Essay #2

"There are only so many types of people that can handle this kind of work." Algier said in his thick indistinguishable accent. There was a construction area in the back of Maggiano's Little Italy in Philadelphia which was no more than a hollowed out section of the block sized building. We would often sit there and smoke during down time, and we would gab about this or that. Today the topic was why anyone would subject themselves to the life of a restaurant worker. "The first," he said, "Is people in transition. They are in college or moving, maybe waiting for something else after they get their degree. Somebody just wanting simple circumstances in between two sets of complicated ones. Divorce, jail, stuff like that. They don't know where they're going to land so they take a job they don't have to stick with." He dragged on his long cigarette and exhaled slowly. The love he treated the nicotine delivery device with made his next statement a double entendre. "The second is druggies. They always need quick cash. You can work a day on the floor after a hard night of partying, or while you're high. The third is single moms. They don't have many other choices and most of them can't do a regular work schedule, they have no one to watch their kids." He paused for a long moment and the busser next to me got up and went back into the building. "Then there's you and me. We wouldn't want to do anything else. We are the dyed in the wool professional who lives at the table." He stabbed out his cigarette and patted me on the shoulder as he went back inside the kitchen. I have considered this moment many times since and have yet to prove him wrong.

It always makes me sad to see the cherry of my cigarette burn closer to the filter. It means that my respite from the floor is almost over. I take a long puff and hold it while tossing my smoke into the sand next to us and stomping it under. Emerging from the relative calm of the storage area into the chaos of the restaurant floor is like having a bucket of cold water thrown onto you. The noise is suddenly deafening and from years of experience I instantly get my bearings and remember where I left off. Next to me is Andrea making coffee for table 21. Andrea is a pretty blond, very much a wilting flower. She recently divorced her husband, even though she has a Masters in journalism she chooses to work the floor until she knows where she is going to live. She is estranged from her family because they set her up with her husband right after college and has nowhere to go. She flits by and I pick up a tray to start coffee service for my table then ring in an order on the computer next to the coffee warmers. Ismael keeps bumping into me and apologizing in his pidgeon English. He is a busser, originally from Mexico. A strange looking fellow made all the more interesting by his habit of shaving his head. During a late night drinking session he and I bonded once and he told me he was an "Abogado," a lawyer. He has a Doctorate in Mexico and it is worth nothing here. He works with good humor during the day, doing his best to put up with the condescension. He simply waits for a better opportunity when he takes his hard earned American dollars home where they are a fortune. Drunk one night he gave me a hug and smacked me hard on the back saying, "El cobarde es incapaz de mostrar amor, porque el hacerlo esta resevado para los valientes." A coward cannot demonstrate affection, because that kind of reward is reserved for the valiant.

The order goes in and I trust the food runner Miguel to get it there on time. His father and mother, Alejandro and Maria work with us too. In Mexico city Alejandro was a waiter for many years and raised many children with Maria, all of whom moved with him to Philadelphia. Miguel is the troubled boy, who is in love with Andrea even though he knows she will break his heart. The vice that Alejandro says he purveyed secretly to his tables in Mexico was called "Cafe Blanco," or white coffee. Poetic Justice has it's place in Miguel's love of blow. He wouldn't show up a day without his forty bag and his huge Dunkin Donut's vanilla shake to calm the sore throat the "yeah-o" always gives him. He moves frenetically yet with the purpose and grace years of soccer have given him and never misses a beat. At night when the crew meets at Iron House or Moriarty's he always consumes his weight in beer just to help him sleep. The rest of the crew smoke joints at home but he doesn't like grass. It makes him stupid, he says. Table 53 in the bar requires much of my attention since the salon owner there will only be served by me. He spends a ton and tips well, but drinks a full bottle of Skyy vodka every time he comes in and smacks my ass frequently. I feel like a whore but at least I'm paid well for my shame. Coming back to the kitchen Michelle is sitting on the steps, crying. We have learned to let her cry when she has to. The track marks on her bare forearms say that she doesn't have long left at the restaurant and like soldiers in Vietnam, you don't get close to the already dead. Table 52 needs me now.

"You know, Matt, you got a good thing going,'" says Momma as I pass through the kitchen. I'm sure that she once had a name but now it's Momma and no one has ever heard any other. Six kids later she has gargantuan hind quarters and an easy smile. If she ever had a husband, or if her children had the same father noone knew. She never spoke of it and we never asked. She saunters past me on the way to smoke displaying surprising speed and agility and says "You finally took my advice and learned how to get all your tables done at the same time. Good on ya." Once she had explained to me that when you are sat many tables at once you have treat them all as one big table or you will go nuts trying to coordinate their service. It was seems like such common sense but as Robert Heinlein's four thousand year old character Lazarus Long said "There's nothing common about sense." "You know, Matt," Momma once said to me "When you work tables it's great for your family. If you little girl wants Jeans you just give her the cash, and you know you'll make more tomorrow." She was remarkably succinct. Momma had an amazingly deceptive quality of simplicity derived from a dizzying and immense wisdom. Hard lives often reward the world with amazing people. Fifteen tables and $850.00 in sales later I can finally start my side work and prepare my cash-out. I can almost taste the Guinness.

The end of every night on the floor is like a reckoning. You have experienced so many things, some emotionally edifying and others destructive. It's like at the end of every performance an actor has to answer superficially to the audience, but ultimately to the harshest critic imagineable, themselves. You finish up your side work and you consider why you put yourself through the days exertions. Every single mistake you made in service eats at your heart like an ulcer with an attitude.
I hand the restaurants cut of my nightly take to Algier.
"You're right about the who, Algier, the dyed in the wool professional. You didn't say why. Why do we keep putting ourselves through it? Is it the money? The prestige? The thrill of serving the rich and famous?" He smiles bitterly and thinks for a moment. Then he lights the famous cigarette and says,
"You think Picasso would have gotten the same credit for being a Janitor? 75% of the people here are just passing through. You and me, we're artists. This is our canvas."