last week of work

If I kill someone tonight, it’s not my fault. I haven’t yet decided on a double homicide or the simpler, less messy route of suicide.

“You don’t need iced tea, you already have soy milk,” Margaret tells her husband in a tone used to being obeyed, her big floppy lips pursed in irritation. To call them horsy lips would have been an insult to the equine species.

“Do I have to move to another table to be waited on?” he responds imperialistically. I paste on a large smile and serve of the second beverage. The migraine pounding between my ears is hardly distracting as I juggle taking orders, serving drinks and bussing dirty dishes.

Payton blames the heat; the 100 degree sun pouring through the windows seems to back her up.

Working my way down the row of tables, hurrying back and forth with my tray loaded with food. Tonight we are having a lovely eggplant stack with a small salad and garlic bread. Bursts of disgusted laughter. “What are the alternates?” Back in the kitchen: a half order, a BBQ chicken and a slice of wheat bread with peanut butter and jam. No wait, I’m forgetting something. I lean tiredly against my tray and search my brain. Is eating all anyone ever does? Chad waits with a grin on his scruffy blond face. “A baked potato,” I burst out.

“That’s it?”

I nod, take the potato and head back to the table.

Thank goodness for Chet and Lou. While I clear their dishes, Lou cheerfully tells me how she prepared eggplant when she had her own kitchen. “I prefer it fried, but I like it most any way. My daughter plants it every summer so we get a lot of it.”

Bringing in the dirty dishes, balancing plate on top of plate, shoving the food to one side, silverware to another, unload in the kitchen. The resounding crash of dishes cascading to the floor is strangely satisfying, despite the Oh my gosh, oh my word, oh blast that pours forcefully from my startled mouth. I didn’t even see it happening, but there is now a pile of shattered dishes at my feet. Thank goodness none of the managers were around.

“I don’t feel so terrible now,” Georgia confides as we clean up the shards of plate. Guess I’m not the only smasher of dishes on the premises.

“You want to do desserts while I bus?” Taylor asks. Rather.

What do you have? I can’t hear you. Banana pudding? Goodness, if there is banana, you can’t taste it – there’s only custard. What else? I can’t hear you. Oh I guess I’ll take the banana cake. I have to have something to satisfy my hunger.

I serve the rest of the table, after verifying No Cookies. No wait. Change of mind. I don’t even bother trying to smile while placing the plate of cookies by her banana cake.

“Gosh, she’s so rude,” Payton looks haggard, and we exchange looks of deep self-pity. “Can you work supper for me tomorrow?” she pleads. “I have to baby sit my nephew.”

Sunday evening? Oh man. There goes my sleep. And my two weeks notice didn’t get communicated to Susan. How on earth can I work next weekend when I’m in Idaho? The joys of having five bosses. And no one seems to be available to fill in.

“Ok, we get to fight over who gets to ask Christi to fill in for next Sunday,” I ponder the schedule.

“Dibs on Christi – you try McKay. No, wait, she’s Mormon and can’t work Sunday.”

“I’ll try Kalpana. Which would make her work seven days in a row.” My headache threatens to pound harder. I’ll figure something out. Or leave it for Monica or Tom to figure out. It’s not my fault that this mix-up happened.

Finally it is time to head home. Glancing at the gas gauge, I slide behind the wheel of my car. The needle is resting on E.