Now we’re all prepared, trays in hand, standing at our tables. It’s very quiet and everything looks great. All we need are the kids.
I can’t wait to meet mine. I love them already. I’ve pictured this day a hundred times. They’ll march in, in double file, holding hands the way little kids do when they cross city streets on class trips; it’s always so cute to see the tiny ones hanging on to each other. That’s the way they’ll come in, excited and happy. It’s their first day and everything is going to be new for them so they may be shy and a little nervous, but I’m going to make them feel comfortable right away. I’ll make some kind of announcement about how I’m Victoria, their waitress, and to ask me anything they need and I’ll see that they get it. Anything, because they’re my kids.
Then I’ll take their orders. I’ve been practicing a kind of speedwriting so that I can take the orders fast. And I also have this method where I write down the seat numbers so that I don’t have to ask who had what; I can just give it to the right person. And then I’m going to give them special personal treatment, like if one kid hates hot cereal, I’ll make a point to remember and give him an egg or something else. I intend to be the best waitress in the whole camp. My kids are going to love me.
God, I can’t wait. I know it’s going to be terrific. It has to be, because what with this awful Robbie thing the rest of the summer is going to be very hard. At least I’ll look forward to working.
Suddenly everyone gets alert. We can hear the kids in the distance. They’re marching up to the mess hall, singing. Fantastic!
We all start to crowd up around the windows when Madame Katzoff announces stations.
We race back to our tables.
“Trays up!” she commands. Madame Katzoff never speaks, she commands.
We tray up and wait at attention.
They’ve stopped singing. We can hear them assembling outside the building and now they’re marching up the steps. Sounds like a lot of them.
Suddenly the double doors swing open and a million campers explode into the dining hall. Involuntarily we all pull back as they rush in, over, around, and through the tables and chairs. Alexandra is practically knocked over, Steffi is bumped into a chair, and I’m pinned against the wall. It’s like a madhouse with the shouting and pushing and shoving, grabbing seats, changing them, rechanging them and all the while counselors trying to make some kind of order and then finally settling for saving themselves.
It’s an invasion but it only lasts a few minutes. And then just as suddenly as it started it’s over and everyone is seated. I look at my little kids and I’m scared. They’re all over the place. All my beautiful settings are scattered and the bird napkins look like they’ve been bombed.
It’s hard to decide which table to start with; it’s bedlam both ways, but I choose the girls’ table because, I don’t know, I guess I’m just more comfortable with my own kind.
“Hi, everybody, I’m Victoria, your waitress.”
Nobody even looks up, they’re all so busy shouting at one another. In fact they don’t even seem to hear me. I try again, this time a little louder.
“Hi, everybody. I’m your waitress, Victoria.”
Still no response. Not even from the counselors. They’re both too busy trying to make some order. It’s madness with everybody jumping up and down again, changing seats, talking and shouting all the while. Two kids are crying, and one is under the table. This table is hopeless so I try the other one with the boys.
It’s no better, maybe worse, except for one little boy sitting very quietly with the saddest face I’ve ever seen.
“Hi there, I’m your waitress, Victoria.” I flash my big smile and shout.
The sad little boy looks up at me, confused. Of course, he can’t hear what I’m saying.
One last try, this time at the top of my lungs.
“Hi, there,” I give it all my power, and then suddenly, just like an E. F. Hutton commercial, the whole place goes dead quiet, but it’s too late for me. “I’m your waitress, Victoria,” I shout into the silence.
And the entire dining room turns to look at Victoria, the waitress. I stand there horrified for what feels like a month, and then somebody starts to laugh, and soon the whole place is roaring, and a second before embarrassment turns into tears, the real reason for the silence speaks up and everyone turns away from me.
“Welcome, campers,” Madame Katzoff announces from the head table. Through my blurred vision I can see something that looks like a smile on Katzoff’s face. For only a second and then it’s gone. She tells everyone how delighted she is that they’re here and lots of other baloney, but nobody messes with her. They all stay at attention until she finishes and then it’s right back to bedlam.
“Victoria!” the blond counselor for the girls’ table calls to me.
I grab my tray and race over.
“Hi,” she says, “I’m Carrie.” She smiles and introduces me to Anna, the other counselor, who barely looks at me. Then she goes around the table telling me the names of all the kids. They’re my kids and they look terrific.
Okay, so it started off badly—more like horrendous. So what? Now I’m going to show them what I can really do. I don’t think anyone else prepared for this thing the way I did. I got it all down; all I need is to do it.
“Hey, everybody, we’ve got a great soup today, clam chowder,” I announce.
And they really respond—almost everyone at the table wants some. Fantastic. I feel like I’ve just made a big sale. Eleven soups.
“Be right back,” I say and rush right off to the kitchen.
We have this arrangement where the waitresses line up in front of the windows to the kitchen and wait for one of the cooks to pass them their orders but when it comes to the soups you get it yourself.
It works out perfectly because there’s a line at the window already, so I go right around and through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
It’s wild in there. Everyone is running around grabbing plates and shoving them out to the waitresses. It’s a little tough to find an opening to get through to where the soup pot is, but I wait a few seconds and then dart across. Sort of like crossing a super highway. And almost as dangerous because the floor is really slippery from spilled food.
I get to the soup and wait for someone to ladle it out for me.
But no one seems to even notice me.
“Jesus?” I say to the littlest cook. I think that’s his name but he doesn’t answer so I try ‘Iago,’ but still nothing.
“Can somebody give me the soup? I have eleven orders.”
“Get it yourself, kid. That’s what the ladle’s for,” the one who wouldn’t answer me shouts, pointing to the gigantic soup ladle.
I don’t understand how I’m going to be able to do this because there isn’t even any place to rest the empty soup bowls or anything. But I’ve got eleven people waiting so I have to figure out something. And then I remember that I completely forgot to take the orders from the other table. I don’t know whether to go back and get them or get the soup.
I decide to bring out a few soups and then take the other order. I’m hopelessly confused already.
I find an empty corner on one of the counters and put the bowls down and start to fill them. The soup is boiling hot, and by the time I get it over the floor to the counter where the bowls are stacked, I’ve spilled half.
“Hey, blondie, why don’t you try holding the bowls near the pot,” Jesus, or whoever, shouts in my ear, and of course, I jump and there goes the rest of the ladle.
“Oops, I’m sorry,” I say, grabbing a napkin to clean it up, but Jesus has the mop and with one long sweep shoves the puddle of clam goop under a counter.
“Just get the soup and get out. You’re in everybody’s way.”
“I’m hurrying, but it’s just that …,” but he’s gone back to his mashed potatoes.
I load up the tray, but I can only fit three bowls on it because of the bubble. I’ve been practicing
carrying a tray since I’ve been here, except I never had any real food on it. Especially not steaming soup.
The whole trick is to tuck your hand under the center of the tray and let the back of your hand rest on your shoulder. I think.
“Move it there, kid,” Iago shouts, pushing past me. A spurt from every bowl leaps up and onto the tray. Forget it, I’ll just carry it in two hands in front of me.
I make it back to my table and everyone is jumping all over the place.
“What took you so long?” Anna asks me.
I start to explain but she cuts me off. “Just give out the soups, will you? Everyone’s starving.”
“Come on, Anna, it’s her first day.” The other counselor, Carrie, is very nice and even gets up to help me. Meanwhile the boys’ table is shouting for me to take their orders. Please don’t let them order the soup.
Carrie writes down the rest of the orders at the girls’ table while I get the orders from the boys’.
“How’s the soup?” I ask-answer.
“Yeah,” the other counselor says, “how’s the soup?”
“Terrible, the worst, horrendous, and it doesn’t even taste good,” I say, and puff out my cheeks like you could throw up from the thought alone. Instantly everyone loses interest. It’s the best move I’ve made all day. All day? All week. Ever since I’ve got here things have been going downhill. Even on the bus it was starting to slip. This is the first positive step I’ve made. I would smile but I don’t want them to think I’m kidding about the soup.
Carrie pokes me. “Hey, Victoria, I’ve got the orders.”
“Thanks, Carrie, I really appreciate it.”
“That’s okay. Here it is … two veal cutlets, plain no tomato sauce, mashed potatoes on one and fried on the other. Six regular veal cutlets, two with fried potatoes, three with mashed potatoes, and one with no potatoes. Four chef salads, two with Russian, one oil and vinegar, and one French …”
“Hey, Victoria.” It’s Anna from the other table. “What happened to the rest of our soups?”
“Sorry, I was just taking these orders.”
“Victoria!” That’s from the boys’ table. It’s the JC again. “How about taking our orders? We’re starving.”
“In a second.”
“They’re already on their soup and you haven’t even taken our orders. What’s up?” Now the senior counselor joins in. They all start shouting at the same time, and my brilliant plan of speedwriting goes down the drain.
I start to scribble things down, but they go too fast. Everyone seems to be eating the veal, but nobody wants it the way it comes, and then they all want something different with it.
“Don’t we get any rolls or something?” someone else shouts out.
“What about some water?”
“And butter!”
“Coming—coming,” I say and rush off. I would really love to run right out of the door and never come back. I can’t do this. I just can’t. I look around and everyone else seems to be handling things okay. What’s wrong with me?
Just when I’m rushing toward the kitchen I spot Robbie coming in my direction. That’s just what I need. But he’s heading some place else. He gives me a smile that sinks my stomach, and passes.
I get at the back of the line for the food, then I remember I still owe them seven soups.
“Should I get the rest of the soups or stay here and get the food?” I guess it’s stupid to ask Alexandra that, but I don’t know what to do.
She says, “Huh?”
“I’m making a mess of everything. I just can’t do it.”
“Sure you can. It’s really hard the first day, but you’ll see. It’ll get better. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“What should I do about the soups?”
“Go get them. I’ll hold your place.”
“Thanks, Al, I’ll do it as fast as I can.”
I run back into the kitchen and start ladling out the other soups. I find a way of piling them to get six on the tray at once. In fact, I’m sort of pleased with myself. Maybe it’s not hopeless.
Very carefully, I carry the tray into the dining room and over to the table. I stop behind Anna and start to hand out the soups. Just as I’m serving, Madame Katzoff rises and the whole camp leaps to its feet. Including Anna, whose shoulder sends my tray sailing up, out of my hands. Soup bowls spin off in all directions.
“Watch it, you jerk!” Anna shouts, but it’s too late. The next instant she’s coated with white clam goo. I grab a napkin and start wiping her off, but she fights me and only makes it worse. Little minced clams cling to her eyelashes, potato chunks dot her brown curls, and lots of just plain soup drenches her T-shirt and shorts. She looks terrible. And she looks like she’s going to kill me. I edge away from her, but some of the clam slime gets caught under my shoe and I start to slip. I grab the nearest thing to steady myself. It happens to be Anna.
Together we swing sideways, way out to the end of the table like we’re dancing, and then there’s a scramble of legs and arms flying and we’re on the floor. It’s so embarrassing I don’t even feel the bang of my bottom hitting the floor. But Anna feels hers.
“You stupid ass! Are you trying to kill me or something? You are the worst, clumsiest waitress in the world! You should be fired!”
“I’m really sorry,” I say, trying to help her up, but she shoves me away and, grabbing a chair, starts to lift herself up. It doesn’t work, and the chair turns over and she goes back down into the clams, even angrier.
Meanwhile I move back into the crowd of kids. No way to get lost in a mob of three-footers. We’re causing such a commotion that counselors from other tables come over and soon everybody’s walking in clam goo and then a couple of little kids start to write in it with the backs of their forks.
Almost instantly, the kitchen clean-up squad come out with their mops. Anna, in a rage, storms out of the dining hall.
In no time they put the place back in order and everyone is starting to shout orders at me again. I hope they’re going to wait to the end of the day to fire me. I mean, they’ve got to fire me. I’m the worst waitress in the whole country. I can’t understand why I’m such a terrible failure. Even Claire is doing okay. At least she isn’t swimming in clam chowder.
There’s no time for too much inner misery because the outside stuff is even worse. At least I’m off the hook for the soup.
Nobody wants soup—ever! Well, at least not from me.
I finish taking the orders and hurry back to the line. It’s even longer now. My table, my people, my kids, the ones I really wanted to love and to give the best special service and everything, are doomed—under my special care they’ll probably starve to death.
“Hey, it’s the clam kid,” Jesus shouts when he sees me, and the rest of the kitchen turns around and it’s all the big joke. Only trouble is, it’s me that’s so funny.
“May I please have—”
“Let’s hear it, baby. Fast, speed it up, kid! There’s hungry people out there and I’ve got a hot date this afternoon.”
I start to read off the orders, and then I get to the ones Carrie wrote down, and I can’t read a word. It’s all chicken scratch.
“Come on, baby. I haven’t got all day.”
But I can’t read it. “Could you just start on those and I’ll be right back?” I shoot to the table without waiting for an answer.
My heart drops when I pass Steffi’s table. I’m lost. They’re eating dessert!
By the time I get back to the kitchen window, Jesus is shoving plates of veal out at me. I grab as many as I can, piling them on the tray so that I get eight on at once. That’s pretty good stacking.
Feeling a little better, I spin around and head forward. As I do, one full plate of veal flies off my tray and lands neatly in the giant trash can. I give a quick look around. Nobody saw. That’s it, gone—plate and all. I keep moving. Seven’s not so bad either.
“Who had the veal without the sauce?” I ask the boys�
� table.
Nobody can remember. Well, they’re only seven years old. What can you expect? They’re just little kids.
“How about the veal with the sauce?”
They all raise their hands and start shouting. “Me … me! Me!”
I know I got some orders for the veal without sauce, but what can I do? Even Carrie is beginning to look at me funnily. I’ve been doing everything else wrong, why not this, too? I grab the three sauceless veals and race back, shove them at Jesus for saucing, grab what he has, pile them on the tray, shoot back to the tables, give them out, and get right back to pick up the rest of the orders. I’m up to my eyebrows in tomato sauce, clam stuff all over my shorts, a band of assorted mess across my middle where I lean the tray, and four french fries in my pocket.
My tables are just getting their main courses and everyone is finishing dessert. I don’t know how everyone else is doing it because I can’t take even a second to look. I haven’t seen Steffi since this all started. She must be so disappointed in me. She recommended a horror.
“How many desserts?” I ask, even though they’ve just started their veal.
“We’re not going to have time for desserts, kids. We have to get to the rec hall before one thirty,” Carrie explains to the table. Did you ever try to tell seven-year-olds that they can’t have chocolate pudding? There’s plenty of grumbling and complaining. It’s all my fault, so naturally they hate me. I’m so exhausted I’d rather have them hate me than get twenty-four desserts.
There’s a lot of furious eating, more bread, more milk, more butter, another knife, and on and on. I keep running back and forth. Finally, they finish. Just like that, and instantly they’re gone. Mine are the last tables to leave. Steffi has already cleaned up hers.
“Victoria.”
I can tell from the way she calls my name that she knows how bad it’s been. One look at her face and I know it’s been even worse than I thought.
“Don’t worry,” she says, shaking her head and smiling. “It’s going to get better. Everybody starts off the same.”
“That’s not true, Steffi, nobody made a mess like I did. Even Claire was better than I was.”
Love & Betrayal & Hold the Mayo Page 7
