Table for Four (Non-Fiction)

It’s a crisp 5:55 pm, like it always is. My sweat-stained work blouse rustles as I swing open the rusted back doors of the restaurant. I trek through the cluttered back room, passing the commotion of kitchen staff in white coats and servers in purple shirts. I give a short and sweet smile before slyly manoeuvring my way through the suffocating space.

I push the second door open and enter a new kind of busy; purple shirts running from table to table, while couples who pretend to be happy sit and enjoy a nice meal by the candlelight in Gucci outfits that don’t even look that good. I imagine they will soon go home and either fight or have mediocre sex before returning to their mundane lives as usual.

Behind the bar, I give Ben a routine nod and pick up the first chit that pops up on the receipt machine. I grab the vodka bottle and pour a shot into the sparkling clean rocks glass. I spray soda to the top and add a lime to garnish, then pass it over to one of the regulars, whose name was too insignificant to remember.

He always sits at the middle seat of the bar, which is just so unsettling as there is a chain of empty chairs on either side of him. He is middle-aged, looks like he cheats on his wife, and always wears a hat, so he’s probably bald too. At 12:30 pm every day he comes in and orders three vodka sodas before going back to his colourless cubical, probably beside someone who has a pixie cut and a stare that could kill. Today he apparently took the day off, but came in for dinner because he needed a break from his so-called nagging wife who doesn’t put out like she used to. I don’t know why people say these things out loud. He flashes me a cheeky smile, so I turn my back to avoid hearing the flirty comment that is on the tip of his tongue. It’s way too early in the night to force a giggle. Realistically, his wife probably kicked him out for the night. I would have too.

The servers’ eyes brighten as they see two people behind the bar. Faster drinks for the purple shirts and better tip-outs for the white coats. Too bad Ben is working like a broken down golf-cart, so I spend the majority of my time fixing his mistakes.

“Ben that’s supposed to be an Italian Mojito, not a Tuscan Mojito.”

“Ben that’s supposed to be an Intro to Aperol, not an Aperol Spritz.”

“Ben that’s supposed to be an Espresso Martini, not a cup of juice with coffee grounds mixed in it.”

“Jesus Ben. What in God’s name are you doing?”

The thing about Ben is he works a lot better when he's hammered. At the beginning of every shift, he comes in sober and works like he's a kindergartener playing “restaurant.” Get a couple of Pilsners in him, and he's a rockstar with a shaker. Normally I mess up some drinks on purpose and put them right beside him. I guess I’m not a very good influence when it comes to fighting addiction. Not that Ben is a known alcoholic, but one can only assume after three years working together and zero nights spent sober.

The restaurant hits a lull, and the purple shirts take off with their trays held high alongside their egos. Ben takes a breath, tilts his head towards me while putting one hand on the bar and says, “How ya doing kid?” I start cleaning up the explosion of liquids, while Vodka Soda Man tries to interrupt with a fun fact about his daughter.

“Man, yesterday was brutal. We thought it wasn’t gonna be busy, so we called you off, but I coulda used ya here,” Ben says empathetically.

“Hey, I had a nice relaxing night at home. I’m not complaining.” I smile and start pouring a Negroni for a server. “Isn’t your family supposed to be stopping by tonight?”

“Nah. I pitched the idea to the wife but, I think her exact words were ‘I don’t want to spend money in an atmosphere filled with bullshit.’ Whatever. Not worth getting a sitter for the little rats.”

“Can’t blame her for that one.”

“Better for me too, now we can get shitfaced at Phillys after close. $4 bar rail tonight.”

Ben never went home right after his shift, not without a drink first. Sometimes I worried about him. But then again, I’m a 20-year-old kid working with a 50 something-year-old man who can probably take care of himself. At least he should be able to take care of himself. I read the next chit, grab a Krombacher glass, and tilt it to the side while the beer tap fills it up.

“I saw your parents have a reservation at X5.”

My face begins to go cold. My eyes lock on the beer as it overpours through my fingers and drips onto the bar.

“Shit.”

I try to hide my nerves from Ben, but he can tell right away. I don’t have a good relationship with subtlety.

They walk in with another couple. My mother’s hair falls straight, and she is wearing an angelic, pure white dress. I've only ever seen it hanging in her closet. My dad is wearing the white button-down shirt I got him for Christmas. Very cute of him. My beer-soaked shirt and working pants don’t fit in too well with them. I immediately pretend to look busy, grabbing every chit there is.

The hostess seats them at their table and gives me a nod as she walks back to her post. I grab four flute glasses and pour prosecco into each of them, perfectly topped to the rim. I push air out of my chest and close my eyes.

I approach the table with the tray held high, like the rest of the purple shirts do. I say hello to everyone, including their friends Frank and Josie. I place the flute glass in front of my mother, tensely holding a grin. My fingertips start to tremble as I tilt my body to position the glasses perfectly.

Fuck Fuck Fuck FUCK.

The frame pauses and the glasses tip forward creating a waterfall of prosecco that gushes all over the table. The smell of booze pierces the tips of their noses. Gasps and disappointing eyes drown out the clattering sounds of glasses shattering on the floor. My muscles stiffen and it feels like there is a heavy brick in my stomach beating me saying idiot idiot idiot you worthless stupid idiot. I redirect my gaze to look at my mother, who softly closes her eyes and says,

“I knew you were gonna do something like that.”

She apologizes to her guests for the show. I scurry back to the bar to grab a half-clean rag, but the purple shirts have already cleaned up the majority of the mess. I look at Ben with empty eyes. He looks back. I turn to grab a shaker and bump into him harshly.

“Don’t worry about it, kid.”

His words don’t really matter. My hand is already trembling profusely. Next Drink. I pick up a chit and start working like a broken down golf-cart. I see Ben’s head keep turning to check-in, but I’m too invested in the tasks in front of me to make eye contact. Vodka Soda Man on his third glass now has settled up and has one sip left before he returns home. He raises his glass, looks at me before downing his last gulp and says,

“They didn't look like your kind of people anyways.”