That American Waitress
I wait and wait and wait.
And there’s all this beauty and love and excitement and desire and rushes and flourishes and oven heat and cold sweat and fluffy soufflés and silky chocolate and creamy whips and succulent citrus. But it all perishes like so much sour grapes and curdled milk the moment you realise she can live without you and you can live without her. Because there’s plenty of hotspots in town and at each one, a faceless beauty clad in black waits to serve you.
I wait and wait and wait.
The warmest interaction I’ll have today will be with the sweet Malaysian behind the counter that asks where I hail from. I stumble and hesitate and confuse because I have no clear sense of where I’ve been. I just know I’m ravenous and I’ll settle for anything to quench this thirst right now.
I wait and wait and wait.
The longest wait today will be for him, undoubtedly. I watch the door, closely scanning (as if I need to) the arriving faces making their entitled way through the glass doors, I bide my time. The vegetables steam, the meat sizzles, the drinks chill, the silver’s gleaming in the candlelight. Everything is picture-perfect cliché, including the waiting fucking female swiveling on the barstool.
I wait and wait and wait.
God, that line is getting irritating, isn’t it? But it’s true: I wait. It’s all I can do is wait. I wait because I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know how else to be. I’ll be your courteous, energetic, enticingly inappropriate waitress for the night. You know, the one that remembers what everyone ordered.
I wait and wait and wait.
Hello and welcome, my name is Ani (yes, one ‘N’ no ‘E’ because it’s minimal) and I’m here to serve you all smiles tonight. Can I get you a drink to start with? I’ll get you anything you want. I’ll wait on you and serve everything up for you because I’m nubile, I mean servile, I’m servile like that.
I wait and wait and wait.
I can’t say how long I’ll be able to wait on you though, my shift ends at 1 a.m. Would you care for dessert? I do hope you’ll tip me well because I’m crumbling quicker than our most decadent apple tart.
28 September 2007 at 8:42 pm
Good writing; liked it. Thanks.
28 September 2007 at 9:20 pm
Seriously, Annie - Ann - whoever you are - I don’t give a fuck what you’re called, or if you’re going to be my waitperson or whatever you call yourself, or if some other perky grinning idiot is. I don’t give a shit if you’re thrilled to bits to be serving me or suicidal, because all I want is to have dinner with the person I’m with, and it doesn’t matter to me if an automaton brings it, or you. ‘K? So could we just try that again, with you wandering up, droning: “Have you chosen yet?” while looking into the middle distance. Thanks.
Oh, and the Decadent Apple Tart? The one that is a Delirious Feast for the Senses? Does that come with the Mango Coulis (an Exotic Hint of Bullshit)?
28 September 2007 at 9:22 pm
Lord, I do hope you didn’t wait in vain.
The Jane Siberry song ‘Waitress’ kept looping in my brain while I read this. Do you know it?
I have to empty ash trays
so I empty them
it’s right to keep them clean
so I clean
yes —- I clean
I’m the queen of the clean
…and I’d probably
be famous now
if I wasn’t
such a good waitress…
28 September 2007 at 9:49 pm
I’ll have the snails!
(I love the way you put words together Ani).
28 September 2007 at 9:50 pm
Drodbar: Glad you like. :)
Z: So does that mean you’re not going to tip me 25%, then?
Bohémienne: Is waiting ever not in vain? No, I don’t know that song, but yes, I probably would be famous now, too. If it weren’t for.. well you know.
Lillipilli: Thank you, darling. One order of deliciously anthropomorphous escargot, coming right up.
30 September 2007 at 9:57 am
ooh, a crumbly apple tart? that sounds rather nice. and so does the writing - lovely.
30 September 2007 at 3:13 pm
What’s special today? Have any of these been prepared by human hands, because I have this terrible allergy. Are the onions fresh, because your eyes look red. That’s a lot on your plate, is it possible to have that to share between two?
Apologies if I talk to you like one human being to another. Apologies if I talk at all. I’ve been here too long and not long enough to know any different.
30 September 2007 at 11:06 pm
I always feel mildly embarrassed to be waited upon - by a waiter, a waitress, shop staff, whoever. I always want to say “No, please. Don’t trouble yourself. You look worn out. You sit down here, I’ll bring you a cup of coffee and then help myself.”
I think that says more about me than even I necessarily want it to.
[Not only superb and evocative writing, as ever … damn inventive too. But now, please, stop sitting around writing. I want an extra tall mocha with extra latte and extra mocha and extra everything. Now. Please.]
30 September 2007 at 11:59 pm
Like the witness, being waited upon doesn’t come naturally to me, unlike waiting on people which is second nature. Again, there’s something in your writing that rattles me to the core. Too close for comfort, definitely too close for comfort.
1 October 2007 at 1:14 am
Miles: Hello and thank you. Would you like your tart a la mode?
Ben: The special today is the filet mignon. But I should warn you, the chef will insist on serving it rare. (Are you always this perceptive?)
AUW: Ha! You had me until ‘please’. But really, a mocha? This isn’t your average global coffee conglomerate you know.
Ariel: Gosh. Well we simply can’t have anyone uncomfortable at Chez Ani. Here, let me fluff up your cushions.