I woke up at 9 and felt ok. like I had escaped the hangover from being social with old friends and coworkers and this cycle that i am about to describe to you. I usually wake up about an hour or so before the alarm goes off always because thats when my brain starts going over things like money, rent and money. then i feed the cats. table 1. my favorite table.
Lately I have been listening to the 60 minutes podcast on my walk to work. It seems to help. Somehow. These stories are so random to me, and honestly, a third of them I really dont care about but I probably should. maybe they make me seem more grounded to the people i dont have anything to talk to about.
instantly when i get to work its slammed and everyone is ready for me to take their order and to complain to me about the most trivial shit... you wouldnt even be able to imagine these things. most of them are hung over and are coning down from a very late night in nyc filled with "just one more" and "i dont usually do coke, but il take a little" ..sometimes even more that i cant even begin to explain or imagine. I guess thats the magic of this place.
Lately i have been arguing with people about the most random shit while the restaurant is incredibly busy. The truth of it all is that I only want to expedite everyone, equally, quickly, so we can all move on with our day. My day just happens to be dealing with all of these ill, and generally dissatisfied (in most cases to no fault of the restaurant), people.
Baby strollers are everywhere and the store is packed. You can barely get around because of it. I watch my coworkers try to find a place to grab a bite to eat as there is no place that is unoccupied in the busy little space we occupy from 9am to 5pm. its a long day. always. something ALWAYS happens in this time. Like: this guy yelled "FUCK" to me today as he felt that he got sick from the chicken he had just ate. he ate all of it by the way, before he told me it was not good. Yes. Yes. Yes. Fuck. im the asshole, yeah, i know, everything is my fault. etc etc. at this point i decide to change my decision of "not drinking today" to "ill wait until 4pm, an hour before we close". The count down continues.
Turn after turn everybody, for the most part, says the same exact things to each other, as do we to each other. for some reason i cant find comfort in this action. That has always been odd to me.
The clock reads 2pm and there is a line out the door. Im thinking about my wife last night tending bar in a very very trendy manhattan night club the night before. she works from 5pm to 6am approx. I feel bad for her but envious that she is at home sleeping in our lovely bed next to our cats that i fed (table number 1), and they are purring. She needs this and im hoping she is dreaming dreams of very very calm meadows where she is with her horse and the air is blowing through her amazing hair, jumping over craters of once sunken ships and clapping fans. I love her the most.
jumping ahead, so to speak, it seems now to be 4pm and most of the staff is non chellantly (sp?) nudging me about knocking off early for one reason or another. I am weak this way and always throw myself on top of the grenade and say "hey, yeah man, just go...ill get the rest"..thoug I feel like imploding. I like them a lot.
The beer comes. its only an hour left b4 we close. I cue up jimmy hendrix`s "angel". the soft caress of alcohol gets to the remainder of the staff and for a short moment, comparedly, all is ok. i turn up my ipod on the restaurants stereo and lay out random music that i think my bros back in the midwest are listening to on the radio. it kind of calms me.
i get this text from my dad, way way way far away back HOME (iowa). It reads: "son, im going to be taking care of your yard. all the mowing, fertilizing etc, until you and April get moved back". This takes me away. I think about our new home that we just bought and the reason why I am doing this in the first place. I exhale. there is only one girl in the restaurant sipping on a diet coke. my pocket is FULL of money that is mine. I will need this.
i put myself up on the counter and count my money. the house ALWAYS gets way more than me and thats ok with me. I understand that this is not my business. I play some crosby stils and nash and thik about this bird dog i want when i get moved.
i call a cab. my hands hold a big wad of money that consists of 10`s and 20`s. I tip the cab driver a few more than I probably should because Im feeling his pain of working for the people all the damn time.
I open my apt door, and my cats are all smarmy and rubbing against all my furniture. I call their names. It intensifies all of his. time for table 1 again.
l like table1.
