Waitress on Broadway

It’s only 4:39 in the morning. I’ve been here since 3 pm. Shift meeting, double shift, dead as hell Wednesday night. Another hour and….nineteen minutes now. I bet this bitch comes in late too.

I stumble into the crunchy snow covered streets of New York City, my coat all tangled in my apron. Only I could manage that. The loop gets caught on the door handle. I swear these things only happen when you’re miserable. I hate the snow. I hate the cold. I hate double shifts and I double hate my manager. I strengthen my resolve to quit on his ass tomorrow, right in the middle of the party of 35, which I know he’s gonna screw me out of, even though I did him this favor and worked this shitty shift with promises of him making it up to me. I have been making this promise to myself regularly for six months. I’m just waiting for the right moment. I light my cigarette, knowing I will need to spray some cheap body spray before I go back into the diner, so I smell a horrible mix of cigarette smoke, Japanese cherry blossom and cheeseburger deluxe. With a slight tinge of burnt coffee I spilled on myself and my white shirt exactly three minutes after starting this 14 hour shift. I especially loved all the leery old men staring at my chest and asking if I wanted them to clean it off for me. Hardee har har. Did I mention I hate people? I have served at least fifty covers tonight before the snow started, and somehow I managed to giggle all amazingly TWELVE times I heard that tonight. Think about that. Twelve guys at twelve tables out of fifty with the same creepy ass joke. That’s close to twenty five PERCENT of tables. Kinda proud of myself for not hitting a single one of them, despite visions of stabbing them in the eye with my pen dancing before my eyes. They all left twenty dollar tips or better, making me feel like some kind of frumpy dressed stripper in non-slip black sneakers. But, on the plus side, I made a lot of money for dinner, almost double my usual take, which I needed to make up for how dead it's been in the snow. Maybe I should spill coffee on myself every day. Who am I kidding? I DO spill coffee on myself every day. It’s just usually not a top to bottom, skin still red and smarting, its THAT kind of day, spill. I finish my cigarette and though I am freezing, I am loathe to walk back into this place. My manager, who I have already expressed my deep and utter disdain for, is also a Dallas Cowboys fan. In New York City. They are showing the highlights on SportsCenter, and they killed the Giants, much to this horrible individual’s delight. That right there should explain all you need to know about this man. He is a waste of space. Really, working in a diner is pretty self contained. That’s why I like it. Do your job and nobody bothers with you because they are doing their job. Not this guy. Nope. He does nothing while standing in the middle of a busy kitchen, leaning against the line, in everyone’s way, on the phone, all the time. I tell him on a regular basis, if he isn’t going to work at least don’t get in everyone else’s way. Go do that shit on the counter. He laughs and says he should fire me for talking like that. I pretend to laugh and say I should fire him for being useless. He laughs and asks if I want help cleaning my shirt. My flamboyant best friend grabs me and says “Honey, its not worth it. He’s the type to call the cops over a mere stabbing. Pussy.” I am already too dirty to add blood to the mix now anyway.

I see my buddy in the vestibule. He’s a homeless old black man who I sneak food and hot tea or coffee to when I see him, and he is always so polite. He’s just trying to stay a little warm in this ridiculous weather, its getting colder by the hour. He never asks for anything, I just give it to him. I always tell him someone ordered a pickup order and never showed up, or a table left before their food came out, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste. I make it a habit to not lie, in fact, I am usually too blunt, but I continue to put up this charade on a regular basis and we both are happier for it. I warn him The Wet Noodle is working tonight and if he sees him, he will probably chase him out for bothering the absolute zero customers we have right now. Because that’s the kind of guy he is. I tell him the story of the Leery Old Men and hand him twenty dollars, begging him to take the dirty money off my hands because I don’t feel good about it. Again, we both feel good about my little show. It’s damn cold. At least when he gets chased away by the Evilest of All Evils I will know he will be able to sit in another restaurant and order his own cup of coffee to keep warm. Or maybe keep warm with a pint from the liquor store. I don’t know. I also don’t care. I respect this man more than I do ninety percent of the rude, nasty, demanding, stupid people I encounter on any given day. He is old. He was in ‘Nam. He is well spoken, polite, and enduring what would kill most of these people. If he wants to have a drink on my dime, let him. Who am I to say? I’d probably need a drink in that position as well. And I certainly wouldn’t want some asshole saying I wasn’t worth helping because I would probably go buy a drink with it, while he’s stoned out of his mind on Ecstasy, coming from a club in TriBeca, like…...awww shit. Like THIS guy right here. Aaaaand here we go. I swear I am not TRYING to get fired tonight. I REALLY don’t want to give Slimeball the satisfaction of firing me, when it would be so much more fulfilling in a way that I haven’t felt in so many years, to quit in front of everybody. But, here we are. With This Asshole. In his sleek ass BMW. I am pretty damn sure, without having ever bought one myself, that they ask to see your Asshole Card before allowing you to test drive a BMW. What I do know for absolutely positive, is nobody, especially on this night, with this weather, and this shift, with me in this mood , is gonna talk to my friend like that. I do not care that I do not know my friend’s name. We have shared cheese Danish and coffee at three am many a night and he has talked me out of everything from the cheesy headband I just bought that would have caused nothing but embarrassment in the light of day, to multiple homicides of my co-workers. He has seen me punch walls, and heard me sing Sinatra completely off key while having the decency not to wince. This Asshole was not getting away with that. Of all the coffee joints in all the world, you had to walk into mine. Bitch. Anyway. I said some things, he said some things, feelings were hurt, menus may have been thrown, and then It happened. Asshole #2 comes from out of the car, seeing the commotion with his Asshole Buddy. And wouldn’t you know what he says. “ Nice shirt. Need help cleaning it?”

Sigh. I really hope I get this job tomorrow at the diner down the street. I tell my friend to check there for me next week if he doesn’t see me here again. I tell him he better go, since there is a good chance the police are gonna come. If he does see them, he doesn’t know me and definitely did not see a crazy woman in the snow beating a BMW with a broom. I go inside into the kitchen and tell The Deadweight I have to go. Fire me if he has to. It’s an emergency. Call me if he still wants me to come in tomorrow. Better yet, ask the other guy to call me. He nods and pays no attention. He is on the phone. He has no idea what I said or that I am leaving, much less that the police may or may not be on their way. I step out into the crunchy snow covered streets of New York City.