The weekend finally comes and tonight I get my own tables at
Denny’s to wait on. No more following or trailing another server, my training
is complete.
As I pull into the parking lot, I can see that the place is
packed. Packed with drunks. Packed to the brim with drunks. I can see people
jumping around through the giant windows that face the parking lot. It
literally looks like an out of control party is going on.
My shift starts at 11pm but I always like to arrive one half
hour before I am supposed to start work. That way I can ease into the night,
start with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. I park, turn off the ignition and
spend a few extra moments in my car, taking deep breaths. I can already see
what kind of night I am in for. I can’t sit here all night. If I’m going to go
in, it’s now or never.
As I walk up the cement path to the store, drunks stumble by
me on the way to their cars. It’s the 80s, so drinking and driving is pretty much
acceptable and often talked about as a rite of passage.
As I open the front door one girl stumbles by me before falling
headfirst in the bushes, literally five steps from the front of the restaurant.
Her friend falls in after her as she tries to help. The two of them lay on the
ground laughing and trying to get up. I walk past without offering to help
either of them and push open the door. Denny’s is standing room only. I have to
excuse myself and push through people so I can get into the place.
The staff from the 4-11pm shift is so happy to see me they
ask me if I can get on the floor right away. That way they can leave the floor
let me finish up their tables and turn the tips over to them. So I get to
finish up their drunk and abusive patrons before I get to have my own.
One of the waitresses, Michelle grabs my elbow on my way
past her as I head into the kitchen. She leans into my ear and loudly whispers,
“Table 12 is full of assholes! Can you please finish it up for me?” I look her
in the eyes and she repeats “Please?” Her eyes plead for help. I get it she is
done. I nod my head to acknowledge what she is asking of me. She doesn’t even
let me get into the kitchen before she hands all of her checks over to me.
The employee break room is literally one step inside the
kitchen door. There is a table attached to the wall piled high with empty
glasses, newspapers and ashtrays overflowing with half smoked cigarettes.
I take a deep breath.
To be continued…
Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writing "A Day in the Life/Down the Rabbit Hole". It cannot be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.
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