beer had mellowed him.
Tips were rarely in cash, but this one was: a ten-spot. About twenty percent of the fancy lunch. He was grateful, but didn’t want to be grateful; it wasn’t energizing. Now he was supposed to clear the table and wipe it down. A boomer couple was already waiting expectantly. He glimpsed his supervisor talking with Ollie in the doorway of the kitchen. She glanced over at him as he began wiping down the table with a paper towel he’d grabbed from the bar. Was he not supposed to use a paper towel? He had forgotten their stupid rules already. Only 45 minutes until the end of his shift, Bert told himself. Not bad for his second day.
“I’ll deal with it at the end of the shift,” Keisha told Ollie.
— Macoff
Right now he had a table full of demanding creeps. He returned to them with a fake smile and dumped several packets of ketchup next to the plate of the person who’d asked for them. Now maybe he could take a short “smoke” break. Bert looked around for his supervisor, but not seeing her, grabbed his backpack and slipped out the back door into the alley. Ah, the afternoon light through the trees was pleasant, so much more so than the flushed, fleshy face of the ketchup addict. He could hear the air-conditioning humming nearby; he could even feel the extra heat it was blowing into the already warm day. In his pack he had the last beer from his sixer, not quite as warm as the air. He popped the top and took a swig.
Cigarettes were too expensive, so he’d quit. No one offered him a smoke lately the way they used to, and he didn’t NEED tobacco the way he needed alcohol. He’d chosen his poison. There was a haze in the air, and it seemed full of insects. That was a good sign. Life eternal. The image of Sherry glowed in his brain momentarily, followed by the usual wave of anger. He took another swig, then chugged the rest of the can. “Bert! Your table needs service, man!” Young Ollie had opened the back door to yell that at him. Ollie sucked up to all the customers, Bert had noticed. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, throwing the can into the alley with a touch of deliberate defiance.
Was it time for another fake smile? Bert approached the table of four thirty-something friends (three guys and a gal), steadying himself to a stop at the edge, slightly shaking the table, sloshing the water left in the glasses. “Whatcha need, folks?” Oh, just the check, please. Now he’d have to focus on that. It would serve the place right if he just said, “Hey, there’s no charge for any of this! Have a nice day!” But that wouldn’t satisfy his resentment of the individual customers, a feeling he had trouble understanding in himself, but it was there all the same. Bert sat himself down at the bench near the wall to prepare the check on the little gizmo they’d given him. He had the charge card in his hand, but it wouldn’t fit into the slot. Impatient, he pushed extra hard and sent the gizmo flying onto the floor. Two of the guys at his table watched him get up and retrieve the gizmo and try again, this time with success. They seemed to be laughing. This was the kind of situation that could have turned Bert’s resentment into rage, but the beer had mellowed him.
Tips were rarely in cash, but this one was: a ten-spot. About twenty percent of the fancy lunch. He was grateful, but didn’t want to be grateful; it wasn’t energizing. Now he was supposed to clear the table and wipe it down. A boomer couple was already waiting expectantly. He glimpsed his supervisor talking with Ollie in the doorway of the kitchen. She glanced over at him as he began wiping down the table with a paper towel he’d grabbed from the bar. Was he not supposed to use a paper towel? He had forgotten their stupid rules already. Only 45 minutes until the end of his shift, Bert told himself. Not bad for his second day.
“I’ll deal with it at the end of the shift,” Keisha told Ollie.
— Macoff
As a former waitress, I dislike ketchup and ungrateful customers. As a former boss, I dislike Bert. Good job. Opelikakat
ReplyDeleteCertainly can relate as a former waitress. But as a former em[loyer, not much love for Bert. Great descriptive writing.
ReplyDeleteAs a former bus boy, I've known Bert. You've captured him here perfectly. Great writing as usual.
ReplyDelete