Can you watch my section for five?

we ask our coworker,

one we may or may not have slept with,

so we can slip outside

apron still affixed

 

and smoke a cigarette

or just stand under the glow of street lamps,

looking at the remains

of a Tesla’s window in pieces on the sidewalk—

street glitter—

watching a rat scuttle across the pavement

to dart behind a patch of grass,

taking a moment of relative silence and fresh air.

 

We are misfits

degenerates

hard workers

sweethearts.

We are gravely misunderstood.

We smell like hops, yeast,

oil, grilled meat, bread, fish.

We make 500 on a good night

if we’re front of-house,

and we make 90 on a bad night.

After our shift is over and we clock out,

we drink three to six beers, depending.

Sometimes,

during the really long days,

the really thankless nights,

the nights where we cut the tip of our finger off,

or have to clean up vomit, or piss,

or a drunk guy pinches our ass,

or some dude tells us we should smile more,

we start drinking before clocking out.

 

86 TRIPLE SEC

we yell at each and every server

while we tend bar,

pouring pint after pint of beer.

4 COUNT SWEET POTATO FRIES

we yell as we pop out from our prep kitchen cave,

to tell the spoiled front-of-house staff.

 

BEHIND! ¡ATRÁS!

we shout as we dart from kitchen to the line,

back of house to the floor

front bar to back bar

walk-in back to the bar

kitchen to the restroom

restroom to the lockers

storage closet back to the line

prep kitchen to the dumpsters.

 

WHERE IS TABLE SIX’S BURGER

we demand of our line cooks,

not daring to talk to the chef that way.

 

STOP SEATING ME

we frantically mouth to the host,

after they have sat us a fifth consecutive four-top in ten minutes.

Fuck. Table six stiffed me.

On to the next.

 

WHERE’S JESS?

We, the almighty bartenders yell into the void.

Our most loyal server finds her,

tells her we have a question.

 

Jess saunters up,

already rolling her eyes—

You didn’t ring this drink up right.

Here’s how you do it.

We hear ourselves and are annoyed.

We’re nitpicking ingredient discrepancies

with the servers

for what, inventory? To save money?

For who?

So the owner can get a bit richer while we hustle our ass all night?

 

What’s the new IPA taste like?

A customer asks us,

after they have already sampled three beers.

“It tastes like fucking beer,”

we wish we could say.

“It’s really good. It’s hoppy but not too bitter. Super fresh,”

we say instead.

 

THREE BONELESS WINGS ALL DAY;

FIRE ON TABLE NINE

we yell from our little slice of hell

stationed in front of the deep fryers,

dodging hot oil,

wielding knives and squirt bottles,

tossing

plating

garnishing

wiping

repeat.

 

Two hours left.

Fuck I need a drink.

I need five drinks.

I need a new fucking job.

​

And then we show up hungover the next day

and do it all again.

 

We don’t have much of a choice.

No one’s holding our hands.

 

We are a band of degenerates—

these misfits,

these sweethearts,

these druggies,

these assholes,

these perfect human beings.

We are a dysfunctional family

just barely hanging on.

​

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