so it finally happened. the thing i have been expecting since i started waitressing nine months ago: i slipped and busted my ass. i wish there was a better way to say it, but i think when your butt meets the floor with the force mine did that you have to call it an ass. and i busted it.
i had just been cut for the night which, when you're working at Catch 54, feels like a new lease on life everytime. the bell rings downstairs so i decide to be a team player and run one more ticket. Phil, our chef, hands me a plate of calamari and rattles off a table and seat number with his usual sarcasm. i attempt to round the corner and head out when i get that old childhood feeling. the one i used to get as i was falling out of a tree; the silent, slow motion, mid-air mind blank. i am snapped back into real time first by my arm catching the corner of the sink, then by my ass slaming the tile, then by the burning in the foot that folded under me, then, finally, by the sight of little battered and fried tubes and tentacles scattered on the greasy floor. in the words of my brother i folded like a prize pony. i have time to blink before Phil's hands are under my arms and he is pulling me to my feet saying: "Stand up, stand up. Are you ok?"
i like to think i'm tough. but, really, i never mastered the "don't cry in front of boys" part of being a tomboy. especially if said boys are kind. my eyes start to fill with tears, my face pulses with the blood rushing to it, Ben, the either gay or pretentious waiter laughs, and i try to make a break for the door. but phil catches me, tells me i have tartar sauce on my forehead, and sends me to the employee bathroom. i tip toe past the line of guy cooks, and past the dish washers wishing, for once, the kitchen wasn't so quiet and no one would see me.
the mirror reflects a flushed, wide-eyed, crazy hair, sweaty mess of a girl who looks as if she were chased by bullies all the way home. self pity starts to sink in like the stains of the cocktail sauce as i grab a paper towel and begin to pathetically wipe off the the shame.
i hate my job. it is essentially staffed by people who care only about tips, or how much they rang, covers they had in a night, what wine they suckered someone into buying, or the fact that they work for matt haley. with the exeption of one or two, there is no friendship that exceeds indifference and a "what can you do for me?" half smile.
a pair of sneakers in the doorway catch my eye. i look up and see Eddy our Mexican dishwasher. He speaks no English. Our only exchange up to this moment is when he clicks his tongue and calls me "mama cita." He extends his arm and hands me a rag, then another and then puts pink soap on a third. i smile weakly, accept the offering, and keep my head bowed. blood and tears are pushing so hard on my face now that i feel it might shatter. and Eddy just stands there, and waits, and watches, and bends to wipe my leg where i can't reach.
i like to think i'm tough. but really, i can't get over grace. especially when said grace is sourced in a man who understands me without being able to even speak words i would recognize. the motions of embarrassment cross language barriers, the motions of grace exceed them, and i am shattered by a new feeling: warmth.
work is hard. embarrassment can be insult and injury. but warmth ... warmth is enough to cover the exhaustion, and the sting, and the ass busting of these things i know will pass.
