by Amy Sohn
“Thank you so much. You won’t regret this.”
“I hope you’re right.” I pumped his hand and skipped out the café down the street.
I showed up the next morning ready and raring to go. Christina was a struggling actress from Chicago and she was very sweet and patient. She taught me the computer system, table numbers, seat positions, and showed me how to fill out a dupe. While she took orders, I stood off to the side, listened to customers’ questions, and took notes on all her answers. I went to Adam’s that night and I had him drill me on the menu and wine list until I knew it by heart. I was going to be the best damn waitress in the city.
I trailed Christina again the next day, and then on Friday I got my own shift. My first customers were a yuppie couple. The woman was coiffed and bitchy, but when she asked how the Chardonnay was, I was prepared and I told her woody and full, and I brought everything at the right time, and they gave me a decent tip.
Around twelve-thirty, as I was setting down salads for a three-top by the window, I noticed that a new deuce had been seated at table seven. Two middle-aged men. I fetched their menus, and as I approached the table, I almost shat in my pants. It was Jensen and Turner. But before I could turn around and tell Christina to take them, Jensen had recognized me. A sinister smile crept across his face. Turner just blanched.
“Well, if it isn’t Little Miss Pants on Fire,” said Jensen. “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?”
“I thought you were teaching religious school.”
“Not anymore,” I mumbled, setting down the menus. I looked both ways and waited for a flash to go off. Page Six would eat this scene up. “Would you two care for any . . . drinks to start?”
“I’d like a Dewar’s on the rocks,” said Jensen.
“Bill?” I said.
“Water’s fine,” he mumbled. “Just fine.”
I went to the computer and entered the drink order. Then I poured their waters, walked over to the bar, and picked up Jensen’s drink, momentarily considering the possibility of spitting into it. I brought it over and said, “Are you ready to order?”
“I think we are,” said Jensen. “Bill? Why don’t you start?”
“I’ll have the garden salad,” said Turner, closing his menu and handing it to me, “and a grilled chicken sandwich.”
“You have a choice of dressing with the salad. Blue cheese, Russian, vinaigrette, creamy vinaigrette, Caesar, honey mustard, or fat-free honey mustard.”
“I’ll have the creamy vinaigrette.”
I turned to Jensen. “The arugula salad, please,” he said, “and a cheeseburger.”
“What would you like on your salad?”
“What are the choices again?” He smirked.
I sighed. “Blue cheese, Russian, vinaigrette, creamy vinaigrette, Caesar, honey mustard, or fat-free honey mustard.”
“You say the honey mustard’s fat-free?” he said.
“That’s right.”
“Why should I believe you?” he shouted, breaking up into a fit of hysterics.
“The fat-free honey mustard, then,” I said, digging my nails into my pencil, “and how would you like your burger?”
“As rare as your honesty!” he hooted.
“I’m sorry,” I said tightly. “Does that mean medium rare? Medium?”
“Extra rare!” said Jensen. “Oozing rare! Fucking kobe rare!”
I took Jensen’s menu, entered the order into the computer, brought the dupe into the kitchen, and attended to two of my other tables, trying to breathe slowly. I picked up Turner and Jensen’s salads and grabbed a pepper grinder on my way over. “Some fresh pepper for your salad?” I said to Bill.
He shook his head no and began eating very vigorously. I turned to Jensen. “Some fresh pepper?”
“Absolutely.”
“Say when,” I said, and began grinding it out onto his plate. As it sprinkled down onto his greens, he stared up at me with a cherubic grin. I wanted to aim the shaker into his eyes till I blinded him.
“When!” he finally shouted. “You said to say when so I’m saying when! Ha ha ha ha ha!”
“Enjoy your lunch,” I whispered, and headed into the kitchen.
Five different times throughout the rest of the meal, Jensen beckoned me back with little requests—more water, another drink, another tray of bread, some barbecue sauce, and a clean fork. Each time he saw me heading into the kitchen, he’d signal me, as though he was deliberately trying to throw me off track. By the time they were on their coffee, I was nearly conniptive.
Finally Jensen asked for the check. I totaled up the bill on the computer and brought it over. He already had a corporate card ready. I took it to the machine and swiped it through, brought him the receipt, then went into the kitchen to pick up another order. When I turned toward their table again, they were gone. I hurried over and opened the bill holder. The total had come to $45.78. On the blank line to the right of the word TIP, Jensen had written, OF THE DAY: GET A LIFE. And next to GRAND TOTAL, he’d put, “$45.78.”
I sank down into Jensen’s chair. It was still warm from his ass heat but I was so bent out of shape I didn’t care. An old woman was calling for me from across the room, but I couldn’t get my legs to move. I just sat there immobile, staring at the bill till it got blurry.
Suddenly Turner appeared opposite me and leaned over the table. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “Steve’s still in the men’s room,” he said. “He’ll be out any second. I feel terrible about this. I’m so sorry this had to happen. Here.” He held out a twenty.
“I don’t want your money,” I said.
“Please take it,” he said.
“I said I don’t want your goddamn money!” I shouted, standing up. My head was spinning. Patrons started to look up at me. Christina came out of the kitchen and stopped in her tracks. Tasos stepped around the bar. Jensen emerged from the bathroom. I looked around the room at everyone, untied my apron, threw it on the floor, and bolted out onto the sidewalk.
Halfway down the block, I realized my tip money was in my apron pocket. I couldn’t afford to leave it there. I had always dreamed of quitting a job in such an abrupt, dramatic way, but now I’d have to ruin the glory by going back. I did an about-face, trudged in past everyone, crouched down sheepishly, removed my bills from the apron pocket, and walked out.
I headed briskly down Lafayette Street. When I got to Prince, I spotted a diner. I went in and sat in a booth. The place was pretty empty—a lone man in his fifties was eating a sandwich, a hipster couple were drinking sodas, and an elderly Italian woman was sipping soup. I looked at my reflection in the window by the booth. My eyes were bloodshot from crying, my cheeks flushed, and there were two large sweat stains under my armpits. Who would have guessed that this haggard lump of B.O. and Gilda hair was once the hippest young hussy in town?
The waitress handed me a menu. I ordered a coffee and she went behind the counter. I took out my tip money and laid it on the table. It came to $24.40. For three days of work. Christina had chosen not to tip me out. Maybe I should have taken Turner’s twenty after all.
I shoved the money back in my pocket and the waitress came over with the coffee. I poured in some milk and took a sip. It wasn’t bad, for diner coffee—strong and not too bitter. But you know you’re in a sorry state when the only thing you have to be grateful for is a decent cup of Joe. I had no money, no job, no permanent home, no professional future, and a name that brought nothing but shame. My best friend was profiting off my failure, even a maintenance office wouldn’t employ me, and although I’d finally found someone to share my life with, it wasn’t much of a life to share. It was an outrageous and obscene story, twisted and degrading, and one hundred percent true. I couldn’t have made it up any better myself.
Suddenly I got an idea. I took a napkin from the dispenser and a pen from my shirt pocket.
I was only twenty-two and already I was infamous.
I reached
for my coffee. Right as I lifted the mug to my lips, the waitress rushed by with two burger deluxes and jostled my elbow. The mug jerked toward me and hot coffee spilled all over my crotch and thighs. I yelped in pain, grabbed the napkin, and dabbed my legs with it furiously. Then I realized what I had done. I looked down at the napkin. It was brown, soaked, and steaming, and the words were blurring into oblivion. It was just my luck. I’d written my first sentence in months—and turned it into a sponge. I set a new napkin next to the old, copied the sentence over, and kept going.
About The Author
AMY SOHN wrote the autobiographical “Female Trouble” column for New York Press for three years. She currently writes for the New York Post and has also written for Details and Feed. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
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