| Stains- June 2001 "Good evening, y'all, and welcome to Romano's..." Lisa kept her mouth in a perfect crescent-moon smile. She introduced herself, talked them into a jug of house chianti on their table, and walked away to get their glasses. It was bad enough that it was Friday night and she was here instead of out doing... well, something. But her section partner skipped out on her, it was her fourth day as a waitress, and now she had four tables to wait on. In smoking. She returned, her grimace still in place, and gave them each a glass tumbler, filling the first three-quarters with the rich red wine. She had the jug hefted over her shoulder, two fingers looped through the small handle like they taught her, and was pouring the second glass when the hefty man on the right side of the table pinched her butt. She jumped, and the wine jug tipped too far, and suddenly she was swimming in the almost-vinegar smell that gagged her. God... why people drank this stuff would always be a mystery to her. Maybe it was the $3.50 a glass. Way cheaper than anything decent that smelled a little better. But when she set the jug down and carefully screwed the cap on tight, she looked down and squeaked in dismay to see her shirt plastered to her front, a splotch of deep carnelian forming a lovely v down her boobs as if to say, hello, check these out. The man was receiving his wine with a fat chuckle, holding a fat cigarette in his fat fingers and taking a fat drag before drinking his fat- okay, Lis, chill, and remember our relaxation mantra... big tips, big tips, big tips... She escaped the table after taking their order, and ran to the manager to beg him to let her go home and change. Better yet, to go home, put a pillow over her head and never come back again. Or at least strangle the butt-pincher with her newly purple shirt. But she didn't voice that last option. And the manager flatly refused. "You have tables, and you must serve them," he intoned, his eyes mercilessly studying the wine stain on her front. Lisa closed her eyes and counted to three, mumbling an apology when someone bumped past her on their way to the ring-up counter. Then she grabbed some napkins and dabbed as much of the chianti off her shirt as possible. "Hey, Lisa," one of the head waiters said, smiling sweetly as he walked toward her. Her heart fluttered. "Hi, Jake." He paused in front of her, still smiling, and she lost herself in his green eyes... "Um, could you move? I have to take these to table 12..." he said, still waiting. She noticed the plates of food in his hands. "Oh, right, sorry," she said, moving quickly out of the way, her face flushing to coordinate with her shirt. The rest of the night was a blur. She went through it like a disaster relief worker, quick and efficient, her mind a delightful haze. The fat man did not leave a fat tip. She wanted to kill. But that would look bad on a resum�: "Experience: waiting tables, smiling, and asphyxiation in under ten seconds..." One woman chewed her out for slow service, asked for a manager, and chewed him out. He gave her a discount coupon and she left smiling. Every single table thought they'd be cute and mention her stained shirt front. "Long night, huh?" "Whoa, maybe I should pour that wine for you, honey..." "Lose a fight with a grape?" She smiled and chuckled and said something inane each time, and the hours slowly crawled by. Finally it was ten o' clock. She brought her last table their check, counted out her tips, and sat in the back waiting for someone to tell her she could go home. Jake came in, his tie loose, his blond hair mussed. She sat up straighter and smiled. "Hi." His teeth flashed. "G'night. I'm going home." "Lucky. How'd you do tonight?" "Pretty well... fifty bucks for four hours." "Decent. I got stiffed by this one table... the lady was having a conniption." His eyes finally met hers. "Were you the one with the four at once?" "Five at one point. At least the hostess tried to hold off the horde- I never had six." He nodded once, already turning away. Then he turned back, his face intent. "Oh, and Lisa..." She lifted her head, clasping her hands tighter in her lap. "Yes?" "You have something on your shirt." |