Squelch

So.

I'm working doubles. This kills me a little. But just a little. A shred, a fiber, at a time.

When I'm not running around with my hair on fire, its no biggie. You make better money, its laid back, everyone gets a long, while your working you can talk and laugh and basically enjoy yourself. But when the hair is set alight, as it was yesterday, you find yourself and your coworkers passing eachother at a dead run, sweat running down your back and pooling in the top of your buttcrack (yes, the dreaded "swamp-ass"--I make mention to it!), with thoughts such as this running through your mind:

"4ketchuptartar7up, 7checkcandy, 5uptrayjack"--does that make sense to you? it does to me. Its my fucking mantra. People are rude, inconsiderate and impatient. They cannot see past themselves, to the big picture of what is going on in the restaurant, how many servers are on, how many other tables their server has in her charge. No, they see only a girl in an orange shirt, who has been placed before them for their own amusement.....For instance....

Yesterday, we went from laid back and steady to AAAAAAAAAAAGH! in about fifteen minutes. 2 Servers, including myself, full fucking restaurant. We have 18 tables. That means, yes, nine tables per person. Most franchise restaurants, (Applebees, Chili's, Olive Garden, etc.) will only allow a server to take four tables. FOUR. PER. SERVER. If each of those tables contains between 2-6 people, well, you do the math. Lets say the average is four, well, then, I am in charge of keeping...36 people happy. thats more than an average high school class. 36 people, nice, patient, demanding and rude, all for me. Hooray!

Now, back to the origional story. I have a table of six at the far end of the restaurant. They are very nice people, kind, funny, patient. Understanding. My coworker has a table of four at the middle of the restaurant, right in the center of the highest traffic area for the servers--we are passing it every time we go to or from the kitchen or waitstation onto the floor. A woman at this table has the "sense of entitlement" stick buried so fucking far up her ass its amazing she could sit comfortably. She has asked me to turn off the celing fans twice, both times with me telling her NO. (when the restaurant is that full, we leave them on because it becomes a freaking sauna in there in no time at all.) Not being used to being told NO, she is angry, and asks my coworker at least twice, where she is told the same thing.

Remember, this is not my table this woman is sitting at. She is not a member of my 36.

The food for my beloved 6 comes up. I smush 5 entrees onto a tray, put the floor jack over my shoulder, heft the tray, and with my free hand grab the last plate. My hands are rather full. I kick the door open and start down the gauntlet to the far end of the restaurant.

About 5 steps onto the floor, someone or thing grabs my pantleg. A wayward child? A confused geriatric? A rabid squirrel? No, of course not! I stop, for fear of dropping the 25 pounds of food and china I have balanced near my face. I look down.

Guess who?

"I thought I asked you to turn off that fan!" she squeals, pointing at the whirling celing fan above her.

It was at this time that I wanted to quietly pull this woman outside and beat her to death.

"Ma'am??!! Could you please wait, just a moment? I would really like to put this down before we finish this conversation.", I said, tugging my pantleg out of her crabapple fist and continuing towards my table.

I can't recall ever seeing a late-middle-aged woman throw a temper tantrum before. It was quite beautiful, actually. I hadnt made it two steps....

"No! I want you to turn it off! I have asked and asked, and you still haven't done it! I dont want to feel a breeze while I eat! And where is my food? All these other people have food and I dont! Im cold, and hungry! I thought this was a RESTAURANT!"

My arm is beginning to tremble and ache as I stand there, staring at this woman like she vomited up a lobster and asked me to cook it.

"Ma'am, you're going to have to wait." And I went down to my table, delivered their food, and worked my way back towards the waitstation taking drink orders and refills on my way.

I stop in front of her table, giving the a plea for help look to my coworker, who is holding a woman's coat and purse while she re-arranges the table set. (You would be surprised how many people do this. Come in, sit down, and then move everything on the table before they order. In this womans case, before she would even sit she had to feng shui the table....Weird!)

The woman is off and running, whining and bitching and fanning herself with a ferry schedule. I ask if we can compromise, with me just lowering the speed on the fan.

It's at this point, that another coworker, who has been bussing and back serving the last few minutes, appears behind me.

"Listen, Ma'am, do you see how many people are in this restaurant? How many of them work here? Three. THREE people. All these people are hungry, tired, hot, cold, pissed off, whathaveyou. All of them want us, the THREE people who work here, to make that better. But unfortunatly, we aren't therapists or miracle workers---WE'RE WAITRESSES. So I will turn off the Goddamn fan, but all complaints about the heat will be directed to YOU, and not us, ok? Will that shut you up???"

the woman shrank back against her how silently laughing husband as my coworker made us oh, so proud. She nodded. Coworker turned off the fan.

All food was delivered, cleared, and paid for. Cocktails were made, beers refilled, dishes washed. All in 90 degree heat, with the fucking fans off.

But did anyone complain to us? Nope. I made more money in those 2 hours than I did in an entire double shift today. Apparently, if youre going to yell at a customer, make sure everyone can hear you.

After this all died down, I was talking about this with my two coworkers, both seasoned servers. Coworker one, the "coatrack", said that this woman had asked her to turn off the fan three seperate times, and the third time, she very nearly said to her what I think sums up our feelings for hard to please customers....

"Bitch, Please."

Remember that when you eat out!