Tales of a New York Waitress

by Samantha Garman

  Like, so obvious. Duh.

  After putting in their appetizer order, I headed to the coffee station and started prepping a six cappuccino order. “Uh, Sibby?” Natalie said from somewhere behind me.

  “You can work around me,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, well no. I don’t need to make coffee. Are you aware that there’s a hole in your pants?”

  “Hole?” I said distractedly, starting to steam milk with one hand while running the other down the back of my pants, searching for the rip. “Is it obvious?”

  “Kind of. Your underwear is showing.”

  “What?” I hissed, turning off the steam wand and trying to get a good look at my rear end.

  “Batman undies? Really?” Nat shook her head.

  I groaned. That meant it was a really big hole.

  “How did it happen?” she asked.

  “I got stuck on one of the metal chairs in the courtyard earlier. I think it happened then.” I pressed a hand to my eyes. “Just when I think my life was turning around, shit like this happens.”

  “Whatever, you could be the pregnant one,” she said.

  Chapter 20

  Montepulciano d’Abruzzo [Mon-teh-pull-chee-ah-noh dah-brut-zoh]:

  1. Italian red wine, medium-bodied. Easy to drink.

  2. The Budweiser of Italian wine.

  I crumbed the table and put down dessert menus in front of four middle-aged men. I reached for the olive oil shaker as one of the men stated, “I’ll have a cappuccino, please.”

  “Sure, anyone else want coffee?” I asked. “Or an after dinner drink?”

  “What’s Amaro?” one guy asked.

  “An herbal, rooty-like digestif. They taste like Italian cough syrup.”

  “Uhm, maybe we’ll just have four Limoncellos,” the guy who ordered the cappuccino said.

  “Good choice. It’s homemade.”

  I dropped off the Limoncellos and cappuccino when the spokesman of the group asked, “What do you do in your spare time? When you’re not here.”

  “I’m a writer,” I said honestly.

  “Ah, what do you write?” he inquired.

  “Oh, uhm, I’m writing a romance novel.”

  The man’s eyes gleamed.

  Stupid, Sibby. Really stupid.

  “Romance novel, huh?” he pressed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, if you need any help researching romance scenes, I’m available.”

  His friends guffawed like the aging frat boys they were.

  “Ew,” I blurted out. “I mean… Nope, ‘ew’ was the right response.”

  The men stopped laughing and stared at me in stupid confusion. I gathered up the dessert menus and said, “I’ll bring the check.”

  “But—”

  “And I won’t tell my manager you sexually harassed me.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the men were gone. “They leave an okay tip?”

  I looked at the older woman sitting at a table for two, but she was by herself. I smiled. “Thirty percent. Think I shamed them into it.”

  She laughed. “I like that you didn’t let them get away with it.”

  “I’m a server, not a servant. Some people think they can say and do anything because I bring them food and alcohol.”

  “Is it true? What you told them? Are you really writing a romance novel?”

  “Yeah, I am. Though it’s kinda coming out funny and not sexy.”

  The woman looked at me for a long moment and said, “I’m a literary agent.” She reached in her purse and grabbed a business card, handing it to me. “When your book is written, I’d love to see it.”

  I blinked. “Thank you.” I held out my hand to introduce myself. “I’m Sibby.”

  “Alex. Seriously. I want to see your book when you’re done.” She gathered her belongings, scooted out of the booth, and left the restaurant. I stared after her, wondering if all the crap I had been through in the past few months, and all the detours in my life, had brought me to this moment—this chance meeting with a literary agent. Nothing might come of it, but I gripped the business card for all it was worth.

  “Is it just me, or is there a new level of stupidity tonight?” Zeb asked. “I had one table ask me for a chee-an-tee and a rice-ling.”

  “Good God. I had a customer ask me if beefsteak tomato was a type of beef,” I said.

  “People sat themselves. How hard is it to wait? They make you wait at The Olive Garden! And we’re better than The Olive Garden.”

  “Yeah, we’re much more like Macaroni Grill,” I quipped.

  Zeb shook his head, diamond studs winking in the dim light. “I have never been so glad to be done.”

  “You say that every night you work. You know that right?”

  “Yeah, and your point?”

  “Seek help,” I teased.

  “You want to go grab a drink?”

  “I would, but I’m meeting my best friend.”

  “Is that why you’re in such a good mood?” he demanded.

  “I’m not in that good of a mood.”

  “Yes, you are. Is it—” He gestured with his chin in the general direction of Aidan who was talking to a regular guest at the end of the bar, the guy we called ‘Mr. Saturday Night’. Mr. Saturday Night came in all the time, dressed in 1950’s garb, thinking he was cool, thinking he was a high roller.

  He was creeptastic.

  I had a low creeper tolerance, and after he asked if I had boyfriend, I refused to wait on him. Zeb had no problem waiting on Mr. Saturday Night, hitting on him to give him a dose of his own medicine.

  It was awesome to watch.

  “He’s part of it. But, I don’t know,” I admitted. “I just have this overall feeling of goodness. Like things have finally turned around for me.” I was still riding high from the agent’s business card I’d gotten the other night.

  “And customers tonight didn’t ruin that for you? Wow, you must be at peace with stuff.”

  A table of two men from my section stood up and put on their coats, laughing and joking. They passed by the bar where Zeb and I were standing, doing our checkouts.

  The dark haired Wall Street looking guy said to me, “Thank you so much for everything.”

  “My pleasure. Have a good night.”

  “Are you gonna do it,” the blond friend asked.

  Wall Street shot his friend a look, reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. “I’d like to take you out sometime. Call me.”

  I took his business card and stuttered, “Uhm, yeah, okay, thanks.” My week for business cards, apparently. Wall Street gave me a pearly white smile. He turned back to his friend and they left, leaving me stunned.

  What the hell was going on with me? Did I scream sex or something? My server uniform was boxy and unflattering, and if they got too close to me, they’d smell Eau d’fryer. And I’d bought new pants, so there was no way they’d seen the Superman underwear I was sporting.

  I must’ve won him over with my personality.

  Weird.

  “I think Aidan’s head is about to explode,” Zeb said.

  “Huh?”

  “Look at him. Damn, he’s got that sexy, jealous, broody thing going on. Guess he doesn’t like people trying to take you away from him.”

  “Shut up, Zeb.”

  “What? No one can hear us. Besides, he’s the one who’s no longer acting like a manager. Jealous, broody boyfriend, party of one!”

  I refused to look at Aidan. “And that’s my cue,” I said. “Exit stage right.”

  The bar was dark and the floor was littered with peanut shells. Annie and I were already drunk, having done a few rounds of shots the moment we entered the door.

  “Oh my God, answer your phone!” Annie demanded.

  “No! Aidan knows I’m out with you.”

  “But you snuck out of there,” she said. “For all he knows, you’re calling the guy who gave you his card.”

  “I threw it in the trash
! And if he’s thinking that I’m calling some other guy, then he doesn’t know me. Besides I gave him a key.”

  “You gave him a key?” she asked. “How did I not know about this?”

  “I don’t know. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “Uhm. No.”

  “Sorry.” I tapped my head. “I have a lot of stuff going on up here.”

  “You’re dating in secret.”

  “So?”

  “So, all the rules are different when you date someone in secret.” I looked at her through bleary eyes, not understanding. “He’s insecure, you idiot.”

  “You’re telling me that Aidan—hot, wonderful, adorable Aidan—is insecure?”

  “I’m gonna let you in on something—guys get insecure. And not just in bed.”

  I rested my face on the scarred wood bar and groaned.

  “I wouldn’t put your face there,” Annie commented. “You don’t know where it’s been.”

  I lifted my head immediately. “I can’t talk to him like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Drunk.”

  “Weren’t you hammered the first couple of times you guys hung out?”

  “I’ve evolved.”

  “Liar Pants.”

  I sighed when my phone started dancing across the bar again. Before I could decide if I wanted to answer it or not, the big, tattooed bartender picked up my phone and said, “Hot girl’s phone, how may I help you?”

  “Dex!” Annie hissed.

  I lunged for Dex, but he easily evaded me and I slid across the bar top, nearly falling into a sink of ice on the other side.

  “Sibby!” Annie cried. “What are you doing?”

  “Agh!” I would’ve fallen onto the floor, but Dex easily wrapped an arm around me and hoisted me up.

  “Dude, relax,” Dex said into my phone. “Here she is.” He gave me my cell and I glared at him. “Need a leg up back to your seat?”

  “Bite me.”

  “Don’t tempt Dex,” Annie warned.

  “Too late.” Dex lifted my free arm and gnawed at my bicep through my sweater like a cartoon character.

  “Sibby!” Aidan yelled from behind me, standing in the doorway of the bar.

  I looked at him, then at my phone, then at Dex, who was still biting my arm. “What are you—we’re on the phone!”

  “We are,” he said to me and then switched his gaze to Dex. “You gonna let go of my girlfriend’s arm?” He looked ready to attack.

  “Maybe,” Dex taunted.

  “Aidan, seriously, what are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “I texted him where we were,” Annie said. “I was tired of you complaining.”

  “This is not what this looks like,” I said immediately, trying to shake Dex off.

  “It looks like you’ve got a very big, very tatted bartender biting your arm.”

  “Oh,” I said, striving for clarity through my drunken haze. “Then it’s exactly what it looks like.”

  “I’ve known Dex for years. He’s harmless,” Annie insisted. “Well, most of the time.”

  “Seriously, I’m giving you three seconds to let go of my girlfriend before I leap over the bar.”

  Dex smirked and dropped my arm. “She’s all yours. Too scrawny for me anyway.”

  I looked at him. “Who you calling scrawny?”

  “Sibby, don’t push your luck,” Annie warned.

  “Can we talk outside?” Aidan asked me.

  “It’s cold outside.”

  “Can we talk in the back corner?” Aidan relented.

  I nodded and scooted out from behind the bar. Aidan followed me and I didn’t even try and stop the babbling that was ensuing. “Listen, before you say anything, I threw that guy’s card away.”

  “Okay,” Aidan said, taking my hand and making me sit next to him.

  “And that crap with Dex? I have no idea. He just picked up my phone and made a bad situation worse.”

  “Okay.”

  “Will you stop saying ‘okay’? You’re not okay. I saw how you looked when that guy gave me his business card, but I had no intention of using it. Honest.”

  He peered at me curiously. “I know that.”

  “Then what was with the gritted jaw and jealousy?”

  “God, you’re obtuse.”

  “That’s a really good word,” I said. “Very SAT prep.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” he said, a small smile forming on his lips.

  “Finally! A smile!”

  As quick as the smile came, it disappeared. “I can’t keep doing this.”

  “Doing what?” I demanded. “Getting jealous and me getting drunk? I agree. It’s bad form. I think I’m becoming an alcoholic.”

  He shook his head. “You’re not an alcoholic.”

  “Okay, what are you talking about then?”

  “I hate this dating in secret crap. I’m an adult. I want to be able to kiss you in public, hold your hand in public—”

  “You’re not talking public, you’re talking about everyone at Antonio’s knowing.”

  “So what?” he yelled, finally getting mad. I’d never seen him mad. It was weird. So anti-Aidan. “We’re not in high school and I’m done sneaking around.”

  “There are two of us in this situation—”

  “Relationship,” he clarified. “We’re in a relationship.”

  “Fine. Relationship,” I relented. “I don’t want it broadcasted all around the restaurant! I’m trying to get rid of the drama in my life, not add to it!”

  We glared at each other.

  “I quit,” I said.

  His face went slack, the anger draining from him. “What?”

  “Yeah, consider this my two weeks notice. I’m done.”

  “But you can’t—not because of this—”

  “Try me,” I dared. “I don’t like being backed into a corner. And if you want us to be out in public together, then fine!”

  “You can’t quit! Natalie just quit!”

  My head spun with anger, alcohol and the change in conversation. “What?”

  “She talked to Jess after her shift. You can’t quit and leave us in a lurch!”

  “Well, you can’t have it all the ways you want it!” I yelled. I took a step back from him. “I need to get out of here.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, I need time away from…all this.” I looked at him and shook my head. “I’m right back where I started. Knee deep in drama and confusion.”

  “Sibby—”

  “Please, Aidan, just give me some time, okay?”

  I headed home, wondering what I was going to do. I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my email. There was already an email from Natalie telling us that she was leaving and that she had enjoyed her time at Antonio’s.

  I hit reply to her email, and asked if she had told Jess she was pregnant, and that I was thinking about quitting because Aidan wanted to go public with our relationship. I hit send, and the email went through right before I lost service.

  The train creepy-crawled all the way to Bedford Avenue and I almost fell asleep. At last, the train stopped and I got out from underground. The sidewalks were slick with salt and melting snow and it was cold. My phone chimed. My hands fumbled to unlock it and it slipped from my grasp, clattering to the ground.

  “Doh!” I scooped up my phone—the screen was cracked and dark and when I tried to turn the phone on, it remained stubbornly shut off. Just another thing I’d have to deal with tomorrow.

  Joy.

  The bus wasn’t coming any time soon, so I grabbed a cab that cost me eight bucks, and was dropped off at my apartment. I hung up my coat, wondering why my apartment felt so empty.

  Aidan not being in my apartment felt weird. Really weird. And sad. Like I’d gotten a terrible haircut and couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. Or something way less shallow.

  No. Aidan was a rebound. I was projecting feelings on him. Right? But then why did I give him a key?
r />   “Ah, crap,” I muttered.

  I was in love.

  I made myself some soup while I read through the day’s Tweets, trying to ignore my feelings for Aidan. I wrote Tragedy + Time = Comedy #lifetheme before shutting off my computer and passing out on the couch.

  I woke up with a hangover and reached for my phone before remembering it was still broken. Grumbling, I climbed off the couch and trudged to make coffee. I slurped some down, popped a few aspirin, and got dressed. The Verizon store was only a few blocks from my apartment.

  “I need a new phone,” I told the young guy behind the counter, handing over my damaged phone.

  “Do you have phone insurance?” he asked.

  “Probably. I’m a klutz,” I explained, giving him my personal info so he could pull up my account.

  He smiled. “Yeah, you have insurance. That will get you a replacement phone. Same one you’ve got.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have any in the store at the moment. I can get one in a few days, or you can head to the Union Square location and get a new one today.”

  I made a face. I didn’t have to work for two days. The last thing I wanted to do was go into Manhattan on my day off. “I’ll just wait. Thanks.”

  Maybe it would be good to be unplugged for a little while. I could try yoga or meditation, get back in touch with… Who was I kidding? I’d go crazy without my phone for a few days.

  When I got home, I logged onto Facebook, frowning when I saw seventeen message notifications. I started reading the messages; they were all from co-workers wondering how long I’d been with Aidan.

  Confused and dumfounded, I wondered how the hell they knew what I had tried to keep a secret for so long. Zeb and Natalie had kept quiet. I thought back to the previous night and my heart began to pound. I opened my email and went to my sent folder. I clicked open the email I’d sent to Natalie…

  And the entire staff.

  Oops.

  Chapter 21

  Zeppole [zeh-poh-lee]:

  1. Deep fried dough fritters, usually topped with powdered sugar.