Why don’t they ever have single tables at Bob Evans? It is depressing to sit at a table meant for four all by yourself; looking at the empty chairs surrounding you as a constant reminder of what could and should be. Sometimes there are instances in life that have no words to describe them, for only a sigh can sum up the circumstances. A sigh was fitting for this morning at the table for four, sipping my black coffee scanning the restaurant, which was filled with elderly couples who ate in silence and meticulously checked their silverware for imperfections. This must be what marriage ends up being. It is that silence that you used to sit in when you first met and didn’t want to say much because you weren’t sure what was appropriate. They now sit in silence because they have already said everything there is to say, appropriate or inappropriate and they are well aware of what their partner would retort if they were to mention something. “Cold out this morning isn’t it?” “I told you to wear a heavier jacket but you were to busy curling your hair all morning, who are you trying to impress anyway?!”
Interesting, not sure if I ever want to get old. I take another sip of lukewarm coffee and try to find my waitress so she could warm it up for me. Usually they are so punctual about warming up coffee because their income depends on tips and tips depend on the happiness of the customer and the only thing that makes a customer happy is getting what they want quickly. It would be a sad world indeed if everything operated like a waitress and customer relationship. The only way to get paid or have friends or marry someone was if they were happy and got what they wanted. No sacrifice, no emotional fortitude, no unconditional love, no forgiveness; just being paid or loved on the effervescent whim that someone is happy. I suppose the world is not like that.
There my waitress was, over at one of the booths taking someone’s order. She had that look on her face that waitresses get when they aren’t quite sure if you could be that rude. “Were you listening honey? I said well done and believe me I know what well done looks like. They sure don’t make them like they used to.” “Dear, do you see this lettuce? Are you trying to give me E. coli?” People always tack on a “dear” or “honey” when they are insulting a waitress’s intelligence or just chewing them out. I guess it makes them feel like they can just speak their mind as blatantly as they want if they use some empty term of endearment.
I could tell that this waitress, my waitress, had not been a waitress very long because the knot for her apron kept coming untied and she kept trying to keep it on with one hand during the whole conversation. And she was constantly digging her toe into the ground like a 5 year old that just drew a sun on the wall with a blue crayon and was being scolded by her mother. I got out of my window seat and sat on the aisle chair, which is one of the advantages of sharing a table with yourself. I could now clearly see that there were two middle aged, obese women wearing flower pattern sundresses scolding the waitress about something or other. The waitress had a crestfallen look on her face, like she had smashed one of her mother’s good china plates but the lady kept shoving her salad under the waitresses face and yelling that she had no ranch dressing and she had already asked for it twice. The waitress kept trying to say something, her lips parting halfway and her eyebrows going up but the lady wouldn’t let her say anything. Kept rambling on about how this establishment had been going downhill and she wanted to see the manager.
My coffee now sat in front of me, forgotten and growing colder by the minute. Trying to seem casual I continued to watch this tirade and I could see the manager approaching. He was a short man with glasses, partially bald and strutting about with a man void of purpose in every other facet of life but demanding what little respect he could from his minimum wage peons. You could see his name badge glitter in the sunlight peeking through the partially closed blinds and he adjusted it so it was centered on his left breast pocket and strode toward the now emotionally distraught waitress, my waitress.
Assessing the situation, and showing why he was in charge he launched into his consoling manager voice and assured the two women, who by looking at them were regular customers, that this waitress in no way represented this establishments ideals and that they would be compensated for this grievous misunderstanding. When did not getting ones ranch dressing become a grievous misunderstanding? Best friend sleeps with wife, material for the next romantic comedy starring Cameron Diaz. Not getting ones ranch dressing, grievous misunderstanding. I could see it now, a homeless man throwing his blue plastic tray across the church basement in a fit of ranchless rage. Demanding to speak to the manager and all the 12 year old, youth group participant, with her hands clad in plastic gloves can think to do is point at a portrait of Jesus hanging on the cross wearing his crown of thorns.
This manager wore no crown of thorns and my waitress did not have plastic gloves on but there sat two of their own, waving that damn salad under the waitresses nose and shouting about dressing. The scene dispersed and I watched the ladies gab about this and that, the usual gossip for middle age women at brunch. What Oprah had given away yesterday, or how they had kept on their new low carb diet for a week and a half this time. I sat there staring into my cup of cold coffee and thinking about that waitress and then about that portrait of Jesus and the homeless man. Then I saw those two ladies start to make their way out of the booth. Of course they had to get some momentum going to get up out of those booth seats. I watched them saunter out of the restaurant, to go shopping and listen to Bing tell them that this was the greatest time of year while they drove around fighting people for parking spots at Macy’s because they had to conserve walking energy.
Feeling tired of sitting at my four person table staring at now ice cold coffee I decided that it was time for me to leave but I wanted to say goodbye to my waitress. However, she was no where to be found; vanished into the throng of people coming in and out wishing each other Merry Christmas and then leaving lousy tips. Dejected, I left some money on the table for her. Probably more than ten percent or however much you are supposed to tip. While walking past the table that had been the location of the demise of what emotional stability my waitress had once had, I saw that the two women had left no tip. All I saw was an uneaten salad with 3 white bowls of dressing sitting next to it and the check with a smiley face at the top and written in red bubbly writing, “Have a nice day, I’m really sorry about the dressing” heart Julie. The manager obviously had declared that the women didn’t need to pay for the meal but there sat that receipt with the apology, with no tip in sight and that uneaten salad. I don’t know though, it’s not that I see the best in people because it feels like trying to find Waldo but I thought that Julie already knew what people were capable of.
A small thing can have a tremendous impact and sometimes these seemingly small things only become larger because we are too small to have the right perspective. I know that credit will be given where credit is not due but sacrifice wouldn’t be hard if you received the credit and so often in life the right thing to do and the hard thing to do are the same. Today I can live with myself, and just because I have seen the lack of people’s character does not mean that another should not be able to cherish their own ideals of a world bent on love and hope. A ten dollar renewal of hope.
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