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There ain’t
no money in poetry
That’s what sets the poets free
But I’ve had all the freedom I can stand
Guy Clark
Part One
or
Short arms, deep pockets
Chapter One
“Is there meat in ya’lls veggie
omelet?”
Nate was
waiting table again, this time in Dillon, Colorado and paused to
consider how to answer the woman's question. He briefly entertained the
notion of bobbling his pad to the floor so he'd have to bend over to
retrieve it in a way that would put his hind end right next to her face. Tips were never a sure thing anyway, especially from
Texans, and her lilting accent and sing song voice had been grating
on him from the minute he'd found her large, flowered rump in one of
the chairs at his best table. Table 41 was normally the most
requested four top on the front side of the house due to the view it
offered of the lake and when he heard it had been sat, he'd
approached with a steaming vessel of just brewed coffee in one hand
and a gleaming glass pitcher of fresh squeezed orange juice in the
other. He'd been all ready to give his sun shiny best and
start the day off on a good foot as he jauntily
crossed the floor but the woman had taken the starch out
of his drawers by blurting, “Y’all got any Iced
Tea?” before he’d even been able to open his mouth and offer her
anything.
“Yes
Ma’am, I’m sure we all surely do have some Iced Tea sure enough,” Nate had
drawled down at her, not able to keep from
affecting something of a southern accent himself. As he was
elongating
his words, he cast a sideways glance into the dark of the beverage station where he was able to catch the
bloodshot eye of Gibson, one of the busboys who lurked there, before the little wanker could skulk away and pretend he hadn’t heard the exchange.
Cornered like a creature in a hole however, Gibson had been forced
to toss a nod sleepily to let Nate know that he understood what was
expected of him. Namely, to hustle his bustle back to the kitchen to start some
iced tea a-brewing.
This
season’s opening floor shift at Red Grenadine’s Steakhouse and Cafe had been
uniformly defiant in the matter of iced tea. It was early morning
after all, dark and cold, and something seemed inherently wrong with
adding the brewing and chilling of tea to a list of a.m. duties
which most felt were already too extensive. The steady stream of Texans,
however, who had been ordering iced tea at the
crack of dawn each and every breakfast without fail since Nate had
started at the Red just before Christmas, seemed to be on a
different page. In fact, the fact that ”iced tea” was typically the
first two words out of at least one customer’s mouth before the sun
had even come up or the temperature had a chance to climb to double
digits had not seemingly registered with whoever was training new
workers or assigning first shift chores, So even though Nate found that his rhythm was thrown
off on almost a daily basis by having to wait for a full cauldron of
tea to not only brew but to then cool down a bit so he could serve
it, he wasn’t about to take the relatively simple steps that he
could have to rectify the problem himself. He found that the whole
situation with iced tea tended to lend a certain painful absurdity to the start of his day which he'd
come to appreciate.
Iced tea,
however, hadn’t been the only thing disappointing about Nate’s
initial visit to table 41 and the three point turn he'd had to pull
with the rejected beverage pitchers. One look at the woman had also
told him that she wasn’t going anywhere near the ski hill that
morning and therefore most likely planned on camping in his section
and thus depriving him of any turnover and the subsequent decent
tips that 41 would normally provide. Folks on a ski junket typically
tried to roll out of bed early and get something substantial in
their stomachs before dragging ass and gear up to the mountain in
order to get the most for their increasingly expensive lift ticket.
On a good morning, Nate might be able to turn three groups of four
skiers at 41 before the lifts even opened. The skiers, families
usually, already in their colorful snowsuits, would trudge
in, allow Nate to pour coffee for the adults and fresh squeezed OJ all around, order large
expensive breakfasts that would go mostly uneaten, and then lumber
out again, leaving a mess for Gibson and something between a five
and ten dollar tip each time for Nate as reward for his prompt,
attentive service and the thoughtfulness he’d shown by greeting
them with fresh OJ and hot coffee. The OJ was the key of course,
because, at 3.50 a glass, it beefed up the check in a hurry and was
trans-generational. Iced
tea was 1.50 with free refills. And unlike coffee, people who wanted
iced tea did not typically want orange juice as well.
But
41 was likely lost to him on this morning he knew. Patrons were
always requesting 41 because of it’s coveted corner spot and the
waitrons perpetually groused and fought over it along with 42 - 45
which were the other four tables that made up the front line along
the huge windows.
Whichever manager was handling the section assignments usually used
some creative gerrymandering to keep all the tipped staff happy and most of the hostesses tried to do a fair job of seating the less popular tables
in the back to spread things out. Chanelle however, who had looked visibly miffed when she’d arrived at her
hostess station that morning and found that Sue had assigned Nate to
most of the front section, had appeared to be nearly wetting
herself with glee when she’d passed him on her way to seat this
waddling, flower suited, single at his best table. Her grudge
against him continued, Nate suspected, and she’d managed to screw him yet
again. Even if it was only figuratively this time.
Nate was peering down his nose at the woman in 41 as she settled in and
reluctantly discarded his bobbled pad plan while resisting the urge to define the word “veggie” for her.
“No, I’m afraid there isn’t any meat in the veggie omelet,”
he’d finally said in his normal voice, after silently holding her gaze until she began to
squirm and rut her heels to the point where he couldn’t stand the
spectacle anymore.
“One
veggie omelet then Ma'am? With what on the side?”
“NO!
No veggie omelet. Hell no. If there’s no meat then Auntie M
don’t want it to eat.” The woman reopened the menu before
adding, “Mavis May needs her meat.”
Nate
didn’t doubt this for a minute but thought better of saying so. He
also resisted the temptation to inquire why, if this were the case, that she’d even
asked about a
menu item that listed only vegetables as the ingredients in the
first place. He wanted to keep the job at least until the snow
melted and a subtle but unmistakable waft of perfume had announced
Sue’s arrival behind him. He didn't need to turn around to know
that Sue, the morning manager, would be polishing glasses or doing other useless table maintenance
nearby just so she could eavesdrop and find further reason to corner
him in the bus station and critique his tableside manner while peppering him with
innuendo. He had to be careful as he was on thin
ice with her in about four different ways as it was.
“I’ll
tell you what I think I’m going to have,” his latest
Texan, who was apparently called Mavis May, finally enunciated, as if something of importance hung in the
balance. Nate took the liberty of jotting "B and G on his pad
while she was still twanging out the last syllable. Predicting that
the woman would order biscuits and gravy was no more presumptive than it
would have been to make a batch of iced tea every morning but it was
a little game Nate liked to play with himself. And once iced tea were the first
words out of somebody's mouth, the words "biscuits and
gravy" or "country hash" weren't long behind. Hash
was more of male thing so he'd gone with the B and G in this case. He held his pen at
the ready to record the inevitable accompanying items.
“I think I’m going to do the country hash this morning,” the woman
luxuriated lazily. “And give me a side of sausage. Patty not link!
And some scrambled eggs." She paused to push a pair of little glasses,
that had been hanging around her neck, up onto her nose and squint through them as if to be sure she wasn't
missing anything in the fine print. "And throw in some biscuits
and gravy on the side. A half order.”
"Yes," Nate hissed to himself pumping his fist. "Good choice!" He
added meeting Mavis May's surprised stare.
She returned her gaze to the menu one last time before snorting with
satisfaction at her panoply of selections and then tossing the bound
and laminated booklet to the
far side of the table instead of just handing it to him like a
regular citizen. She then turned her attention to rummaging for
something in the large bag she’d placed at her side finally
producing the back section of the Sunday Denver Post. The bag, Nate
observed, was in the
perfect position for him to trip over later and spill
tea refill down her burgeoning flowered front. He vowed not to
fall for it however and hoped Gibson wouldn’t either.
After surrounding the "B and G" on his pad with markings
denoting the half order, hash and sides, Nate leaned across the
table to fetch the menu and paused, as he often did during such
unsatisfactory encounters, to drink in the scenery on the other side
of the Red’s enormous windows. The sun was just coming up and the view of Lake Dillon
and the proximity of the jagged mountains beyond bathed in sunrise
pink was what made waiting table for such
people all worth it. Almost any seasonal job in Summit County came
with a ski pass that allowed a person free access to at least one of
the four nearby ski areas and Nate knew that he'd be up shredding at
the Basin when his
shift ended later that day. As he drank in with his eyes the limpid air and
rich blue sky reflected in the lake and the snow capped peaks that looked almost close
enough to reach out and touch, he caught a glimpse of a figure
coming along the trail through the pines that lead out to the
highway. Nate saw that it was Radekal and that his roommate was
apparently borrowing his powder skis again with plans on hitchhiking
up to the Basin to make first tracks. Radekal seemed to be looking for him as he slogged along and
when he saw him standing beside Mavis may he raised his hand as if to
wave but then abruptly adjusted the gesture and made a jacking off motion instead. Nate was about to
return in kind when he realized Mavis May had been speaking to
him again.
“Yes Ma’am?” he recovered, putting his pen behind his ear with his
aloft hand instead of making the masturbatory overtures he’d planned
when he raised it. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he
noticed Radekal grabbing his junk.
“I
said could you make sure everything is hot. And I wouldn’t mind a
Danish or something while I wait. And aren’t you going to bring
any iced tea? I’ve been parched up here in this dry mountain air.
Absolutely parched. Peckish and parched. Exactly what is that young man doing out there?”
“I’m
sure I don’t know,” Nate replied, not looking out the window but
instead into the beverage station hoping to cower Gibson or one of
the other bussers into bringing some water to stave off the
woman’s dehydration until he could scare up some Lipton's. The little
shirker was nowhere to be found however and nobody else seemed to be
around either, Sue had also disappeared.
“I’ll
be right back with your drinks and Danish Miss, Nate said snapping
his book shut and making a show of shuttling around the table in
order to hoist the menu which he then tucked under his arm. “Ya’ll just
sit tight now and enjoy our fine view.”
Nate punched the order into the terminal touch screen and headed
first to the pantry side of the kitchen to retrieve a Danish
figuring if he got old Mavis something to gnaw on ASAP she’d be less
likely to complain about the tea delay that he knew was coming. When
he returned to the table however, she still didn’t have anything to
drink in front of her and instead of thanking Nate for the prompt
pastry she instead wanted to know what she was supposed to wash it
down with. Nate muttered under his breath about his support staff,
apologized again and went charging into the kitchen in search of
Gibson. Charging anywhere on the floor of a restaurant is usually a
mistake and Nate was reminded of this adage as he rounded the corner, felt his feet slosh and
slip out from under him and went crashing in a wet heap into the mirrored wall like a
catcher chasing a foul tip to the backstop. He found himself sitting
on the tile looking up at Gibson who was armed with some sort of
large squeegee.
“Turns
out Nate, that if the spigot has been left open on the tea
receptacle from the night before and you don’t shut it, the new
brewed tea goes all over the kitchen floor.” Gibson informed him,
as if he was lecturing a child about the mysterious ways of science.
“The p.m. crew must not have negotiated the closure when they took
it to the dish dive station last night to be washed. Thus when I
retrieved it this a.m. I apparently failed to completely assess the
situation.”
“Apparently
so,”
Nate said, as he got slowly to his feet. One side of his black
polyester pant leg was soaked through with warm tea and his waiter
book with the woman’s order was soggy and smeared. Chanelle
paraded through just then, the spiked heels that were just visible
beneath her tapered pant leg barely leaving a ripple
in the brown tea slick that Gibson had been sloshing towards the
drain.
“A new two top at 43,” she announced loudly as if Nate wasn’t
standing right next to her. When she saw Sue round the corner she
added, “And the woman at 41 flagged me down to say that she wants to
see her waiter right now. The cute one with the earring was how she
put it. I told her we didn’t have anyone
working here that particularly fit that description. Especially since earrings on
the men aren't supposed to be allowed." She looked pointedly at Nate's ear making sure Sue followed her gaze to the gold hoop
gleaming there. "Of course it's
hard to tell with his hair so messy and long."
Sue stood looking at them silently with hands on her hips, arms
akimbo, switching her gaze from Nate to Gibson to Chanelle and then
to the brown liquid gurgling down the drain. She then pointed down
at Nate’s soppy pants, seemed about to say something but reconsidered and
then finally simply flicked a
wrist to wave Chanelle out of the kitchen.
“You guys are gross,”
Chanelle said haughtily over her shoulder as she turned to go,
sashaying clear of
the spill and heading back toward her post near the front door.
Nate
turned his back and began unwrapping several single tea bags and
tossing them in a steel pitcher where he flooded them with boiling
water from the espresso machine. He heard Sue’s flats click off around
the corner and turned to Gibson.
“Why
don’t you leave the deck swabbing to a dishwasher and get your
mullet
out to 41 with some water,” he said to the aggravating busser.
“And make sure you clarify for her that the fact that she's so thirsty
is completely your
fault. That way my tip just might not suffer and then yours won’t
suffer either. I don’t need to remind you that if mine suffers,
yours is likely to disappear altogether.”
Nate found a wooden mallet of some kind behind the cook’s line and
mashed down the tea bags in the bottom of the pitcher. He then
grabbed a pint glass from the rack and packed it with ice before
pouring the nearly black liquid over the top and watching most of
the ice immediately melt and the tea lighten and dilute. He then
poured off half of it, added more ice and topped it off again with tea.
He opened a couple
cooler doors looking for the vat of lemon wedges but finally gave up. He'd have to
venture into the darkened service bar on his way back to the floor
and snag a wedge from there.
Gibson stood leaning on his squeegee and watching Nate like an
unconcerned hockey goalie might observe play at the other end of the
rink. “At least get me some goddamn tea brewing Gibson,” Nate said
as he sopped at his pants with a towel. “41 will suck this pint down before I
even leave the table. Don't go catatonic on me now little buddy
we've got a long day ahead!”
“I
normally would love to help you Nate I mean geez it's my job and all but I really think it’s best that I be done with tea for the day. I
already tried it once and look what’s happened.” The teen
gestured to the brown spill. “Maybe you should ask around to see
if there’s someone else who could do it.” Nate stared at him
blankly before putting the glass of tea on a tray, placing an OJ
pitcher on it as well and grabbing a coffee pot in his other hand so
that he'd be ready to greet his new table. Swooping the tray onto
his shoulder he hurried off towards the service bar. “C hash and a
half B and G up,” he heard a cook call as he was rounding the
corner. “Side scrambled, side link.”
Perfect! Now her breakfast will be dying on the line
while he was off chasing lemon wedges.
And Nate knew he punched sausage patty into the machine and not
sausage link. Nate
took a deep breath. The day was starting to have that familiar feel
of a clam diggers banquet. And once the clam digging got started in the waiting
game, it was easy to pick up steam.
Chapter
Two
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