Table Whore

Most days it doesn't bother me. The fact that I serve food to people with a fake smile and ask in a saccharine sweet voice: "Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?" as if there was nothing more I would LOVE to do than get them another side of dressing. No, most days, after I walk out the door with a wad of cash equivalent to 15-20 percent of my sales I don't mind my job at all.
Tonight was different. Tonight I mind. Tonight I want to be a table whore no more.

It all started like a normal Friday. I pulled a double as I always do at the end of the week and I was looking forward to the wad of wallet stuffing that would come at the end of my labors. The day was filled with the usual mix of nice people and the typically clueless, demanding bastards who seem to have no idea that food actually has to be cooked beforethey consume it and that they are not the only table in the restaurant. I can handle these people. Its my job. Just a little smile, a look of concern, a distracting comment of praise about their appalling wardrobe and they are putty in my hands. No problem. I'm an actress. I'm a table whore. I'm a pro.

I came back for the second round. It. Was. Awful. There seemed to be a certain amount of "asshole" traveling through the air with the east wind. It was apparently catching and absorbed into the pours of ninety percent of my customers.
"Why is our pizza TAKING so long?!?!" screeched a botox filled, peroxide bleached septuagenarian. "We have to be to temple by 7!!! THIS is unacceptable and I'll have you know I KNOW the OWNERS!!"
"You and half the town bitch." I muttered under my breath as I walked back to get her pizza which was, incidentally, 3 minutes under its scheduled time.
The hours went by. So did the assholes.
"Thees wine tastes like sheeeet." announced an arrogant Arab man in an designer suit that reeked of Hugo Boss. His cowering wife sat silently with her glass of water, not making eye contact with anyone. "In my country we KNOW good wine. Take eet back. I wont pay for eet. Eeet is Sheeeeeet!!"
I took back the brim-full glass of pinot noir and it took every ounce in my body not to slam it down right there.
"My salad is too wet!"
"WHY isn't our appetizer here?!? My son has hypoglycemia!!!"
"don't think that I'm going to tip you for THIS lady. You call this GOURMET PIZZA?!?! I like my pepperoni with Italian SPICES and HERBS!!! This tastes like SALAMI from HELL!!"
"What do you MEAN you don't have RANCH DRESSING?!?! What the HELL kind of pizza place is this?"
And so on, and so on and so on.
The wind kept blowing and the assholes kept pouring in. The people that were actually decent, nice, and good tippers were too few and far between to notice. I had had enough, and I was ready to go home.
But the night was not over yet. It is almost always inevitable that the last customer of the evening will be the worst. Tonight was no exception.
It was a quarter 'till 10: fifteen minutes before closing, and a flusterd woman came through the door with her daughter.
"Where are your slices?" she asked.
"Actually, we don't serve slices at this location." I replied in a robotic voice, quoting what I say at least 500 times a day.
"WHAT?!?! But, my daughter is STARVING and we are MEETING people here for a slice!" She whined shrilly, like a three year old.
I was calm and composed and tried my damnedest to get her the hell out of the restaurant and down the street to the slice shop. She would not budge.
"No, no no. We're here now and we might as well stay. I'm so COLD. Are you cold?" she asked.
The sweat beads streaming down my haggard face didn't seem to be enough of an answer for her.
"Um... no. But, the kitchen closes in 15 minutes. Can I get your order?"
She didn't seem to hear this and proceeded to launch into a horrificly personal monologue about her menstrual history.
"GAWWWD-I have the WORST cramps!! Don't you HATE it when that happens? I know this month is going to be clotty! I HATE it when its clotty! I can always tell its going to be CLOTTY when my cramps get this bad? Do you have anything for that?"
I tried to suppress my utter disgust for his woman. Not only did I automatically hate her for having NO clue that we were CLOSING and we all wanted to get out of there-her insistence on telling me about the pain in her reproductive organs made me want to barf.
"Just 'cuz I'm a girl doesn't mean I give a shit about your ovaries bitch." Is what went through my mind.
"Um....red wine?" Is what came out of my mouth. "Red wine is always good for cramps."
I'm an actress. I'm a pro.
"YES!!!" she yelled as if it was the epiphany of the year. "Give me a bottle of whatever you think is good!!!"
I proceeded to grudgingly open a bottle of our most expensive wine. If she was going to leave it up to me, I was going to make the most of it.
Her husband showed up with her OTHER daughter and they proceeded to changed tables at least three times because one of their daughters was apparently OCD and: "didn't like metal. It makes me uncomfortable." she winced as I pulled a chair out for her.
They settled for a booth, and the woman still wanted to chat with me about her ovaries like we at a fucking 7th grade slumber party and we were obsessed with our impending periods.
I tried to suppress my gag reflex and get to the point.
"Can I take your order?" I asked.
Simple question. Not so simple answer. She asked me detailed questions about half of the 26 pizzas on the menu.
Is it good? Does it have animal fat in it? Will it make ME fat? Do kids like anchovies? How do you feel about sausage? What exactly is a WILD mushroom? Do you have someone that hikes out and picks them?
This woman was apparently sent from another planet to make my life hell. I answered as curtly and quickly as possible in hopes to get her to a decision. I used my suave tools of suggestion and influence to get her to FINALLY decide on the most expensive pizza on the menu (hey, she ASKED me!)
We waited for the pizza to cook. It seemed like an eternity. A million demands were made in the meantime. A salad was ordered because the pizza was "taking too long." We had been closed for 20 minutes at this point. My co-workers were telepathically cursing this woman along with me.
I finally served the pizza. She complained that it was too well done and wanted to send it back. I told her this was not possible because the kitchen was closed. She sighed deeply and swigged some red wine. What happened next was the last straw.
"FINE." she mumbled, and proceeded to hand me her empty salad plate and SHOVE her dirty salad prongs into my apron pocket containing my cash.
"Can you take care of this filth and leave us to our pizza?" she demanded.
It took every ounce of self control in my body to not shove the salad prongs in HER pocket and rub the salad dressing all over her cashmere sweater. I took a deep breath and walked away.
They took forever to eat and had a million complaints in between. When they were FINALLY ready to leave they needed to split the check. They were MARRIED and they needed to split the check.
It was split. They left. It was an hour and a half after they came in. I walked back down to the table and opened the ticket book. They left two dollars on a fifty dollar ticket. I wanted to scream.

As I was counting out my oily money this evening I had an epiphany: I don't like what I do for a living. Its not worth it. No amount of tips can make me love to swallow my pride and count out salad dressing drenched currency. I'm over it. Oh, I'm not quitting. I'll swallow my pride a lot more and act my ass off in the name of tips-but I am SO OVER IT. I will continue to demean myself until summer time and then I am off to North Carolina to go back to school and start a new life. What will I do you ask? Hell if I know. Anything but this. My feet hurt, my pride hurts and I am starting to get carpal tunnel from carrying overflowing plates of food. Until there is some sort of academy award given out to servers for our outstanding performances I gotta find a new line of work.
until then: I'm an actress. I'm a pro.
I. Am. Table Whore.