As the Tables Turn, Chapter 2

I’m back at the Elks Club for one more night of as the tables turn. We are busy but nothing like last week. Instead we have a steady stream of diners with only one glitch. I went to the bar to order two glasses of KJ Chardonnay and the bartender looked at me rather strange before uttering, “I don’t know what that is!” Yikes! We have a substitute bartender and she is definitely in the weeds. “White wine, and I will come back,” I reply on the fly, running back to the restaurant.

All twelve tables are occupied but the good news is the diners are staggered and I am able to get into a rhythm of serving them. Running the 75 feet to the bar to order and wait for drinks gets everything out of sync and I usually avoid it when we are busy. As I pass by the table that ordered the Chardonnay I hear: “we are getting our drinks, right?” I explain the bartender is backed-up but their wine is on the way. Impatient broads!

The night progresses without incident, the restaurant is clearing out and I am bussing dessert plates. The tab is given to the table and diners cash out directly with the bartender. I drop the ticket with the ladies that had Chardonnay and pick up their sundae bowls. One lady gets up to go pay leaving the other one alone at the table. I recognize Shawn as a local grocery checker. She leans into the table and says in a low tone:

“I’m going to tell you something but I don’t want you to be offended,” stopping me in my tracks. Of course when someone prefaces a comment like that, I’m on guard. But, I smile sweetly and say, “Yes?”

She looks down at my feet and hisses: “You need to get some different shoes that slide across the floor easier.”

“Excuse me? I love these shoes, and they work fine,” gazing down at my platform flip-flops that I wear when I can’t be barefoot, not sure where this conversation is going but sure it’s probably not to a good place.

“Well then, you are just Slow,” drawing out the word slooooow,  “but here’s five bucks anyhow,” as she presses the ones into the palm of my hand.

There it is out in the open, nothing subtle about it - the insult. Slow, I think? I’ve been running my ass off for three straight hours Tootsie. But I only smile, refusing to be put on the defensive by her harsh remark. I find myself automatically trying to explain that I am the only server here but she immediately interrupts “I know, I know - I’ve done this business for years.” Since she apparently knows everything there is to know about my job, I shut up.

I continue my rounds and the restaurant clears out. The more I think about her remark the more pissed off I get. So many responses come to mind after the fact, such as:

“You know Shawn, I think they might be hiring, maybe you want to put an application in?”

“If you’ve done this business for years, honey, why are you checking groceries now? I’m pretty sure this pays more.

“Yes I am slow, what’s your point?”

“Oh, these shoes are smashing. Men love them.”

But of course when someone tells you not to be offended, well the mind goes blank. The conversation continues to plays over and over in my head - Sliding shoes? What the hell are they? I have a vision of gliding across the floor with the tray held high above my head moving from table to table with the greatest of ease. But when I look down at my feet, I see roller skates! Maybe she has the Elks Club confused with Hooters. Maybe I should get a tank top, push my tits up, wear short shorts and skate my way around the tables flaunting my ass? Now that’s a scary thought.

So as it were, I have let the insult go, using it as inspiration for yet another chapter of “As the Tables Turn.” It is rather funny, hilarious in fact when you think about it. Who the hell does she think she is criticizing my shoes? Can you imagine? I don’t even think she’s an Elks member, but merely a guest. Interesting she did not say this in front of her friend that is a member, but waited until she left to pay the bill. This friend gave me a 20% tip on her credit card so with Shawn’s additional five dollars, well I did better than okay.

I do have a fantasy for the next time I see her around Homer town. I will stop, pull her aside and say in a low voice:

“Shawn, I want to tell you something but I don’t want you to be offended. You really need to adopt a more positive attitude.”

And when she says she has one?

“Well then, you’re just a bitch,” drawing out the word bitch. “Here’s five bucks to get a personality,” as I press the ones into the palm of her hand.