Easy as a phone call

Sometimes it takes months to find a job.
Sometimes, all it takes is a phone call. Like Wednesday. A strange day. Tuesday night, I dreamt I was working in a pub. Bartending. The next day you call a friend, asking him if he knows of any place where they need some staff. Telling him, "Really, it's urgent." In the earpiece, you can hear music in the background and the distant hum typical of public places. Over the music, Franck says, "I'm in a restaurant now. French restaurant. They need a waiter." He says, "Let me talk to the boss."

The music is muffled. Then comes back. Franck says, "You doing something tonight?"

I say, "No."

He says, "Ok, so tonight is your first training day. Come here ASAP."

I say, "Thanks, man."

And that was it. Since then, I just had enough time to check my emails. Read a little. Keep up with a few blogs. Go to the laundry. Once again, I do not have to worry too much about the rent (except that I'm already ten days late). My training days are officially over.

Today was brunch. They warned me. They said, "Today it's going to be packed." Sweet euphemism. The dining room during today's brunch looked more like a mental institution yard where all patients would have been given a few rails of coke.

You run from the coffee machine in the bar section back to the tables. You clean tables. You pick up plates in the kitchen. You close a table on the computer. Take orders. Open a table. Bring some fresh pepper. Crack a few jokes to a table so that they don't notice you forgot to refill their coffees because the manager asked you to do a couple of things just after the waitress also asked you to do a few things. And at every step you make, there's a customer buttonholing you. Trying to catch your attention. His eyes trying to find that special connection with yours.

Everytime you move, someone asks you to do something that requires you to pass by more customers who will also ask you something that will make you pass close to more customers or people who wants to know how long for a table of 4, please, we are in a hurry?

If you know the definition of the second law of thermodynamics (aka entropy), you know it just cannot go on like that forever. Nor for very long.

By then, if you still remember the shit you had to do before you received orders from the manager and the waitress, you can take your brain out and bring it to the museum of Mankind so scientists can have their kick.

No kidding.

You're literally running. Sliding to a stop. The cooks yell at you. The manager yells at you. The other waitress is just as deep in shit as you are. Oh, and also, don't forget that the barman is on training too!

That's generally the moment when someone asks you for an iced cappuccino. "Iced cappuccino? Kesako?"

That's generally when this strange guy grabs you by the arm and explain to you with an incredible richness of details that he is very sensitive to loud sounds and could you please find him a seat further away from the loudspeaker?

You go to the computer to open or close a table. You don't like to go there. There are those two parties of two still waiting for a table. A party of seven waiting on the couch to be seated at a table. This is the bar section and there's this party of 3 at the far end of the room who are still waiting just to read the menu. The bartender is nowhere in sight. And that's when the door opens again and someone asks you with the bright smile of innocence how long for a party of 5? You glance at the dining room and you see that all the tables are taken. The waitress is avoiding your desperate look like you avoid customers'. Trying to make that special connection. The manager looks like Speedy Gonzalez on speed.

"Give me 10 minutes, please." And you run to the other computer before another party shows up.

You haven't stopped to think about what needs to be done in hours. Your lips are dry but you don't have time to get yourself a glass of water, let alone drink it. Pouring orange juice to customers, you feel like drooling. That is, if you had enough saliva.

6 pm. Your first glass of water in seven hours. You still have to close your cash register. Figure out your tips. But really, you don't want to count anything. You're drinking a double vodka tonic at the bar. You think about this very cute girl alone on table 1 you didn't even have time to talk to. Shooting the shit with the other guys. You still feel on the verge of a nervous breakdown. All went well, but you can't believe it. You remember this moment (how long did it last? maybe a couple hours?) when the whole system seemed on the verge of collapsing. When you had this irresistible impulse to cut off the restaurant's phone cable. Lock the doors. Turn off the lights. Let's pretend there's nobody and then maybe people will stop coming in asking for a table for 3. Table for 7.

Printing your report, the waitress says, "Was that your first brunch?" Looking up from your plate of Yogurt Gran Fruits that taste better than anything you ate in the past 10 years, you say, "Yes." You keep it to yourself, but you also wish it was your last. Looking at the total amount on your report, she says, "You did a great fucking brunch." You say, "Thanks." You say, "Really, it was an accident."

Then you dip a bit of pineapple in the yogurt and eat. One mouthful at a time.