My first few shifts I shadowed a seasoned waitress named Pam who was perky and had her hair permed like Marilyn Monroe's in the Seven Year Itch. As I followed at her side she showed me the ins and outs of the Friendly's way. There were abbreviations and codes to learn for all the various food stuffs the restaurant offered. I was nervous and thought I would never learn them all; confidence was never one of my stronger traits. A couple of days later it was my turn to take the orders while Pam observed me. I kept making mistakes. But she was reassuring. "You'll learn. Don't worry." And sure enough I was soon on my own with a three table station.
Waiting tables with all the emotional baggage I was lugging around was at times torturous. For without warning my smiling front would falter before customers and I'd feel like a raw and exposed nerve. It happened all too frequently. By my second night of waitering the thought that had been dogging at my heels from the moment I'd put the uniform on raised its head and sank its fangs deep into my flanks: I just wasn't cut out for waiting tables. I told Becky a cheerful and inviting waitress just that. She in turn told me how during her first week of waiting tables she went home each night and vomited out of nervousness. She assured me that like her my jitters would pass. With that in mind I labored on. And after that night it got if not easier then at least less painful. I took on a thicker skin and thought of myself as an actor playing a part. It was a role I grew into, ever so haltingly, until I had a level of self-confidence that brokered a relaxed and engaging smile. My tips increased accordingly.
Group dynamics among restaurant workers I soon learned were different from what I'd experienced at any of the various factories, foundries and warehouses I'd worked at. They were more playful. There was a camaraderie too of us against them (customers) that I'd never experienced before. Personalities were also larger, especially among the wait-staff. They were more alive and not bogged down with chip on the shoulder struggles of dead end jobs. They were going somewhere or else wise flourishing in their autonomy and pursuit of outside interests. There was also it was readily made clear soap opera intrigue between wait staff and cooks. But never with busboys.
Marilyn Monroe Pam for instance was soon scheming to hook me up with her good friend the night manager. Her name was Dawn and I found her unattractive. She had red and blotchy skin that was also pitted from unsuccessful wars with acme, and I had no interest in her. The only thing the two of us had in common was a mutual appreciation for Elvis Costello. But Pam insisted we were meant for one another. I however had my eyes on Roberta a tall and pretty brunet given to throaty laughter. When I made my interest known to Pam she bad mouthed Roberta and told me she had said less than kind things about me behind my back. Besides she reassured me Dawn was more my type. In the end, after countless whispered huddles, I dated neither one.
A short time later Pam who was married with two young girls took me into her confidence. She was having an ongoing affair that she had no intentions of calling off. She told me this in large part because her husband had come home early the day before and found her with the other man. She'd introduced him to her husband as me, her coworker. Now Pam wanted me to do what I could to collude in the ruse by keeping my identity secret from her husband. I felt used in a way I'd never felt before. But life moved on. And I chalked up Pam's actions to the notion that you could never really know another person no matter what their outside appearance.
Take for instance one of our busboys. He was studious and wore Ben Franklin specs and was named Charles something something the third. When you heard his given name you thought of patriots in the age of Concord and Valley Forge. But to us he was Chuck Smuss. He was known to finish off peoples discarded food that he'd cleared from tables and he had an unquenchable taste for nitrous oxide which he drained from whip-cream cans every chance he had. The results of this baffled our general manager who could not figure out why so many whip-cream cans were gas free and useless. Dawn who knew the truth of Chuck's inclinations warned him that he'd have brain damage if he didn't change his ways. Chuck laughed it off. Then one night there was a loud crash in the dish washing station. It was Chuck Smuss. He was sprawled out on his back with his glasses half off and a whip-cream can in his right hand. His arms were shaking akimbo and his legs were kicking to beat the band. He looked epileptic in full seizure mode. It lasted for several minutes. Afterwards Chuck promised to give his nitrous oxide habit a rest.
A night didn't go by it seemed without one of the wait staff pulling others aside to say, "Get a load of this..." followed by relaying some moronic action or request of a customer. They may have been our financial life's blood but they remained objects of inside humor, ridicule, and scorn. And sometimes revenge.
Late one evening a single man was seated in my section. He was an odd duck who exuded rage. His voice was clipped and raspy. He ordered coffee and a fried fish sandwich. I put his order in and went back to ask him if he wanted a refill of coffee. He glared at me in silence. So I turned around with no further ado. He slammed his fist down on his table so hard his utensils bounced up and down and I instinctively crouched. When I looked back at him he jabbed his coffee cup my way with a sneer and barked, "More coffee." I was reluctant to go near him. But I refilled his cup. When I told the cook what had happened he smiled and said, "Is that so?" He then took the guy's piece of fish and dunked it several times into the rank contents of the grease trap. Then I served it. Giggling in cahoots we watched the guy eat every last bit of the fouled sandwich.
Most nights though our camaraderie didn't take such dark turns. Things were typically business as usual. There were however times when disgusted with humanity in the guise of bad tips one of the cooks and I would turn off our Welcome To Friendly's signs early and locked the doors to bar further customers. We'd shrug our shoulders as they pulled at the doors and pointed at their watches letting us know we should be open. We didn't care. They were only customers. And by then we'd had our fill for the evening.
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