Oh dear god. I am back in school after a short spring break respite. It was all too short, I’m afraid; it feels as if I finished my winter finals yesterday, yet here I am, flipping through 6 new syllabi and buying books again. I finished winter quarter with exactly the same grades as fall quarter: all A’s save an A- in Wolf’s impossible drawing course. I am proud of myself and confident in my chances for a scholarship, so I’ll be holding my breath from now until May.
Much to my dismay, Space studio this quarter is going to resemble fall quarter and not winter quarter; fall quarter was marked by the dreaded, time-consuming “paint-chip” color exercises, whereas all winter work was completed on a computer and consequently less tedious. This quarter, however, we are completing a series of exercises all executed by folding paper. I began school on Monday, and my first all-nighter of the quarter will be tonight.
I am taking my studio courses, a political philosophy course, and an analysis of Shakespeare course, which I am quite excited about. Work is the same: Wednesday and Friday evenings at Mimi’s cafe, resulting in a weekly income of $150. Mum discovered she could add me onto her car insurance, which would save me $75 a month, but I don’t have 6 months pay upfront, unfortunately, and can’t take advantage of the opportunity.
Bryan’s birthday is on the 10th, and I’m terribly worried that finances will prevent me from providing him with a fantastic birthday. When I express these financial concerns he always bats the issue away with a “don’t get me anything”. I know him though, and I know how he loves surprises. I’m going to bake a magnificent cake and collect a few excellent gifts. I’m a resourceful gal, after all, and I always seem to pull through ordeals such as this.
Today will be a taxing day. I have drawing studio in 10 minutes, at which time I will begin a still life that I’ll have to finish over the weekend. I then rush to Mason to work at 5- and I think I’m closing tonight, to boot- and then I must return downtown for a couple of hours of studio work. I look forward to the summer, when I will have completed the first year of my major with flying colors. All is well, dearest readers, though you and I don’t see too much of each other any more. I’ll try to report back more often.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Queen Bee and the Ruffians
I smiled as I set their drinks down, plucked the straws from my shirt pocket and placed them beside each glass. Things looked promising for this bunch, much more so than any of the other uneventful guests I’ve waited on this evening. I haven’t received any spectacular tips, nor have I been forced to suffer through hellish customers- I very rarely stumble upon truly intolerable individuals at work, come to think of it- but the night is young and full of perilous possibility.
The older woman on the left side of the booth is anxiously charming, and had arrived before the two younger women who sat beside her now. Her hair was drawn up into one of those masterful hairdos common among older women, rigidly set into unyielding arcs and curls that seem flowing and natural until the creature beneath it moves, and by the coif’s inability to sway with its master one realizes that the hair might as well be set in stone.
When I had asked her what she would like to drink she glanced around, torn between reservedly ordering and gregariously gushing hello. She delicately ordered a pinot grigio before allowing her smile to nervously wither. Her counterparts- loud, oblivious, miller-lite swilling girls- disappointed me, to say the least. I didn’t know quite what to think; upon the arrival of the first bird I’d felt an amazing tip was a sure thing, but if the bill ended up in the wrong hands- and it had a 66% chance of doing so- I wouldn’t be surprised to receive a lackluster 15%.
I sang for my tip regardless as I always do, and slowly eased into a little light humor with the table. The queen bee and one of the ruffians revealed an interest in fashion, and we lamented Marc Jacob’s latest disappointments together. When it came time to order the three were jovially requesting suggestions and asking questions. The fashionable ruffian asked me if I had ever had the veggie stack, and in what I thought was perfectly acceptable good humor responded, “Well, as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes”.
Queen bee misheard me. She must have. Her jaw dropped to the table with an earsplitting thud as if I had just referenced a type of specialty fellatio native to Singapore. Mouth agape, she pointedly gasped at her fellow diners. They must have heard me correctly and thought nothing of it, because they didn’t react to bee’s shock. I stood there awkwardly, almost ready to ask the woman what the hell her problem was and offer another pinot. I decided against it, and, blushing, walked away.
“I have a question for you”, I told Alexis, a fellow server, at the side station.
“Yeah?” she said as she prepared four waters.
“I know it’s not exactly typical, but does the sentence ‘as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes’ offend you?”
“Damn, girl. You think some crazy shit. I swear to god just yesterday you were all confused about why humans have eyebrows and getting mad at the bread tongs. Now you’re just trippin me out.”
“Oh, I asked my dad about it, by the way. He said they’re to keep the sweat from running into our eyes. And he didn’t have to think about for a second, but it makes perfect sense. I don’t know how he knows all the stuff he knows.”
“Huh”, Alexis muttered. “That does make sense, now that I think about it.”
“Anyways, the comment thing”, I hurriedly said, noticing that I had just received another table that needed tending to.
“As a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know meatless dishes”, she said to herself, looking up and pausing. “No, doesn’t offend me. Sounds weird though. The word ‘meatless’ is questionable.”
“This woman misunderstood me, and now probably thinks I’m uncouth and inappropriate or something”, I said, squinting my eyes.
“Don’t you hate that” she sympathized. “Cause you can’t help but think that they thought you said the worst possible thing. Once I offered a man desert, and he looked at me, all mad-like, and was like ‘I’m married’. You don’t know what to say, you know?”
“Just another thing to love about the service industry”, I said, grinning. I walked up to my new table and took drink orders. When bee’s and the ruffian’s food came up I had no choice but to return to the table. I delivered their food and acted as comfortable as possible, but found myself not making eye contact at times. Bee was still acting bizarre, though her behavior was not too different from the nervous unease she had displayed earlier. Maybe she had just escaped from a mental institution and showed up at the ruffian’s door for refuge, posing as a long-lost grandmother. She certainly didn’t fit in with the bunch.
As I placed her meal in front of her she was once again marked by overt indecision. She smiled graciously, but before the words “thank you” reached her lips her smile fell, she pursed her lips, squinted her eyes, and looked up at me cockeyed as if she were contemplating throwing a drink in my face. I once again consider my escaped nut-job theory.
They ate their dinner, ordered a couple more drinks, and were soon ready for the bill. Queen bee, much to my dismay, reached for the checkbook and held it in her jewel-clad fingers. Great, I thought to myself: now I’ll be lucky if they pay for just the meal.
I hurried away and doted upon my other tables in an attempt to distract myself. I walked to the kitchen to fix some bread, and when I returned to the garden room bee and the ruffians had gone. Among the glasses of partially finished wine, rumpled linens, and sucked-dry beer bottles on their table was the checkbook. I pocketed the check and walked to the side station. Alexis saw me pull the book from my apron and asked an ambiguous but all too well understood “Well?”. I glanced down, puckered my lips and looked to the window.
“25%” I said.
“Did she pay, or did one of the other girls at the table?”
“No, it was her”, I confirmed. “Crazy get-all-offended lady. She paid and left the tip.”
“Crazy motherfuckers”, she laughed. “It’s so funny; you become a part of these people’s lives for an hour out of the evening, you find out what they like to eat and drink, and how they speak, and sometimes where they’re from and shit. But nothing, absolutely nothing says as much about people as what kind of tip they leave. I will never stop being surprised by people. Crazy motherfuckers.”
“That was downright profound”, I chuckled.
“Well think about it. We know these people better than their friends and family, because tipping is personal. There are no pretenses when it comes time to tip. No more acting. It’s the one act that forces you to put your money where your mouth is.”
I smile at her insight, and reach for the water pitcher. I circle round my tables, an obsequious, smiling vulture, assessing their conditions from above, sneaking plates off of tables, silent and unknown, all while wondering what it was Queen bee thought I had said to her.
I smiled as I set their drinks down, plucked the straws from my shirt pocket and placed them beside each glass. Things looked promising for this bunch, much more so than any of the other uneventful guests I’ve waited on this evening. I haven’t received any spectacular tips, nor have I been forced to suffer through hellish customers- I very rarely stumble upon truly intolerable individuals at work, come to think of it- but the night is young and full of perilous possibility.
The older woman on the left side of the booth is anxiously charming, and had arrived before the two younger women who sat beside her now. Her hair was drawn up into one of those masterful hairdos common among older women, rigidly set into unyielding arcs and curls that seem flowing and natural until the creature beneath it moves, and by the coif’s inability to sway with its master one realizes that the hair might as well be set in stone.
When I had asked her what she would like to drink she glanced around, torn between reservedly ordering and gregariously gushing hello. She delicately ordered a pinot grigio before allowing her smile to nervously wither. Her counterparts- loud, oblivious, miller-lite swilling girls- disappointed me, to say the least. I didn’t know quite what to think; upon the arrival of the first bird I’d felt an amazing tip was a sure thing, but if the bill ended up in the wrong hands- and it had a 66% chance of doing so- I wouldn’t be surprised to receive a lackluster 15%.
I sang for my tip regardless as I always do, and slowly eased into a little light humor with the table. The queen bee and one of the ruffians revealed an interest in fashion, and we lamented Marc Jacob’s latest disappointments together. When it came time to order the three were jovially requesting suggestions and asking questions. The fashionable ruffian asked me if I had ever had the veggie stack, and in what I thought was perfectly acceptable good humor responded, “Well, as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes”.
Queen bee misheard me. She must have. Her jaw dropped to the table with an earsplitting thud as if I had just referenced a type of specialty fellatio native to Singapore. Mouth agape, she pointedly gasped at her fellow diners. They must have heard me correctly and thought nothing of it, because they didn’t react to bee’s shock. I stood there awkwardly, almost ready to ask the woman what the hell her problem was and offer another pinot. I decided against it, and, blushing, walked away.
“I have a question for you”, I told Alexis, a fellow server, at the side station.
“Yeah?” she said as she prepared four waters.
“I know it’s not exactly typical, but does the sentence ‘as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes’ offend you?”
“Damn, girl. You think some crazy shit. I swear to god just yesterday you were all confused about why humans have eyebrows and getting mad at the bread tongs. Now you’re just trippin me out.”
“Oh, I asked my dad about it, by the way. He said they’re to keep the sweat from running into our eyes. And he didn’t have to think about for a second, but it makes perfect sense. I don’t know how he knows all the stuff he knows.”
“Huh”, Alexis muttered. “That does make sense, now that I think about it.”
“Anyways, the comment thing”, I hurriedly said, noticing that I had just received another table that needed tending to.
“As a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know meatless dishes”, she said to herself, looking up and pausing. “No, doesn’t offend me. Sounds weird though. The word ‘meatless’ is questionable.”
“This woman misunderstood me, and now probably thinks I’m uncouth and inappropriate or something”, I said, squinting my eyes.
“Don’t you hate that” she sympathized. “Cause you can’t help but think that they thought you said the worst possible thing. Once I offered a man desert, and he looked at me, all mad-like, and was like ‘I’m married’. You don’t know what to say, you know?”
“Just another thing to love about the service industry”, I said, grinning. I walked up to my new table and took drink orders. When bee’s and the ruffian’s food came up I had no choice but to return to the table. I delivered their food and acted as comfortable as possible, but found myself not making eye contact at times. Bee was still acting bizarre, though her behavior was not too different from the nervous unease she had displayed earlier. Maybe she had just escaped from a mental institution and showed up at the ruffian’s door for refuge, posing as a long-lost grandmother. She certainly didn’t fit in with the bunch.
As I placed her meal in front of her she was once again marked by overt indecision. She smiled graciously, but before the words “thank you” reached her lips her smile fell, she pursed her lips, squinted her eyes, and looked up at me cockeyed as if she were contemplating throwing a drink in my face. I once again consider my escaped nut-job theory.
They ate their dinner, ordered a couple more drinks, and were soon ready for the bill. Queen bee, much to my dismay, reached for the checkbook and held it in her jewel-clad fingers. Great, I thought to myself: now I’ll be lucky if they pay for just the meal.
I hurried away and doted upon my other tables in an attempt to distract myself. I walked to the kitchen to fix some bread, and when I returned to the garden room bee and the ruffians had gone. Among the glasses of partially finished wine, rumpled linens, and sucked-dry beer bottles on their table was the checkbook. I pocketed the check and walked to the side station. Alexis saw me pull the book from my apron and asked an ambiguous but all too well understood “Well?”. I glanced down, puckered my lips and looked to the window.
“25%” I said.
“Did she pay, or did one of the other girls at the table?”
“No, it was her”, I confirmed. “Crazy get-all-offended lady. She paid and left the tip.”
“Crazy motherfuckers”, she laughed. “It’s so funny; you become a part of these people’s lives for an hour out of the evening, you find out what they like to eat and drink, and how they speak, and sometimes where they’re from and shit. But nothing, absolutely nothing says as much about people as what kind of tip they leave. I will never stop being surprised by people. Crazy motherfuckers.”
“That was downright profound”, I chuckled.
“Well think about it. We know these people better than their friends and family, because tipping is personal. There are no pretenses when it comes time to tip. No more acting. It’s the one act that forces you to put your money where your mouth is.”
I smile at her insight, and reach for the water pitcher. I circle round my tables, an obsequious, smiling vulture, assessing their conditions from above, sneaking plates off of tables, silent and unknown, all while wondering what it was Queen bee thought I had said to her.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
