No Dunkin'

You may have heard of Dunkin' Donuts stupendously stupid pulling of an ad featuring Rachel Ray. Which, by the way, I could be down with if in fact it was because Rachel Ray is annoying.
But DD is pulling it because some crazies think her scarf is a terrorist emblem. Yeah, her scarf is all we have to worry about. I think her show probably does more to embolden terrorists than anything else. Anyway, K. Olbermann is calling for a boycott, and since I don't have a DD locally therefore it really doesn't pose any inconvenience to me to go along, I am in fact going along and urge you all to do the same. Seriously though, this is such a bonehead move on DD's part that I really do hope a boycott succeeds.

12 Word Novel

On NPR I heard a story about how they challenged listeners to come up with a 12 word novel. Sounded fun, so I thought I'd give it a try. It is so much harder than I thought it'd be....

My 12 word Novel
Finally the bottom. No lower, he hoped, and sipped at his whiskey.

The Imaginary Last Moments of Egon Friedell

This imagined historical story has nothing to do with serving, but take a read anyway!
Friedell was a Jewish intellectual in Austria who committed suicide rather than be taken by the Nazis.


He saw them from his bedroom window. It was a third story window that allowed him to see the bustle of the street. He still liked to stand at the window, push the curtain slightly to the side with his hand that held a cup of coffee or tea (both becoming more scarce during the occupation) and watch the ongoing life in the city. It seemed normal still. It didn’t seem like the normal life of the city was gone, sucked away, replaced with a false normalcy that the people accepted either because they had to or because they wanted to.

He used to love watching the activity. Men standing at the door of this or that café, saying their greetings and goodbyes in the same breath, promising to meet later, perhaps one pushing a rough draft of a current manuscript into the hands of the other as they hurriedly passed on their way to somewhere. Children crossing the street incautiously as they laughed with each other or ignored the shouts of their mothers or au pairs.

This was before the Anschluss. Now the streets were filled with clicking boots of men -- men whose heels clicked to the rhythm of death. Groups of boy soldiers flexed their sudden power by beating Jews as they wished. Sometimes communists got beaten. Sometimes being an intellectual got you beaten. Just being one of the “them,” whichever of the myriad definitions of “them” the clicking boots chose to use at that moment, put your life at risk.

It was thoughts of laughing children and rough written poetry that were in his head when he spotted the Gestapo walking so importantly down the streets and to the entrance of his apartment building. He’d been expecting them of course. He’d long since given up the idea they would not come for him, given up this idea about the same time it occurred to him and many others that they had squandered, through their self-delusional denial of reality, any chance to escape the city, the country. To escape the click booted death.

How different the Gestapo was from the regular soldiers. If the regular soldiers were purposely ignorant of events, the Gestapo was purposely proud of their role in them. He watched them disappear into the doorway. He thought he could hear their boots on the steps leading to his door.

Suddenly the loud knock. The knock that says we do not have to knock, you know that and we know that, but it is understood we will observe this convention so as not to make it seem like we are here to take a man to his death, although that is precisely why we are here. So stupid he thought. Their brazenness. If the Nazis had been just a little subtle they might have taken the entire world without a shot. As it was, their fits and starts of subtly had accomplished a lot.

He heard the housekeeper arguing with the men who were there to lead him to his death. A horrible death? he wondered. Who could say? There were stories, hard to believe stories of such despair. He imagined a quick shot to the head would be their choice. Efficient and easy.

As he heard the argument coming to an end, he began to do what he had prepared himself to do. He had imagined it just this way. Funny how it was playing out in exactly the manner he had envisioned. Well, that was one for his side.

He sipped that last bit of his luke warm, weak coffee and set the cup down. Pulling the curtains aside with an unintended dramatic flourish, he pushed open both sides of the window and stood on the sill. He looked over the edge, looked at the sidewalk below. A couple, intellectuals he had gotten to know well in the last few years were walking towards where he would land – perhaps even now on their way to visit him. He wanted to wait until they passed before he jumped.

The talking in the other room ceased, and the clicking heels came to claim him. Hurry he thought, tried to send this message to his friends, hurry and get by me. As he thought this they looked up and noticed him, looked up bewildered and slowed their pace. The door to his room began to slowly open.

He had to do it now.

“Watch out,” he yelled, and at the same time launched himself through the window. Watch out, he thought, not just for me, but for all that he knew was to happen. Watch out.

He continued sounding his warning until the ground cut it short.

Egon and Clive...

Ever since I heard an interview with Clive James in which he discussed Egon Friedell I’ve been thinking about the story of Friedell’s death. Friedell was a Jewish writer in Nazi controlled Austria, and as James told the story, when the Gestapo was on its way to arrest Friedell, he threw himself out of his apartment window and fell to his death. The part that amazes me, according to James’ account, is that as Friedell flung himself out the window, he shouted a warning to passersby so that they might not be injured by his falling body.

And yet, I wonder, was he warning of something else? Friedell studied culture and civilization. Was his warning more that just a “look out below” to those on the ground? Was it more?

This is what I wonder.

A Vignette

So this couple comes in the other night and are seated at one of my booths. They are an attractive couple, mid 30s perhaps. The man has on slacks and a button up short-sleeve shirt, and although I don’t know one brand from another, I can’t tell these are pretty expensive clothes. The woman looks slightly older than the man; she too is dressed casually but certainly not cheaply. Her colorful blouse is unbuttoned enough so that I have be conscious not to look at the blue bra and cleavage that is visible.

An attractive couple, but the energy is off. Servers know what I mean, hell anyone should. Walk into a room where something isn’t quite right and you can feel the static. This was the feeling I got from these to. They were polite to me, but I could feel the forced nature of it. The avoided eye contact with each other and only made jittery, almost nervous eye contact with me. They seemed to talk not at all to each other.

I took their drink orders and upon returning they hurriedly ordered appetizers and entrees. As I picked up their menus my hand and the woman’s brushed just slightly. On purpose? I wondered. I too began avoiding eye contact.

I served the apps and as they ate, I started to notice them talking more. When I removed the plates they asked for refills on their wine. When I dropped the entrees, I actually saw them look at each other and smile.

They finished, paid the bill, and over-tipped me. No complaints from me. As they walked out as saw the man reaching for her hand. The woman hesitated with her hand, then locked her fingers with his. While they walked through the parking lot I saw her lean against him a little, then separate as they went to the opposite sides and got in.



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Review

Check out the review of my book "Entropy" posted at a great book blog called Booking Mama.

Bridging the Divide

The pace has been picking up as of late, and none too soon. For one thing, I need the money. For another, there’s not as much opportunity for the bitch servers to complain. And yet…
My favorite complaint is as follows:
Jake, a server who I get along with, called earlier in the week to report that he fell down some stairs and had to be taken to the emergency room. He got hurt pretty bad I guess, and called a day later to say he would be out at least a week.
Flash forward to Friday. Hearing we would be down a server, one waitress said, “He should get an office job. Gees just suck it up and work.” This from the girl who gets to make her own schedule, basically. And I guessed I’ve missed her Rocky Balboa-like ability to absorb punishment – missed it, or was so distracted by her constant whining what I overlooked it.
On Saturday, the comment from another server was “You know, it sucks that cause he was drunk, we don’t have anyone to cover the in between shift. Like being drunk is an excuse.” And yet, for other people, the ones she drinks with, she apparently sees this as a perfectly good excuse.
My favorite comment, “He probably isn’t even hurt that bad.”
You know, I’m all for suck it up and work, but I don’t think Jake was pulling a fast one. He works because he needs money, because it’s his primary source of income. So the idea of him lying about an emergency room visit and subsequent injury to not work for a week, well, this doesn’t make sense.
Most annoying is the hypocrisy of it. I wonder what it takes to bridge that cognitive dissonance?

Former Bush Admin Officials as Restaurant Staff...

Here is a piece of satire I originally published over at Don't Tip the Waiter. I like it, so I am reprinting it (since Don't Tip the Waiter seems to be on hiatus).
Memo Makes Treatment Legal
Newly hired waiter Alberto Gonzalez surprised customers and coworkers alike when he whisked an indecisive customer away on a waterboard during his first Saturday shift.

“I know I’m new,” Gonzalez said. “But what the hell? I asked if they were ready to order. They said yes. Is it too much to expect them to then tell me what they want?”

Police said witness' descriptions of the event generally concur. Said a police spokesperson: “Sometime around 7 o’clock last Saturday, Mr. Gonzalez was told by the hostess he had a table of six, and after returning with drinks, Mr. Gonzalez asked if they were ready to order. Apparently all or most of the table responded in the affirmative. As Mr. Gonzalez stood there, however, no one spoke, and after what witnesses say was either a 'couple minutes' or an 'eternity of silence,' Mr. Gonzalez stormed away. "

Witnesses then heard him mutter, "Don’t want to talk, I’ll make you fucking talk.”

“Oh he was definitely pissed,” said Julie, a server who works with Gonzalez. “Why shouldn’t he be pissed? I mean, we’ve all been there. You ask if they are ready, they say yes, then they sit there like a bunch of fucking Marcel Marceaus. I’ve been close to putting my wine key into someone’s eye myself.”

According to witnesses, Gonzales returned with a long board, pail of water, and kitchen rag, and leaned the board against a nearby table before seizing one of the indecisive customers. Gonzalez then quickly strapped the stunned patron to the board, and reportedly giggled as he covered the victim’s head with the kitchen rag.

Coworker Julie said, “It was totally cool. He started pouring water on that dork’s head and screamed, ‘Tell me want you want you fucking stupid fucking idiot!’ over and over. ”

Other employees who saw the attack described Gonzales’ actions as “cool” “overdue” “totally fucking sick dude” and “beyond awesome.”

A coworker who wished to remain anonymous said, “The only thing that pissed me off is that he wouldn’t let me get in on it. I was like, dude, give me a turn, and he was all, ‘No, Precious doesn’t need help.’ Selfish fucker.”

When reached for comment, the owners of the restaurant said, “Al Gonzales is a man of integrity, decency and principle. After unfair treatment by one table that created a harmful distraction for the entire staff, Mr. Gonzales decided to take certain action and we accept his decision.”

Mr. Gonzales formerly served at the White House and Justice Department. The investigation into this incident is ongoing.


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Work

Well, I haven't quit. But I haven't been at work either due to a family emergency and normal scheduling, so it will be interesting to see how I feel about things when I get back. I've had time to calm down of course, but I can't shake the general feeling of being fed up....

The end of something...

I have to say, I’m in the mood to quit my serving gig. And not because of the customers, but because I don’t think I can stand working with the (mostly) whiny waitresses that have currently invaded the staff and show no signs of leaving. The straw, as it were, was the other night when I got a “talking to” by the owner because on the previous shift one or two of the girls were upset because they thought I hadn’t done my share of side work before leaving. I was first cut, meaning I wasn’t there to close, meaning the side work I had to was different than if I was closing.

Now, I’m not saying there aren’t times when I rush and maybe don’t do a great job. We are all like that sometimes, so I can accept that there might have been something I missed or whatever. But here’s what pisses me off – I am very much a team player. If we are slow, I help bus tables, refill waters and coffees. If I’m opening the next day, I have no problem with closers leaving a lot of the polishing and doing it in the morning. I don’t go run and tell when the are clearly high as kite’s during their shifts. So if, IF, I missed some side work, you’d think they might be mature enough to mention it to me. What’s worse is that we have friendly relationships outside of work (not like best buds, but occasionally getting drinks etc.), so to be shown utterly no respect was shocking and angering.

The thing is, I just feel too old to be dealing with stupid shit like this. I know this is the maturity level of my coworkers, but I just don’t know if I can take it anymore.

Oh well. We shall see

The writer returns...

The long road to a finishing a novel...read about it over at my writing blog.