Friday Night

 

(Friday night was nuts.)

Friday night was fucking hell. I got to the restaurant at 9 p.m., and the joint was packed to the rafters. I had to start serving customers right away. My first table was pretty easy. It was a single guy who wanted a Delmonico steak and hash browns. The meal also comes with Texas toast.

I called it out like a pro. “Pull one Delmonico rare.”

The grill operator said, “What’s your drop?”

“Drop one scattered.”

“And the mark?”

“Mark a Delmonico plate smothered, covered, and peppered.”

It seems fucking easy. But you really have to say it with a set of brass balls. If the cook can’t understand you, he might hit you over the head with a red-hot skillet. I shit you not.

Suddenly, a huge family of Mexicans walked through the door. There were ten of them in all, and I immediately prayed to God to spare me from the carnage. And praise be to Jesus because they sat in Ling’s section, taking up three entire booths.

I haven’t told you guys about Ling. She’s a Chinese-American lady who usually works the first and second shifts, so I haven’t had much of an opportunity to interact with her. However, it turns out that she’s a very diligent worker who always gives a hundred percent.

Anyway, the Mexican family ran the poor girl into the ground. They kept beckoning her to the booths to order more stuff. In fact, their final bill came to $181. And do you know what they left her as a tip? Five fucking dollars.

Needless to say, Ling was crestfallen.

She sighed heavily. “Look how they left those tables.”

It was a disaster area. Hashbrowns and used napkins were scattered all over the floor, and the seats were smeared with butter.

I said, “At least they gave you something. I’ve been screwed many times but motherfuckers like that.”

Ling was on the verge of tears. “It just isn’t fair. Why did they have to sit in my section?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess it’s just the way that Jesus wrote the story. He is the king of the universe, after all. Maybe you’ll learn a lesson after being humbled by that group of savages.”

She sighed again. “Fuck you.”

I laughed and laughed.

Pork-Chop Jane was also at the restaurant. But she was sick and pretty much refused to do anything.

She said, “Where the fuck is Othello? He’s supposed to work with you until seven.”

“Maybe he couldn’t make it.”

“Not my fucking problem. I’m gone at 2 a.m.”

I gave her the stink eye. “So you’re going to leave me here to die?”

“It’s not my fault. Blame the manager.”

Anyway, Ling left at 1 a.m. and Pork-Chop Jane said goodbye an hour later. Sadly, your humble protagonist was left to the wolves. The place was still busy, but I managed to take all the orders. The problem was the dishes. They were piled high in the sink, and I didn’t have the fucking time to clear them from the pit.

I went outside for a cigarette and contemplated ritual suicide. I planned to end my life like a disgraced Japanese soldier. I was going to kneel down in the parking lot and disembowel myself with a butcher knife.

But that’s when Othello came gliding by on his bike.

I said, “Good to see you. You’re only six hours late.”

“Sorry, man. I was sleeping.”

With that said, the kid has a great work ethic. We hit the sink with a frenzy of energy and got the shit turned around in less than an hour. If he hadn’t of showed, I would’ve been completely screwed. A single worker simply can’t handle a crazy night.

I ended up writing 37 tickets and making 280 dollars. Trust me. Things could’ve been much worse.