The Waiter

Copyright © 2000, 1997 by Barry Barnett Keith

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN 1-58721-133-5

ISBN 978-1-4969-0041-8 (ebk)

1st Books rev. 03/30/00

Contents

About the Book

About the Author

About the Book

All I ever wanted was to look good with her walking down my favorite street where the sidewalks were paved with my best intentions amid the fear in people’s eyes. Her face became crimson, as if someone had cut off her air. The expressionless look on her face was one that brought about a strange terror in me. lloved her.

The Waiter is a beautiful, tragic portrait of loneliness. It is the story of a gigantic, isolated black man living in Washington, D.C. who hates and mistrusts people, yet gives much of his life to service.

After his parents blame him for the accidental near death of his younger brother, The Waiter is exiled from home. For years afterward, he lives a resentful and sheltered existence, yet remains preserved away from a growing Washington drug and murder crisis responsible for the deaths of many blacks. Unaware of the crisis, The Waiter clings to an idea of providing the best of service to the antagonistic, fearful patrons who frequent his job as a personal way of defining himself. At the same time, he remains reclusive outside of his work, feeling invisible in an increasingly tense public. In Bryce Range, the posh Washington restaurant that employs him, The Waiter meets and falls in love with Samantha unknowingly accelerates her private suffering from being molested by her own father as a child. Her pain manifests itself through a severe depression that relinquishes her at times without speech or memory. Upon growing dependent upon his relationship with an increasingly ill Samantha for relief from his own solitary existence, The Waiter employs his tremendous service mentality in an effort to care for her deteriorating mental state. His destructive impatience and ignorance of Samantha’s distress soon renders her as nothing more to him than another troublesome patron. Once Samantha’s mental illness leaves her bedridden without appetite, conversation, employment or emotion in his own home, The Waiter’s pain propels him toward seeking understanding from people in the malevolent city he has spent years shielded from in resentment. After the loss of Samantha, The Waiter is left with a stunning portrait of his own lack of compassion, which gives him the courage to reconcile with himself and his family.

Winter 1996

I stood silent, listening to the black wind brush bare branches against the tinted glass before me. I felt the chill of the morning outside, even standing inside and within my empty station of tables. The still, wooden blades of our brass ceiling fans overhead would not be used again until summer. The aroma throughout the dining room of a prime rib was being slowly replaced by the fragrance of hot, sizzling bacon. Each day, our kitchen prepared many strips of bacon on metal sheets topped with wax paper and on any morning I chose, I was allowed to stand behind the cook’s line and enjoy a piece or two, or even taste the rib. That privilege was not extended to the staff of waiters here at Bryce Range, only me, after proving myself to be a dedicated and tireless worker. The kitchen staff learned through conversing with me that I was not the kind that wandered from job to job and could never be counted on. They themselves were hard-working family men that see me as a friend they can count on. Turnover of kitchen employees was a rare thing at Bryce, which in itself lent to the consistency of our food preparation, plate for plate. I chose not to be in the kitchen to taste any of the morning meats, instead standing in the dining room engulfed in an air of tension. My watch read 12:20, and we were shorthanded on wait staff-one got sick, and two never showed.

Enrique was our scheduled busboy, and he had not shown up either. I feared that he would not. On the day of his interview for Bryce, Enrique appeared in a white, pressed oxford and clean, black trousers. There was a part in his shiny black hair that had been wetted and combed neatly. He had little experience, but it was apparent to me through his halting English that he was hungry for work. He had only been employed at Bryce for eight days when I saw through his increasingly sluggish manner that he had a drinking problem. The white oxford he appeared in at the interview became progressively soiled and finally, he came in smelling of booze and I sent him home. As he ambled away in disgust, it pained me to take such action because I knew he needed work. I would not compromise our establishment for his needs, whatever they may have been.

Enrique was a good man, I knew that, but as head waiter, I would not allow him or anyone else to work on the floor in a drunken state.

I had been fortunate to only have a few patrons scattered throughout the dining room for lunch. Having no busboy-someone to greet my tables with hot bread and ice water while I performed other important tasks-meant that I would be subject to sweaty, harried moments in front of patrons-the kind that reminded me of how I labored in lesser establishments. I worked hard to forget those awful times of relying only on my feet and giving unrefined service in total obscurity.

My tension stemmed from knowing that the Saturday lunch rush had not yet begun. I am always tense before a rush on any day of the week, and that is a good thing because I want to do well. The anxious feeling I get before my patrons arrive has partly to do with the possibility that no one will show up at all, but I have always been lucky enough to earn my keep. I was more concerned that morning with not being able to give the same level of service to my patrons, as I was all alone with three other new waitresses. The day I started at Bryce, I wanted my own personal brand of service to separate me from all the others I worked with. I wanted to be the best, which is how I make my living. On Saturdays, patrons usually came in all at once, as if they all had conferred by phone earlier on the idea to dine at Bryce Range.

It does not matter, I whispered to myself, taking a few deep breaths in trying to relax. I never fully depended on Enrique or any other busboy. I stood knowing that my competence and independence on the floor was both my blessing and my curse. Once I gave the other servers the impression that my service was above reproach, no one ever bothered to help me anymore, even in the event that I should need it. I looked outside through our giant tinted window at the skeletons of azalea bushes and the leafless trees that faced the traffic flowing toward the monuments on the Mall and realized I did not know how to ask for help. I knew it was unreasonable to see asking for assistance as a sign of weakness, but through the years, I disliked many of the nomadic people I shared employment with and I still felt it necessary to separate myself from all the bastards in the business.

I saw the reflection of my dark brown eyes in the window, and adjusted my shimmering golden tie. I took a piece of tissue out of my pocket to wipe my eyes that became blurry, along with the shine from my nose. Standing upright, I looked to me like someone ready for business. The row of rose colored marble top tables under the giant tinted window bore the name of Bryce Range atop each in golden, flowing penmanship. I stood beside a wall of the dining room leading to the kitchen, knowing every single piece of silverware on my tables were wiped clean. My water and wine glasses were free of any spots. All the flower vases sitting on top of each of my tables held fresh flowers. I took the time to look over my tables carefully, because patrons take time to point out such intrusions that will lessen my credibility in their eyes. Never do I want to appear flawed in front of a Washington public that might be demanding and usually discriminating. I do not want to be interrupted in the middle of giving excellent service by something I should have taken the time to do before the doors opened. This was the way I saw my job. I was only as good as how I did my job each day.

A young couple dressed in casual clothing and holding the day’s paper stood at the host stand talking to our hostess. By their very presence, I suspected that a rush was about to begin. The hour of one was when patrons liked to come and it seemed to me the ideal time for people who had worked their office jobs during the week and wanted to sleep in a little late on a Saturday morning. I knew I would enjoy such a thing if I ever could, and sometimes it was difficult for me, always working weekend days when everyone else in the world was away from their jobs. I could see how relaxed and firmly entrenched the young woman was in her life with her man, about to enjoy a late weekend lunch. I wanted to trade places with him, spending time with a woman I knew who loved and trusted me. Like clockwork from where I stood watching them, I could feel parts of the city recovering from their collective yawn and then discovering their hunger. I offered the couple a simple hello after they found a seat at my table. I like to let my patrons get settled with one another, after taking their coats if necessary, to peruse the menu. I took in the details about the two of them; slouched down in their chairs and cozy, she, attractive with disheveled hair and he, unshaven. Though they began reading separate pieces of the paper in silence they were one, the two of them with their legs touching, and I wanted to know what that was like. I wanted to take off my tie, loosen my collar and sit down, having someone wait on me for a change. The outing would not be complete though, without that special someone I loved that I knew loved me back. Once I placed hot bread in front of the couple, I informed them of having a thick red bean and sausage soup in the kitchen that was perfect for taking the chill off a winter day, and that made them smile. They immediately asked me for two cups of chicory coffee, to which I obliged. I recited the day’s lunch specials of blackened salmon, and chicken quesadilla to a new table of four, and after seeing the hostess seat two more tables for me, I knew the rush had begun. Two of my four tables were already ready to order. I decided to bring out a large tray of hot bread and several pitchers of ice water, to serve them all as if they were one large table.

Once I began moving to take orders, the hostess sat two more parties of four. I took a breath, and realized that the harried, undignified, sweaty moments in front of guests would be unavoidable. Cokes and iced teas to drink for the second party, a glass of white zinfandel, a Mississippi mud slide with ice cream on the side, a Beefeater martini up neat with three olives and a scotch on the rocks for another. The chicken caesar salad was popular among my patrons that afternoon. In all my years in the business with the exception of when I started, I adhered to the belief that I would never receive more than I could handle, as long as I was giving my best effort. Whenever the job appeared to be too much, I learned to find an opening, a way that would reveal complete organization to me in the midst of chaos. As I went about that winter afternoon collecting order after order, it was the simple fact that many patrons ordered chicken caesar salads-an item that had a wait time of only two minutes. Russell, our man in the salad station, had worked at Bryce for six years. He could make a chicken caesar in one minute. A great waiter is made even greater by a superb kitchen, but great service can overcome even below average food. It was salad day among the patrons at Bryce Range with only few people ordering any complicated dishes that took time, such as our French Toast stuffed with bananas or strawberries. One couple enjoyed two bowls of shrimp and lobster bisque, followed by a shredded caramel beef salad and an order of crab cakes. Another had a bowl of our cream of mushroom soup, along with a bowl of lobster bisque, followed by two chicken caesar salads. Easy enough. God, the bartender was so slow because of being new to Bryce, and she had not quite grasped the nuances of our system yet. I quickly made the martini and the Mississippi mud slides myself. My patrons were in a great mood, and I achieved an excellent but economical rapport with many of them.

With another breath, I entered into a zone of calm. While pouring iced tea at the bar, I noticed how two of the bartender’s glasses were dirty, and I hurried back to the kitchen to change them. Dirty glasses are a part of life, but not at my tables. In the time it took for me to get clean glasses, I got another new table of four. I greeted them with hot bread and ice water, and made them feel as if they were the only patrons in the dining room while the needs of everyone else I served were at bay for the moment. I mentioned the specials, shortening my interpretations of each dish, yet keeping my verbal presentations appealing. A professional must trust himself and learn to grasp time in a manner which benefits him through years of experience. The young, attractive woman who asked me for the Mississippi mud slide with the ice cream on the side changed her mind. There was nothing wrong with the drink, but she wanted a glass of white zinfandel, like her friend across from her had because she liked the pinkish color of it.

No problem ma’am, I will make the change for you in just a moment.

I never revealed to her my true displeasure with her mercurial whim, and the change was made. There was a smartly dressed, white haired elderly woman sitting with three children playing amongst themselves. The pale skin around her eyes sagged, and her mouth was slightly open. The tired expression on her face gave me the impression that she was not feeling well. She ordered for the three children accompanying her that were occupied with each other in a confined game of tag, much to the displeasure of some of the patrons nearby who wanted quiet. Watching the children laugh, I could imagine the woman earlier making the announcement to the children that they were going out for lunch, to their delight.

Ma’am, is there anything I can get you that might make you feel better-hot soup perhaps?

No thank you young man, you’re very kind, she said with a hand pressing on her forehead and her eyes, shining with tears that would not fall.

Three blackened filets of rockfish, a chicken quesadilla, two orders of crab cakes, a caesar salad topped with fried calamari and a Monte Cristo sandwich accompanied by a small salad. It is my job to check plates before I bring them out to see if they are correct and properly garnished. While I was busy, the other three waitresses I shared the floor with held their own. They had to, because I was already serving almost half the dining room.

Other tables I had were ready to order. One group consisted of office workers that appeared set up for the afternoon with papers and books all over the table top. An iced tea for one along with a coke and a coffee, a glass of Cabernet with ice on the side, and a cup of hot tea. HOT TEA?! God, I hate making hot tea. The bags, the lemons, the spoons. Those little things are so much dammed trouble. I remember how some of the people I worked with over the years hated specific things about the business. Everyone in this line of work wants to make money, but in my experience, I have seen few that enjoy doing the little things like restocking and polishing silver-necessary evils that contribute to giving a restaurant its identity. If there is one thing I truly dislike doing in this business, it is making hot tea. Hot tea was the Achilles heel of my service, but I have managed to live with it. It really was not any more trouble than other drinks, but I perceived it that way.

Enrique was over two hours late and in the kitchen, crying. I did not believe, looking at his wrinkled shirt, that he had cleaned it since the day he was interviewed. I felt absolutely no remorse for the decision I had to make as the head waiter to ask him to leave.

Please, sir, he sniveled, his face wet with tears of repentance. As I took food out of the kitchen window, he reached out to put his hand on the still perfect crease in my sleeve.

Please do not touch me, I sneered, able to see him at my side through my peripheral vision. Despite him, I continued to keep my mind focused on what food was going to what table.

I gave you a chance to work here, and do you know how many people want the opportunity to work here? Quite a few. I have things to do in the dining room, and no time to talk to you sir.

Enrique stood with his arms crossed in defiance as I left him at the pickup window to go back to the dining room. The crab cakes and the iced tea belonging to the elderly woman with the three laughing children remained untouched. The children continued in a give and take across the table, as she sat with her head down. I was concerned, and unsure if the kids even fathomed that something could be wrong. Enrique was over one of my tables picking up finished plates in his disoriented state, to the horror of my patrons.

I need job! I need work! he cried, walking behind me after I excused he and myself from the dining room. I knew better than to be dragged into a disagreement with a worker in front of my patrons. Even faster than dirty silverware or spotted glasses, a disagreement will destroy my credibility completely. In the kitchen, an order of two crab cakes, a chicken caesar and blackened salmon were sitting in the window waiting for me.

If I lose my job, maybe they send me back to my country! Enrique pleaded, clutching his hands into fists.

He tried to stand up straight, while I knew I could save his job. I felt a line of sweat coming down the side of my forehead and down my face as I fought to maintain control. Another line of sweat found its way down the back of my neck and in between the space where the collar of my oxford separated from my skin, and it itched. The fact that I was sweating at all made me angry.

You should have thought of all that before you decided to come in to work drunk.

The attractive woman from the party of four that wanted to change her Mississippi mud slide to a white zinfandel had a problem with her entree of blackened salmon. She had no idea that blackened meant spicy, even after I explained the specials to her table while she continued talking to herself. She was put off by my expression of mild exasperation as she said she wanted to switch to another entree. She had become a problem-someone who had no idea of what she wanted. If not handled properly, a problem can be extremely dangerous in the sense that I can be blamed for anything going awry at the table, even untrue allegations. I quickly viewed the situation, and reasoned how it was possible that in my haste, I failed to fully explain the menu and specials. I offered to bring her a chicken caesar in place of her blackened salmon, and she accepted. No problem at all madam.

She felt right at home again, though I truthfully anticipated more trouble from her. The danger had passed. Young man, you have a drinking problem, I told Enrique as he followed me around in the kitchen, stumbling. The cooks looked upon him in total disgust, and they wondered why I spent any time at all talking to him. I think… I think we do not need your kind here. Do you even understand the extent of the disrespect your condition displays for the business?

Si, he replied, looking downward with his eyes closed. Then please leave, or your being here will force me to call the police.

I walked out the kitchen door with a Monte Cristo sandwich, two blackened fishes and a chicken quesadilla, knowing the last of my food would be ready in less than two minutes.

In serving the party of four with the books and papers everywhere, I could see they were, fortunately, occupied in conversation amongst themselves. At the same time, the laughing children played with their lunch, while the elderly chaperone still had not touched her crab cakes. Standing near her, I saw her limp hand atop the table, and even when one of the children brushed against her, she did not move.

Once the last of my orders were in the kitchen window, I sidestepped them and went back to the rear office to call an ambulance, and then the police. My manager Scott was on the phone, arguing with his wife. Back at the pickup window, Enrique stood with his arms folded in an intoxicated defiance.

Enrique, your kind has always made me sick, thinking you can come to work whenever you feel like it. Perhaps you had better leave now, please.

I am working very hard here sir, and I no leave!

If you are so good at your job Enrique, why are you always drunk?! I asked, throwing up my hands in exasperation. "Look at you. You know nothing but how to swallow! You can barely stand on your own, let alone giving proper service to my patrons. Get out. Let me rephrase that. Get out now!"

I watched him struggle for the top of the ice machine where we kept clean, folded aprons. I not leaving here. I go to work!

I received another party of four, and then a party of six. Once the ambulance and police arrived, I led the paramedics over to the elderly woman, finding the children already trying to talk to her amid the gaze of a few concerned customers. She still had her head down, but she remained conscious, while the paramedics went about their business. Everyone in the dining room stopped eating to watch. In a separate area of the dining room, I explained to the police that Enrique’s services were no longer needed, and they escorted him away. My first table, the cozy young couple in the window, chose to stop on their way to paying their check, just to shake my hand.

Sir, the petite woman said, looking up at me, I thank you for your exceptional service.

Madam, you are most welcome, I replied smiling, shaking her hand and suspecting my new tables were readying themselves to order. When you get the chance, come see me here again.

Pardon me sir, the woman said in response, I never got your name.

I smiled, under the sound of the guitar of Wes Montgomery. When you come back to Bryce Range, ask for Barnett. I love the complete look of satisfaction on a customer’s face. As we shook hands, I could see how they appreciated my effort. I love serving people who know exactly what they are getting and I can sense their heightened awareness right after they sit down at my tables in most cases, usually in the way they go about ordering and sometimes through what they order. I gathered through their manner that the two of them eat out quite a bit, encountering a great many servers. The look in their eyes let me know that during the course of their hour long meal, they saw something in my effort that earned their respect.

Every muscle in my thirty-nine year old body hurt. My feet, back and legs throbbed from the pain of running around on the floor of Bryce. During the course of the one long afternoon and evening I have worked in this business, there have been many looks of approval, like what the young couple bestowed upon me that winter afternoon. The physical pain I felt after shifts on the floor of Bryce was like the price I had to pay for the instant approval I got from my customers. For me, serving customers is like getting to know them without all the situations of disagreements, hurt, or even the complications of love. I feel like I know many people in this town, but in truth, I know no one. Nothing is without its price. As I sat up in my bed, I knew that even a hundred honest handshakes from patrons could not distract my attention from the greater void inside me. I lived without a sense of self, maybe from seeing to other people’s needs for so long. I used to think that being lonesome was a consequence of my job, reasoning to myself that I was in the business only for money. Money had a way of allowing me to deny anything that mattered outside of the way I did my job.

I should have known better than to ask a woman dining at my table out on a date. The very thought of such an act violates an existing boundary with a patron into a personal area that is ominous to one who considers himself a professional. After all the years I have worked in the business, I should have known to let a patron stay a patron. I was trained by the best who told me so,