In 2013 I moved from NYC back to Scranton. Three months in, my NYC unemployment ran out. I needed a job. I found one in the neighborhood where I grew up. One of the caveats of working in a restaurant in my hometown is that I’m often forced to wait on my past.

BULLY FOR TABLE TWELVE

2016

It’s Saturday night. Amateur night in NYC, but here, in Scranton, Saturday night is when the hoi polloi doll themselves up and step-out for a rollicking repast. I’m waiting on my principal bully from grade school. In grade school he was frightening, a real menace. Today he’s an over-fed gasbag. I don’t mind waiting on him. I’m his waiter, which means I’m in charge. He still goes by his childhood nickname, Jonesy.

Jonesy is hosting a party of four: his wife, Miranda, and their two prisoners-of-war, er, friends. After cocktails at the bar, the party sits. Miranda orders the fish special; their guests both opt for Sole Meuniére; Jonesy orders the prime rib, rare. Appetizer and salad courses go off without a hitch. Time for the main course. I serve Miranda and their guests first, Jonesy’s prime rib last.

“Is there anything else you need?” I ask Miranda, but it’s Jonesy who answers.

“No,” he says, and dismisses me with a curt wave of his hand. I catch Miranda’s eye, and wink. She winks back, her way of saying, “Everything is fine.” A minute later I spy Jonesy madly waving his arms like he’s ‘Tippi Hedron’ fighting off a murder of crows. I approach.

“Yes, Tippi?”

“What did you call me?”

“Forgive me. It’s my speech impediment. Did you need something?”

Jonesy points at his plate. “This prime rib is still alive.”

“You asked for ‘rare,’” Miranda says.

“It’s too rare. Take it back. Have Russell cook it some more. He knows how I like it. Rare but not too rare.”

I take it back. Russell cooks it some more. I serve it. Jonesy pokes at it.

“It’s medium rare now. I want rare. Is there someone new in the kitchen? Is Russell hiring foreigners? For crissakes, this place is going downhill.”

“Lower your voice,” pleads Miranda.

I say: “Shall I have Russell make you a new order–?”

“No,” he says, “He’ll only screw it up. Give me the fish special.”

“You won’t like it,” says his wife.

“Shut up,” he says.

Ten-minutes later – an eon in restaurant time, but sometimes when a customer is acting like an ass, it’s grand fun to watch him stew while he waits for his food – I serve Jonesy the fish special. Miranda was right, he does not like it. He makes a sour-puss frown with every mastication. I picture him sitting in his highchair wearing a plastic bib being forced to eat his broccoli. Every time I walk by the table, he stares me down, because he blames me for this whole messed-up megilla. After dinner, dessert, and coffee, he calls me over.

“I asked for the check twenty minutes ago,” he says in his best bully voice.

The check’s been sitting in front of him for a while. I point at it. Miranda stifles a snicker. He tosses a credit card in the middle of the table. I take it, and say, “I’ll be right back.”

I do not process the card. Instead, I go outside and have a cigarette. I smoke it slowly. I stub-out the butt, return to Jonesy’s table and say, on the loud side, “I’m sorry, sir, but your card’s been denied.” It hadn’t, but the look on Jonesy’s face was well worth the lie.

“It can’t be! That’s impossible!”

Jonesy’s dinner guests stare at the wall like there’s something hanging there they really need to study. I stand still, waiting for instructions. Jonesy says nothing. He’s having difficulty breathing.

“Give him another card,” says Miranda.

“I didn’t bring another card.”

I say: “Let me try it again. There may have been a glitch in the system.”

I walk off and run the card. It sails through the approval process. I bring it to Jonesy.

“Here you go, Jonesy,” I say, “I used a special code that bypasses the system. But you may want to check in with your bank.” I finish with, “Good night and thanks.” I wink at Miranda.

Jonesy signs without looking at the check. He has no idea I charged him for the prime rib. He leaves me ten percent and steals my pen.

After service, I sip a glass of red wine, and enjoy a delicious prime rib dinner. It’s just the way I like it. Rare but not too rare.

EATING CISSIE

2017

Cissie Gagliardi and I were roommates in NYC in the mid-1980s. It lasted six months. I tossed her out when she refused to pay the rent (she blamed me for the cockroaches), and our four-year friendship dissolved immediately. Back then she told a mutual friend that she hated me and shall hate me until I die. Cissie and I had met in Scranton. After I kicked her out she moved back to the area and became a born-again Christian through marriage. I’ve not seen her in 35 years. Tonight, she’s celebrating her 60^th birthday with 30 friends and family.

When I learn that I’ve been assigned to Cissie’s party, I inform Debbie the manager of our shared history, and ask her to swap me out with another waiter. She says, “Don’t let Cissie turn you into a sissy. Just do it.”

Cissie has no idea I moved back to Scranton from NYC. No idea I work here. No idea I’m about to wait on her.

It’s a dull party. No booze. Set-menu. Banal speeches. I serve Cissie her chicken strips in butter and garlic. She looks right at me, full-on, eye-to-eye, but I don’t believe she recognizes me. She returns her gaze to her plate and devours her chicken strips. When she finishes, her husband reaches over and lovingly wipes the butter that’s dripping off her chin. Time for “Happy Birthday.” I retrieve a kitchen knife for the ceremonial cutting of the cake. The cake is decorated with a large photographic image of Cissie when she was a teenager. Memories flood. I recall that we were pretty buddy-buddy for a while. I don’t know where to begin cutting.

Debbie walks over and removes the knife from my hand, “I’ll do it,” she says. She studies the cake, assessing where to make the first cut. She winks at me and stabs Cissie in the eye. Then she cuts Cissie’s head off, puts it on a plate, and hands it to me. “Take this to the kitchen, then come back and see who wants coffee.”

I take Cissie’s head into the kitchen. I eat it. It’s delicious.

YES, WE HAVE NO BRAINS

2018

Sunday nights here can be hit or miss. Some are slow; some are staggeringly busy. Tonight, we’re slow. Thank God. Last night was the busiest Saturday night in months. 250 covers in three hours. In Scranton there are no food deliveries on Sunday. The 86 list is jam packed.

My only table is Brad and Carla. They’re not married, because Brad is married to Donna. Donna and Carla are best friends. But I don’t think Donna knows that Brad and Carla are out having dinner…again. Carla and I attended the same high school. She considers me a failure because I’m a 57-year-old waiter. I know this because whenever we cross paths her mouth performs an acrobatic showcase of scorn.

I’m standing over Brad and Carla’s table, dishing out the 86’s.

“We have no clams, scallops, or stuffed mushrooms. We’re out of veal, except for one veal chop. We’re also out of pork chops, sole, and we only have one order left of Salmon–”

My co-worker Gigi walks over. We don’t talk much because I told her I never watched Vanderpump Rules and she can’t relate. She says, in an eerie monotone, “I just sold the last salmon.”

I turn to my table. “Well, now we’re out of Salmon.”

“This is ridiculous,” says Carla. “What is going on? Why is there no food?”

“The supply trucks couldn’t make it through the blockade,” I say.

Carla has a lovely home she inherited from her mother, and a more than adequate retirement income. She wants for nothing, except a sense of humor.

“What blockade?” she whines. “What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” I say. “Are you ready to order?”

“Yes,” she says, “I’ll have the Salmon.”

In my mind’s eye I slap Carla upside her mouth with the last Veal Chop.