Well, technically, officer, I wasn’t a waiter. I was the host. Which is important because, you know, without me…how could anybody find the tables? You know? They’re, um…they’re numbered…
Failure…failure is such an ugly word. Really. I prefer to think I’m still finding myself, my, I don’t know, calling, which, is admittedly taking some time. More time than I would have chosen to allot for my coming of age. I’m starting to think I’m a late bloomer. I realize that I’ll probably have to stop using that as a preface to every conversation started with, “so, what are you up to?†eventually, because the phrase loses a bit of its earnestness when you hit your middle forties. I guess at that point you are simply a non-bloomer. An early wilter. A dud.
I realize people are growing impatient. I’m growing impatient, you know? And that’s how it happened. My impatience – or actually maybe resentment but you know, either way – my state of mind while in the work place…the work environment…I think I should be able to plead temporary insanity because that’s what I was. Temporarily insane. Perhaps the temporary part is open to interpretation but, you know, insane. I shouldn’t be held accountable for my actions under those circumstances.
Anyway, the point is, every time I went to work and began the mind numbingly – the…brain breakingly existential task of Windexing menus – yeah, that’s right WINDEXING menus – I could literally feel a piece of my soul die. And after changing into my “uniform†– my mother thought I’d be a doctor – after changing into my host “uniform†I’d take all the menus to the front of the house – that’s what they called it. You believe that? “The front of the house.†I don’t know, maybe to help out of work actors acclimate themselves quicker but anyway I’d take these freshly squeegeed menus there and every time – every time – that…just…unspeakably pretentious waiter would be up there and say, “It’s show time!†Just like that. “It’s show time!†I can still hear it in my sleep.
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