I 'm such a whore .
I'm in this for the money. My soul leaves my body, this is all happening to someone else. I look into the dim lights, the dull roar of crowd noise swells, and a quiet death overcomes any sense of reality. Pain is far away, my feet don't hurt, my back isn't sore and I no longer waste my life emptying ashtrays and leaning into other peoples conversations to ask if they'd like more wine.
Sometimes it's a movie. Here's a slow tracking shot of glowing candles and holiday diners who wear appropriate and inobtrusive wardrobes, gazing attentively at one another and not at me, the camera. A subtextual warmth radiates from each table, eyes sparkle with light, sound is a cooing mantra of chimes and chant that lulls us into womblike calm. I move seamlessly without jarring among them, on a path out of the kitchen across the plains of fertile tables and grazing lovers out onto the moonlit veranda where the night sounds mingle with the hum of traffic. It's all just a beautiful dream, full of cappucino foam, signifying nothing.
Avoiding the penetrating gaze of customers who want something, I skulk like a fleeing shoplifter into the kitchen to hide. The florescent lights flicker imperceptibly while stainless steel dulls. How different these worlds, the dining room and the kitchen. No wonder the traveller between them experiences ambivilence and doubt. These two worlds must never collide. They, the public, could not bear the clash of culture behind the swinging doors. To visit the factory of their dinner would crush the facade; best not to meet the artist, but to just enjoy the painting.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Virginia the drunk
Virginia looked good tonight. She kissed me three times. Her breasts were warm against my arm as she drunkenly told me that when she saw me she thought I was the damn cutest thing in the place. Handsome I mean she said as her gaze flew up to the rafters like a fighter losing touch with the sounds in the ring. Back down to me she uncrossed her eyes, beige warmth and sweet gin breath fueling my carnal motor and delivered her punch line: Can you get me a drink?
Can I ever. I gave Tommy a fin. Can I get a gin and tonic for my friend Virginia? I conspired, gesturing toward the supple fullness of her bosom, inches away. Sure, but you don't have to give me that he whispered, pushing the bill back at me. I pressed it into his hand and took the drink.
Virginia kissed me on the mouth with all her lust, her thirst and satisfaction overflowing at once.
% %
Can I ever. I gave Tommy a fin. Can I get a gin and tonic for my friend Virginia? I conspired, gesturing toward the supple fullness of her bosom, inches away. Sure, but you don't have to give me that he whispered, pushing the bill back at me. I pressed it into his hand and took the drink.
Virginia kissed me on the mouth with all her lust, her thirst and satisfaction overflowing at once.
% %
Saturday, January 08, 2005
adam
Nothing pisses Adam off like being asked what else he does. Isn't this enough ? he'd hiss.
What he really wanted to say is that he drinks, watches hockey and fucks waitresses when his girlfriend isn't around. Or another answer he would mutter after all the diners were home and snug in their beds is that he robs tourists at gunpoint. Why is it, Adam often wondered aloud, that everyone thinks this is our little hobby, that this is a side job we do to amuse ourselves. The answer they're looking for goes like this: I'm in med school, I'm an intern on the hill, I'm a writer.
The truth is more like this: I'm a loser who spends his days off masterbating and eating fried foods, I'm dying of AIDS and hate myself, the police are looking for me, but I still have to pay my bills.
Adam went beyond the breaking point regularly. While fairly well insulated from termination by virtue of dating the General Manager, he had been counselled to take a week or two off sometimes, and moved to San Francisco for a while, only to find that most of the waiting jobs were taken by losers who moved there before him.
Once, the calming drone of dining in main hall was shattered by a loud crash. Then another, this time with yelling and the sound of splintering wood. Then more crashing. It was Adam breaking chairs. He'd been pushed over the edge, probably by a customer who needed more mayonaisse. Or a busboy who went on his break while people were still being seated. Or maybe by the Rangers losing three in a row, whatever the cause of his violence, the outcome was the same. Despite broken furniture, or sometimes ketchup bottles, (which explode in a most satisfying thunk) Adam would be healed, as would those around him, whose frustrations were vented through proximity to this selfless activity. He was our patron saint, the waiter messiah, willing to die for our sins, to break so that we would not be broken. Following these tempests would be an eerie calm, and benign nods from the management. It's just Adam, they'd say, as though this were expected and acceptable behavior. Which it was.
What he really wanted to say is that he drinks, watches hockey and fucks waitresses when his girlfriend isn't around. Or another answer he would mutter after all the diners were home and snug in their beds is that he robs tourists at gunpoint. Why is it, Adam often wondered aloud, that everyone thinks this is our little hobby, that this is a side job we do to amuse ourselves. The answer they're looking for goes like this: I'm in med school, I'm an intern on the hill, I'm a writer.
The truth is more like this: I'm a loser who spends his days off masterbating and eating fried foods, I'm dying of AIDS and hate myself, the police are looking for me, but I still have to pay my bills.
Adam went beyond the breaking point regularly. While fairly well insulated from termination by virtue of dating the General Manager, he had been counselled to take a week or two off sometimes, and moved to San Francisco for a while, only to find that most of the waiting jobs were taken by losers who moved there before him.
Once, the calming drone of dining in main hall was shattered by a loud crash. Then another, this time with yelling and the sound of splintering wood. Then more crashing. It was Adam breaking chairs. He'd been pushed over the edge, probably by a customer who needed more mayonaisse. Or a busboy who went on his break while people were still being seated. Or maybe by the Rangers losing three in a row, whatever the cause of his violence, the outcome was the same. Despite broken furniture, or sometimes ketchup bottles, (which explode in a most satisfying thunk) Adam would be healed, as would those around him, whose frustrations were vented through proximity to this selfless activity. He was our patron saint, the waiter messiah, willing to die for our sins, to break so that we would not be broken. Following these tempests would be an eerie calm, and benign nods from the management. It's just Adam, they'd say, as though this were expected and acceptable behavior. Which it was.
seven
Cheryl actually was an actress. She said her lifelong goal was to be the voice in K-mart that came over the intercom and said "seven...seven...." Her dark hair framed a churlish face with bright eyes that often hid her icy hostility. She could act.
Cheryl was best at acting unsurprised. When an elderly man became entranced with her charms, and offerred her an unspecified but generous amount of money to join him at his hotel, she waved it off the way one would a refill in a wine glass. Thanks but no thanks, would you like some coffee?
More than one waiter found himself making similar entreaties to Cheryl, except without the money. While not exceptionally attractive, she wore herself like a dress, gracefully moving between situations. Cheryl played the leading role in all her dramas, comedies and tragedies.
In the end, she broke Adam's heart. That is, assuming he had one. Both their passions combined into an overheated and toxic cauldron that could do nothing but boil over itself, extinguishing the flame that fed it. She left for California, taking the great exit to the left, the flight of angels through clouds of indifference to the promised land. I sometimes hear her voice when I'm in K-mart saying softly, slowly, " seven...seven...".
Cheryl was best at acting unsurprised. When an elderly man became entranced with her charms, and offerred her an unspecified but generous amount of money to join him at his hotel, she waved it off the way one would a refill in a wine glass. Thanks but no thanks, would you like some coffee?
More than one waiter found himself making similar entreaties to Cheryl, except without the money. While not exceptionally attractive, she wore herself like a dress, gracefully moving between situations. Cheryl played the leading role in all her dramas, comedies and tragedies.
In the end, she broke Adam's heart. That is, assuming he had one. Both their passions combined into an overheated and toxic cauldron that could do nothing but boil over itself, extinguishing the flame that fed it. She left for California, taking the great exit to the left, the flight of angels through clouds of indifference to the promised land. I sometimes hear her voice when I'm in K-mart saying softly, slowly, " seven...seven...".
Anita's
A darkish A frame on route 50 in Fairfax, Anita's is nestled between a car wash and a car stereo store. Except for a tropically colored mural of no one's homeland, the place is mostly brown. Brown carpet, brown tables, brown pants on the staff. Someone likes brown, or at least has settled there as a comfortable decorating choice.
I chose Anita's on the advice of an ex-girlfriend who ate there a lot. I had never worked in a restaurant in any capacity, and had doubts as to whether I could muster the courage to march up to a table full of strangers and engage them in dialogue. But I had eaten out plenty, and reasoned that by virtue of association, I could do whatever it is that waiters do. Not that I had paid attention; I had to be told that you ask for drinks, bring them and take the dinner order.
Bonnie deCerbo gave me a menu and told me to memorize it and come back in two days. I glanced at it. When I returned, a younger woman named Mary Jane quizzed me on it.
I failed miserably, not knowing prices, ingredients or even what side dishes were on the plate.
Mary Jane shrugged and hired me anyway.
We wore yellow polo shirts with the Anita's logo stencilled in brown above the left breast.
Mary Jane pointed out two small tables. "That's your section" she told me. I had no idea there were territories. A terse hispanic hostess led people past my tables for about two hours while I stood dumbfounded. No one offered me any advice. Finally, a couple were seated at my table. I approached them.
"Good evening," I said, the opening statement of my restaurant career. The woman looked up at me. Something was wrong. She did not return my salutation. The man buried his face in his menu, afraid to look at me. The tension was built, and I breathed in to return to my opening statement, with really no idea what to say next. Thankfully, she relieved my burden by speaking.
"Can we sit somplace else?"
It was the first time I would hear that request, but not the last. It was the first time I would feel rushed to get food out, to remember who is drinking what, and who ordered what . It was the first time I felt the slime that builds on your face when you sweat in the presesnce of a deep fryer. It was the first fistful of ones that I scooped up, rapid reward for honest toil in its purest form: instant karma.
I chose Anita's on the advice of an ex-girlfriend who ate there a lot. I had never worked in a restaurant in any capacity, and had doubts as to whether I could muster the courage to march up to a table full of strangers and engage them in dialogue. But I had eaten out plenty, and reasoned that by virtue of association, I could do whatever it is that waiters do. Not that I had paid attention; I had to be told that you ask for drinks, bring them and take the dinner order.
Bonnie deCerbo gave me a menu and told me to memorize it and come back in two days. I glanced at it. When I returned, a younger woman named Mary Jane quizzed me on it.
I failed miserably, not knowing prices, ingredients or even what side dishes were on the plate.
Mary Jane shrugged and hired me anyway.
We wore yellow polo shirts with the Anita's logo stencilled in brown above the left breast.
Mary Jane pointed out two small tables. "That's your section" she told me. I had no idea there were territories. A terse hispanic hostess led people past my tables for about two hours while I stood dumbfounded. No one offered me any advice. Finally, a couple were seated at my table. I approached them.
"Good evening," I said, the opening statement of my restaurant career. The woman looked up at me. Something was wrong. She did not return my salutation. The man buried his face in his menu, afraid to look at me. The tension was built, and I breathed in to return to my opening statement, with really no idea what to say next. Thankfully, she relieved my burden by speaking.
"Can we sit somplace else?"
It was the first time I would hear that request, but not the last. It was the first time I would feel rushed to get food out, to remember who is drinking what, and who ordered what . It was the first time I felt the slime that builds on your face when you sweat in the presesnce of a deep fryer. It was the first fistful of ones that I scooped up, rapid reward for honest toil in its purest form: instant karma.
if I was Phyllis Richman
The right critic can make or break a restaurant. In Washington, it's Phyllis Richman. She's the engine that moves the masses, and her weekly column is read religiously by the preferred clientele, those well-to-do-dual-income-no-children thirty-somethings whose palates and imagination run just short of originality, and need only a tiny push to be told where to eat.
Phyllis and her three pages in the Washington post have more affect on a restaurants' success than all the cilantro in christendom. She says go, they go. She says stay away, some still go out of curiosity. One place changed its' name upon recieving their advance copy of the review. Her picture should be posted in every kitchen within a hundred mile radius of the capitol building. In fact, she rarely allows herself to be photographed, and never consents to the publication of her image.
But I know what she looks like. That's because I have suckled on the thorny end of her pithy wrath. She is notoriously hard on servers, resorting to jabs about personality as opposed to professionality, and is not above berating anyone she feels is beneath the noble task of serving her in particular, and the public at large in general.
It was a Saturday night, and we were packed. I had the tavern room, a twelve table section known for its campers, and for long haul cocktailing. If I had great tits it would be a good section, but for someone whose strengths were knowledge of the menu and (mostly) cheerful service, it was a death sentence. A group of six people arrived and asked for a table for eight. The section was full except for a slot along the banquet that was known to the staff as "the refrigerator' because its proximity to the ventilation grate kept it at sub-zero temperatures. The leader of the group gestured toward the only open area and indicated that his party would sit there.
With gracious waiterly aplomb, I approached the table and exchanged salutations. The was a short lady with silver/black hair, and she asked what wines we served by the glass. This is important. It was my first brush with Phyllis Richman.
"We have Hawk's Crest chardonnay, which is Stag's Leap's second lable" Mistake: too precise. More information than necessary. The lady looked up at me, then titterred, and the rest of the diners followed her prompt to laughter. She asked me to repeat it, I did. They laughed again and it made me uncomfortable. I looked up. The was another table signalling for their check. A couple was ready to order. I still hate large tables. Sure, there's money in it, but it's always a hassle, never smooth. It rattles me, it's unmanageble and offends my sense of decorum.
I needed an escape. They were not about to let up. After a near eternity, I took drink orders. Every order involved a quiz, are the strawberries in the daquiries fresh ?(no) what beers are on tap ?(none) do you have coors light? (come on) what is the dryest red ?(people who ask for dry wines are the dining equivalent of tire kickers on a car lot). I knew something was going on, I just didn't know what. Flustered, I finally got away, feeling hazed.
I ran some errands, did a shot of vodka that the bartender forced on me saying it was someone's mistaken order, and returned. Everyone had moved, and now only two were holding menus. Unfazed but blearier, I asked if they would like appetizers. Another extended dialogue ensured, including descriptive passages and a litany of my personal favorites. I was losing my charming facade and become more perfunctory with each sylabble. Finally, one man said he'd like the fire shrimp, a dish I'd recommended. I acknowledged this order, looked around the table, no one else seemed to want anything, so I departed.
I could feel the eyes glaring from behind me. Returning to the table I could now feel animosity. I apologized and asked there was something else. Fluttering, the woman who turned out to be Ms. Richman indignantly huffed, "The rest of us would like appetizers as well" and gave me a look as if I had just farted. It went downhill from there.
The rest was my fault. I ceased attempts to be charming, slipping first into perfunctory, later moving toward surly, and had already complained to the other servers about what snooty pissants these people were when a waitress flew into the kitchen like her hair was on fire.She came up to me, eyes wild, small bubbles of foam forming at the corners of her mouth as she spoke.
"Did you know that you're waiting on Phyllis Richman?" she shrieked. I did now. All motion and activity stopped. The kitchen staff looked across the line at me. My manager was in earshot. He scurried over, aghast, demanding a rundown of the events thus far. I left out all the bad things. He told the hostess not to seat anymore tables in my section. I laughed malevolently inside. The damage was done. Any steps now were like closing the barn door after the horses had left. Face it, I'm the focus of evil in the universe.
The review called me the waiter from another planet. She said the black bean pate' tasted like punishment. That was my favorite line. She roasted us, slammed us and kicked us while we were down. It was funny. She advised patrons to stick to appetizers and dessert, advice that, if followed, would drive us out of business two ways: waiter's checks would be low, so the competent staff members would go work someplace else, and the kitchen would sell no entrees, and supply and ordering would be fucked, driving profits down, a slow but sure death.
This was not the last time that Phyllis Richman and I would meet, but only the opening salvo in our little war.
Phyllis and her three pages in the Washington post have more affect on a restaurants' success than all the cilantro in christendom. She says go, they go. She says stay away, some still go out of curiosity. One place changed its' name upon recieving their advance copy of the review. Her picture should be posted in every kitchen within a hundred mile radius of the capitol building. In fact, she rarely allows herself to be photographed, and never consents to the publication of her image.
But I know what she looks like. That's because I have suckled on the thorny end of her pithy wrath. She is notoriously hard on servers, resorting to jabs about personality as opposed to professionality, and is not above berating anyone she feels is beneath the noble task of serving her in particular, and the public at large in general.
It was a Saturday night, and we were packed. I had the tavern room, a twelve table section known for its campers, and for long haul cocktailing. If I had great tits it would be a good section, but for someone whose strengths were knowledge of the menu and (mostly) cheerful service, it was a death sentence. A group of six people arrived and asked for a table for eight. The section was full except for a slot along the banquet that was known to the staff as "the refrigerator' because its proximity to the ventilation grate kept it at sub-zero temperatures. The leader of the group gestured toward the only open area and indicated that his party would sit there.
With gracious waiterly aplomb, I approached the table and exchanged salutations. The was a short lady with silver/black hair, and she asked what wines we served by the glass. This is important. It was my first brush with Phyllis Richman.
"We have Hawk's Crest chardonnay, which is Stag's Leap's second lable" Mistake: too precise. More information than necessary. The lady looked up at me, then titterred, and the rest of the diners followed her prompt to laughter. She asked me to repeat it, I did. They laughed again and it made me uncomfortable. I looked up. The was another table signalling for their check. A couple was ready to order. I still hate large tables. Sure, there's money in it, but it's always a hassle, never smooth. It rattles me, it's unmanageble and offends my sense of decorum.
I needed an escape. They were not about to let up. After a near eternity, I took drink orders. Every order involved a quiz, are the strawberries in the daquiries fresh ?(no) what beers are on tap ?(none) do you have coors light? (come on) what is the dryest red ?(people who ask for dry wines are the dining equivalent of tire kickers on a car lot). I knew something was going on, I just didn't know what. Flustered, I finally got away, feeling hazed.
I ran some errands, did a shot of vodka that the bartender forced on me saying it was someone's mistaken order, and returned. Everyone had moved, and now only two were holding menus. Unfazed but blearier, I asked if they would like appetizers. Another extended dialogue ensured, including descriptive passages and a litany of my personal favorites. I was losing my charming facade and become more perfunctory with each sylabble. Finally, one man said he'd like the fire shrimp, a dish I'd recommended. I acknowledged this order, looked around the table, no one else seemed to want anything, so I departed.
I could feel the eyes glaring from behind me. Returning to the table I could now feel animosity. I apologized and asked there was something else. Fluttering, the woman who turned out to be Ms. Richman indignantly huffed, "The rest of us would like appetizers as well" and gave me a look as if I had just farted. It went downhill from there.
The rest was my fault. I ceased attempts to be charming, slipping first into perfunctory, later moving toward surly, and had already complained to the other servers about what snooty pissants these people were when a waitress flew into the kitchen like her hair was on fire.She came up to me, eyes wild, small bubbles of foam forming at the corners of her mouth as she spoke.
"Did you know that you're waiting on Phyllis Richman?" she shrieked. I did now. All motion and activity stopped. The kitchen staff looked across the line at me. My manager was in earshot. He scurried over, aghast, demanding a rundown of the events thus far. I left out all the bad things. He told the hostess not to seat anymore tables in my section. I laughed malevolently inside. The damage was done. Any steps now were like closing the barn door after the horses had left. Face it, I'm the focus of evil in the universe.
The review called me the waiter from another planet. She said the black bean pate' tasted like punishment. That was my favorite line. She roasted us, slammed us and kicked us while we were down. It was funny. She advised patrons to stick to appetizers and dessert, advice that, if followed, would drive us out of business two ways: waiter's checks would be low, so the competent staff members would go work someplace else, and the kitchen would sell no entrees, and supply and ordering would be fucked, driving profits down, a slow but sure death.
This was not the last time that Phyllis Richman and I would meet, but only the opening salvo in our little war.
hooked
I got hooked early, after my first few nights. In the beginning, the commeraderie intimidated me. Everybody was in a clique but me, and I didn't know the dos and don'ts yet. Do kiss the boss' ass, don't screw a bunch of waitresses right away, but if you do, don't let anybody find out.
The money sucked at first, I made eleven dollars one night, sixteen the next, and then went right to another bar to spend it. But it didn't matter. These were fun people, they went out every night. It was a ready-made social circle, perfect for the heart-sick directionlessness of my early twenties. What other job featured cocktails as part of one's duties, and paid cash nightly?What other job permitted such intimate relations with waitresses, the hard talking, cash carrying stiff drinking culinary conduits of the restaurant world?
Waiting tables is like joining the circus. It's a runaway's approach to handling the inevitable challenge of finding one's niche, or at least a way to pay the bills. It's something to do while you figure out what you're going to do. It's a long term temporary fix
The money sucked at first, I made eleven dollars one night, sixteen the next, and then went right to another bar to spend it. But it didn't matter. These were fun people, they went out every night. It was a ready-made social circle, perfect for the heart-sick directionlessness of my early twenties. What other job featured cocktails as part of one's duties, and paid cash nightly?What other job permitted such intimate relations with waitresses, the hard talking, cash carrying stiff drinking culinary conduits of the restaurant world?
Waiting tables is like joining the circus. It's a runaway's approach to handling the inevitable challenge of finding one's niche, or at least a way to pay the bills. It's something to do while you figure out what you're going to do. It's a long term temporary fix
catch up
My feet are numb. The waves of people won't stop coming into the place. It's been like this all day. No matter how much potential money is out there, I can't go to another table. If I have to ask one more fucking person what he would like to drink, I'm going to roll onto the floor and piss all over myself. Just try and cross me lady, I'll fucking cut your fucking eyeballs out.
Maybe I should start drinking again. This never used to happen when I was drinking. I could just bounce into things and breathe toxic fumes into customer's faces. When it was over, I would wake up on my living room floor, with ketchup all over my shoes, and a waitress's trousers crumpled in a heap nearby.
Maybe I should start drinking again. This never used to happen when I was drinking. I could just bounce into things and breathe toxic fumes into customer's faces. When it was over, I would wake up on my living room floor, with ketchup all over my shoes, and a waitress's trousers crumpled in a heap nearby.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
the end/ This is where
Sunday was St. Patrick's Day, number one on the list of holiday aggravants. Drunks yelling, requests for green beer, puke. Why would someone want green dye added to an otherwise nice and effervescent beverage. how stupid can people be? Pretty fucking stupid.
"We've noticed," began a man whose compatriots were affecting airs of importance and supercilliousnesss, "that you have a lovely voice" He sounded like he should be drooling, but no saliva seemed to be escaping his mouth. There were no compliments without barbed hooks around here, and I kept my smile affixed with a brace against whatever came next. Cheryl's wisdom about remaining unsurprised had influenced me. The less shock one registers, the better equipped to respond with a witty rejoinder that won't cost one the tip.
" How about singing Danny Boy?" he asked, face scrunched up into a cartoony leer. What could possibly be the point of this? Sentimentality? Harrassment? Drunkenness? The decision
was simple. Selflessness demands that one be uninhibited enough for anything. I dropped into David Bowie impersonation. The bigger fool the better. I only know the first two lines. Camping it up, but still confident, because hell, I can sing, I launched my musical boat into the gaping waters of dinnertime: OOOOoooohhh DAAAannyBBooyyy the PIIIIIIpes, the Piiipes are CCCCaaallliing...exit into the kitchen to the chorus of raucous applause. I'm insane, but it's a crazy world.
* * * * * * *
When I first saw Tami, I got one of those flutters you get when the teacher calls your name, or when you hear the screeching of tires behind you. Time slows down, every second takes an eternity, your heartbeats pound one beat per hour, low and long like a big bass drum.
It was at the Christmas party. She was talking in the low light, her features catching a candle's glow, music so loud it was impossible to hear, but so crucial it was impossible to miss.
She was Andy's girlfriend. Andy was basically my only friend at the restaurant I'd been working at for three weeks, and she was his mysterious girlfriend. At least I'd never seen her, and now here she was, beautiful, funny, kind, taking the time to talk to me when I knew practically no-one at this party.
She told me she was leaving for Spain in the morning. For how long I shouted over the dance grooves flailing beneath us as we leaned on the balcony rail. Nine months she said, her lips pressed to my ear so I could hear.
I heard all right. I heard my heart stop, my blood rush to my mouth, the smell of warm red wine curling from her lips into my nostrils saying drink me, drink me now, take me into your mouth and swirl me around let me consume and be consumed by you, pull me from this stupid room and go somewhere we can talk, laugh, drink and love.
At least that's how I remember it. Then she was gone. I saw her and Andy leaving, a huge crimson slash down her blouse, an unfortunate slurp of Cabernet, probably.
She and I didn't see each other again for a year and a day, when she showed up in main hall, dressed for work.
Have we met she said when I greeted her. My name's Tami.
"We've noticed," began a man whose compatriots were affecting airs of importance and supercilliousnesss, "that you have a lovely voice" He sounded like he should be drooling, but no saliva seemed to be escaping his mouth. There were no compliments without barbed hooks around here, and I kept my smile affixed with a brace against whatever came next. Cheryl's wisdom about remaining unsurprised had influenced me. The less shock one registers, the better equipped to respond with a witty rejoinder that won't cost one the tip.
" How about singing Danny Boy?" he asked, face scrunched up into a cartoony leer. What could possibly be the point of this? Sentimentality? Harrassment? Drunkenness? The decision
was simple. Selflessness demands that one be uninhibited enough for anything. I dropped into David Bowie impersonation. The bigger fool the better. I only know the first two lines. Camping it up, but still confident, because hell, I can sing, I launched my musical boat into the gaping waters of dinnertime: OOOOoooohhh DAAAannyBBooyyy the PIIIIIIpes, the Piiipes are CCCCaaallliing...exit into the kitchen to the chorus of raucous applause. I'm insane, but it's a crazy world.
* * * * * * *
When I first saw Tami, I got one of those flutters you get when the teacher calls your name, or when you hear the screeching of tires behind you. Time slows down, every second takes an eternity, your heartbeats pound one beat per hour, low and long like a big bass drum.
It was at the Christmas party. She was talking in the low light, her features catching a candle's glow, music so loud it was impossible to hear, but so crucial it was impossible to miss.
She was Andy's girlfriend. Andy was basically my only friend at the restaurant I'd been working at for three weeks, and she was his mysterious girlfriend. At least I'd never seen her, and now here she was, beautiful, funny, kind, taking the time to talk to me when I knew practically no-one at this party.
She told me she was leaving for Spain in the morning. For how long I shouted over the dance grooves flailing beneath us as we leaned on the balcony rail. Nine months she said, her lips pressed to my ear so I could hear.
I heard all right. I heard my heart stop, my blood rush to my mouth, the smell of warm red wine curling from her lips into my nostrils saying drink me, drink me now, take me into your mouth and swirl me around let me consume and be consumed by you, pull me from this stupid room and go somewhere we can talk, laugh, drink and love.
At least that's how I remember it. Then she was gone. I saw her and Andy leaving, a huge crimson slash down her blouse, an unfortunate slurp of Cabernet, probably.
She and I didn't see each other again for a year and a day, when she showed up in main hall, dressed for work.
Have we met she said when I greeted her. My name's Tami.
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