Nine twenty one and I hear static, something distant; something alien and unwelcome. When I realize it’s the radio, it’s already nine twenty four. It’s more like falling then rolling, my feet touching hardwood, my eyes begging me to close them. I want coffee and nicotine, preferably mainlined but I don’t have time. My stomach is screaming, my back roaring objections to the disruptive act of waking. Driving to work takes ten minutes and I have thirty one left when I hit the bathroom.
Cold water, brush my teeth, contacts, left eye, right eye, warm water, shaving cream, drag a razor across my face and I’m in the shower. Half-awake, soap, shampoo, scrubbing, rinsing, sixty seconds tops; drying off, moving faster, bathroom, bedroom, boxers, black pants, black button down, black socks, black shoes, apron’s in the car, all need washing, try to care and fail.
Nine forty three and I’m in the kitchen, a longing glance at the coffee pot, horribly dormant; wallet (bursting, need to make a bank run), wine tool (double hinged, graphite, fuckin’ sexy), keys, a handful of mixed change, breath mints, all in various pockets. Grab two bananas, a glass of water, smokes, lighter, keys and I’m out the door. Total time investment: nineteen minutes and counting.
Nine forty nine, I’m in the car, backing out against atrocious sunlight, dodging the neighbor’s dog and fiddling blindly with the radio. I’m nearly awake but The Postal Service has other ideas. I turn a corner, pop in a new CD, hit the gas and start to glide. Window goes down a third, light a cigarette, realize the sunshine’s not so bad, still wishing I was anywhere but now.
I hit the backdoor at one past ten. The Body pulls up behind me. Jenzack and Stephie Love are already here. Rub my eyes as I move through the kitchen. Danny portions pasta, smiling at me through gold teeth and Rick James dreads. Cheff Jeff flips me the bird to break the monotony of stirring risotto. Past the prep tables, past the office door, past the dish tank, the walk-in, the steam table, the line, the wire racks filled with lexans, eighth pans, sixth pans, deep sixths, quarters, halves, lids, slotted spoons, tongs, wire whips and a dozen other various and sundries. Mikey’s prepping salads, chopping radicchio and humming the theme song from “Kill Bill”, which means that he and Emily are fighting again, which in turn means they’ll likely be caught screwing at some point during the shift.
I push through double doors, drag my feet across The Line and zero in on the coffee pot. Jenzack makes fruit tea. Steph is on the floor somewhere, staking out her section and polishing glasses. I fill a mug with coffee, sprinkle in a half-packet of sugar and try to breath for a moment before setting to work.
Our routine is like any other routine in any other restaurant in any part of the world. At any given ten AM, in any given town there are servers undressing and redressing tables, wiping lipstick off glassware, sweeping, vacuuming, brewing, shuffling, throwing, lighting, wiping, rolling, tossing, cleaning, living, breathing and dying right under your nose.
For us, sections come first. Steph’s taken over the Music Room and Jenzack’s got her eye on the Back Parlor. I head for the Front Parlor, leaving the Cry Room to The Body. Jen and I sweep through our respective halves of the parlor with cold efficiency. Tablecloths are removed, the tables wiped, going bareback during lunch, and set with a roll of silverware including two forks, one knife and one spoon. I make my way through the room with a tray of small flower vases, one for each table, the daisies facing the door. Jen nips at my heels with sugar caddies that she’s already filled up, placing them just to the left of the vase and then clicking the salt and pepper shakers into a spot just behind the sugar. This little assortment must sit at the edge of the table nearest the window. Thing One is nothing if not obsessive. He’ll go through each room, making certain the tables are set properly and if not, we’ll hear about it. Thank Christ he’s got the day off.
Snuggles rolls in at ten twenty, nodding to Jenzack, flirting with The Body and fixing his first cup of black tea. To my knowledge, he’s never been a coffee drinker. Steph touches my arm and smiles and I jump a little which makes her laugh. She asks if I’ve seen the glass cleaner and I tell her to check the bathrooms and then I ask if she’d mind cleaning them for me while she’s in there, which is practically poetic for me at this time of day. She tells me she’ll think about it and when she’s gone The Body asks me if I’ve fucked her yet. I tell him Snuggles is looking for him which shuts him up long enough for me to pour another cup of coffee and head back to the parlor.
The Parlor and The Cry Room each have large bureaus turned in to makeshift service stations, likely purchased during one of Thing Two’s drunken flea market binges. The suit of armor in The Attic was secured during one such trip. I sometimes imagine Thing One surrounded by pickup trucks and gun racks, dragging a slurring, slobbering Thing Two down a dirt parking lot with one arm, the other barely towing the silver atrocity, dropping pieces of itself, a hand here, a foot there, like a trail of medieval breadcrumbs.
The bureaus, along a few other nooks and crannies, are essential to life in The House. Thing One and Thing Two are notoriously cheap so extra silverware, linens and flatware are always in short supply, forcing us to play against each other, hoarding whatever necessities we can in our stations. The bureaus are perfect because of the drawer space so Jen and I spend a good five minutes snaking handfuls of loose silver, bread plates, extra rolls of silver and pitchers for water and tea. I grab two serving trays, one large, one small and hide them behind the bureau. Steph and The Body both catch us in the act, saying nothing because they’re in the process of doing the same thing for their sections. Half the point is to fuck over the closers before they so much as park and we’ve accomplished this with disturbing proficiency.
By ten forty two, I’ve cleaned the bathrooms, Jen’s straightened the attic, Steph has finished making sweet tea, fruit tea and decaf coffee while The Body has somehow managed to fuck up filling ramekins with mayo and mustard. He righted himself half-way through but not before Jen caught on and gave him an earful. At ten forty six, I’m on auto-pilot at the bar, waiting for line-up, folding linens and stealing seconds with Steph. Twice I catch her glancing up at me and she catches me at least once that I know of. It’s a nauseating dance of sweetness that’s starting to grow on me.
Emily of the Long Tooth and Mark Dee straggle in thirty seconds before Cheff Jeff peaks his head out the kitchen long enough to tell us the specials. He growls something smart-ass about Emily’s hair, which is sticking out in six different directions, scratches his balls and goes to work. Soup is squash bisque, pizza’s got caramelized shallots, beef tips, gorgonzola and mozzarella cheeses, frittata with spinach, roasted red peppers and jack cheese, cheesecake is raspberry swirl, “Vaya con dios, fuckos” and he’s gone. He’ll be MIA for at least the next ten minutes, which will likely be spent snorting coke and listening to The Kinks in his truck.
Snuggles takes the floor and spends five minutes explaining why the closers have to start signing everyone out before we can run our cash-outs. Once the rush is over and the first round of cuts goes down, the openers have a short of list of chores that have to be completed and apparently that hasn’t been happening lately. He ignores our lack of enthusiasm and moves on to some changes to the wine list that are supposed to go down in the next week or two. I’m barely paying attention, stifling a laugh as Mark Dee rubs his eyes, trying to will away the hangover he’ll never be able to hide.
“Gurrrrl”, he whispers, almost to himself but with enough of an edge that it’s probably audible to everybody. Whether Snuggles hears, I have no idea, but he does begin to wrap it up. He’s expecting busy but not crazy. He wishes us luck and heads for the office to finis his tea and count down the bar drawer. The rest of us gather what linens we’ve folded and head for the line to kill whatever time remains before the invasion.
At ten fifty nine, I’m wolfing down a banana and stirring sugar into my third cup of coffee. Mark Dee and Emily are bickering over what’s left of the pitchers and trays, pissed that they’ll only have two of each to cover The Pit. Mark threatens to pull some out of The Parlor, going toe to toe with jenzack in the process, the rest of us looking on, hoping for fireworks that don’t come because Mark secretly respects being fucked over by the openers. He’d have done the same thing in our shoes. He knows it and we know it. When Jen’s not looking, I’ll drop a pitcher off in The Pit to keep the peace which will likely prompt Mark to make some crack about his determination to make me switch teams.
“I knew you wanted me to suck you off”, he’ll say and then I’ll ask him if he had fun in prison and that’ll be the end of it. Five minutes later, it all goes down pretty much as described, save the fact that Mark decides to elaborate on last night’s escapades.
“I gave the bouncer a handy”, he says with his usual mischievous grin that means he’s probably kidding. “What do I need with a boyfriend when I can borrow someone else’s?”
Bursting with more information than necessary, I make my way back to The Parlor and wait for judgment.