The Restaurant Job

I had vowed ten years earlier never to take another waitress job, but circumstances conspired. Back in my hometown for the first time in five years, I was reduced to living with my parents while grinding out the final draft of my overdue Masters Degree in Linguistics.

I had just fled my second husband and the prospect of an Arctic winter. The Mae West line about not getting down to her last dollar or her last man kept echoing in my head; it had happened. This weekend job would at least pay for the babysitter during the week, and it had the added flavour of penance for past recklessness.

An old high school chum recommended the restaurant. She had worked there and said the tips were good. I applied and next weekend found myself learning the ropes, enjoying my new role in spite of my misgivings about working for $1.35 an hour (this was 1979). The imperious Austrian hostess "Vy must I vork vit such dump people!" the Polish scullery crew, and some of the other waitresses were amusing types and took my mind off my aching legs.

I dreaded my first contact with the owner however, who was reputed to be a meany and was supposedly the daughter of a Mafioso. This was New Jersey, where mafia memes were common. Her first words to me were "Keep your fingers out of the onion rings!"

I soon learned to sneak extra shrimp cocktails and consume them furtively, the only fringe benefit I could imagine in a restaurant job.

One busy evening I was plodding along, day dreaming about a handsome prince who would one day leave me an enormous tip. Out of nowhere Jack, the cook, came up behind me and said casually, "Is your husband still in Canada?"

"Yes."

"Don't you get lonely?"

"God-damm lonely," I answered emphatically, squirting whip cream onto the sundae I was preparing with extra vengeance, but smiling, thinking, "He's got a friend for me."

"Well any time, baby, I'm ready." This last spoken suggestively, as he moved away.

I was stunned, and could only blurt out, "But you're married!"

"So are you," he almost sneered.

Up til then my interactions with Jack had been light banter, about the King Tut exhibition in New York, or the proper way to garnish a lobster. His proposition seemed to come out of the blue. Then, too, I was feeling at a new low of personal attractiveness. My uniform, a sailor top hastily bought, was too big, and the white polyester pants borrowed from my mother were baggy and ludicrously short. Perhaps it was my shapely ankles that enticed him.

My hair was sadly misshapen from my recent wanton attack with scissors, and instead of bothering with my contact lenses I was wearing my old glasses and no eye make up. This was my idea of keeping a low profile. I felt, even wanted to feel, frowsy, bookish, plain, ordinary, a worker, a drone. Screwing the cook was the furthest thing from my mind.

Or had been. My reaction was immediate and involuntary. My tired legs regained their bounce, I became lively and cheerful for the rest of the evening, joked and flirted with him a bit, and, back home, masturbated happily to sleep. Once the possibility of nooky presented itself, I realised I was dangerously horny. Another fringe benefit? Why not?

My anticipations were shattered several days later, when I had lunch with aforementioned old friend, who filled me in on some of the details of the establishment. Jack was the owner's son.

Just as well I hadn't referred to her as a witch in his presence. He was also a known philanderer. My unique status was gone, or rather my illusion of it, and I cancelled him out as a prospect. I should have seen through him from the start.

That sort of fling could only degrade me, I knew too well from past experiences. It was a cycle I wanted very badly to break. I had no trouble convincing myself that this time I wanted no part of gratifying some immature guy's fantasies.

The next weekend Jack really starting laying the heavies on me, with meaningful glances, double entendres about 'stuffing' when I was picking up my trays, and, when no one was around, little gems like if I screwed him my IQ would go up 25 points.

A novel approach. He would whisper imploringly that I was one of the few intelligent people around, he just wanted to get to know me, etc. I found it all quite embarrassing. I wonder if I'll ever know why certain men feel they can come up to me and start talking dirty.

It's all bad enough when they say they're after my ass, but when they say they want me for my mind, it confuses me. Does Gloria Steinem go through this crap? In any case, I remained scornful, told him quite frankly that I had enough problems already, and hoped that he couldn't get me fired.

About this time a new waiter appeared, Charlie, and we struck up a mild friendship. He was an aspiring actor, both graceful and funny, hefting great trays with a flourish, singing songs from obscure musicals in the kitchen, and carrying on a running game of trivia with the bus boys.

One Saturday night we planned to enjoy a quiet joint and a few laughs together after work. Late this same evening, Jack cornered me, passed me a tightly rolled joint and said "Here, this is for you."

I was pleased and thanked him, already planning when I could get a few hours away from my parents and child to smoke it. His generosity became transparent when James mentioned later as we lit up that he'd had 2 joints tucked inside a packet of cigarettes in the men's room, but the bus boys must have pinched one of them. A chuckle I can only share with you, dear reader, since Jack didn't know I 'd be smoking with Charlie, and I wasn't about to let Charlie know about my gift from Jack.

Jack also started calling up my house, much to my dismay and my father's Teutonic wrath. He rang up late one night and managed to sputter out something about a King Tut special on TV before my father roared veiled threats of bodily harm. My parents still considered me a married lady. I displayed the appropriate amount of indignation.

One night he asked me to meet him downstairs, he wanted to talk to me. I grudgingly obliged, thinking I would explain politely to him why he should not call my house any more.

I was feeling stern, not at all prepared for the sudden grab and wet kiss he planted on me. I struggled away, half amused half embarrassed, trying to make my position clear. His big frame hovering so close began to cloud my mind, but still I backed away.

"You know you want to," he muttered hoarsely after me. I felt like I was trapped in the pages of an Italian photo-romance comic.

Another time I arrived at work a bit tipsy, being driven to drink by a futile and depressing phone conversation with my husband, and I cut my finger slicing bread. Jack made a great show of bandaging it for me, with throaty suggestions as to his other less obvious talents, which left me even more depressed.

Later he slipped me a childish note, asking me to call him, meet him early one Saturday, etc. I ignored it. Finally his approaches became less frequent, his glances less meaningful. I should have been relieved.

Instead, I felt deflated, diminished that he should no longer be expressing his great desire for union with me. My friend Charlie had vanished without a trace, fired perhaps because he'd been too apologetic to some customers about a cockroach on their table.

I'd also found out that the bartender was also the owner's son, lucky I hadn't complained to him about the cook being a letch. With Charlie gone, I had no one to joke with, and the job became mere drudgery. I noticed for the first time how very blue Jack's eyes were, with a touch of sadness in them.

Could it be true, as I'd heard whispered, that he drank a lot? But they say that about a lot of cooks. I wondered what I had accomplished by being prudish - merely decreased the total amount of lust in the world. It game me no great satisfaction. In my parched emotional state, who was I to deny this young man and myself a tiny adventure? Is it still 'using each other' even when there are no promises made or broken?

Here I was, 2 months without, and no end in sight to this body drought. I felt a stirring of desire for this blue-eyed hulk. It was such thoughts as these which prompted me to ask him to meet me downstairs, intending, I swear it, only to reopen negotiations.

The choreography of our fumblings, the words we might have spoken, escape me. I only remember protesting that I had a table upstairs, but his urgency won out. He had a thick fuzzy middle, and smelled of sweat and chicken Parmesan. We wound up in one of the toilets, and were giggling when we finally turned on the light and the fan cut in, as we groped for my glasses and tried to straighten ourselves out.

The phrase 'nostalgie de la boue' flashed through my mind; heaven knows it wasn't the first time I'd made it in a toilet. (What did Violetta feel, the first time she coupled with Alfredo, somewhere backstage after the first act of Traviata?)

He showed me the back staircase, my escape route. I had to run past the damm German shepherds, who barked at my sinful sneaking. Out into the cold February night, around the front door and back to my table. I was grinning uncontrollably as I approached them, delighted to see that they had finished their meal and had even stacked the dishes for me. Far from missing me, the other waitresses had done most of my clean-up work, a double delight.

The next day was Sunday, another shift. We both acted as if nothing had happened, except for a brief exchange asking if we'd enjoyed each other. I certainly had, and planned to take him up on his standing offer to come over to his house on his night off, since his wife worked evenings.

Soft lights, a big bed, a joint, wine, some laughs and insights into each other - was that asking too much? Later I saw this expectation was unrealistic on my part, but then one doesn't get into situations like this without a fair capacity for self-delusion.

Several weeks went by, and I was afraid to broach the subject. It felt good just to have desire reawakened. Not noble desire, just your common garden lust, that geranium of emotions, ubiquitous, not always lovely, but hardy. I wanted more, I wanted again.

One evening I was sent to the storeroom for some towels, and he was suddenly there behind me, touching me, leading us into a corner. A few rubs and kisses, and he asked me to meet him later across the street, get off early if I could. It seemed his family owned the house.

Ah, that evening's labours were lightened by the anticipation of our tryst. Excuses made, signals arranged and given, I slipped away. He led me into a dark, empty apartment, but one room had a mattress and a mirror, his flashlight led the way. The shades were pulled down, but the pink neon glow of the restaurant sign oozed in.

We had a wonderful time, for all of perhaps 30 minutes. Then he wanted to get back, close up the kitchen. Truly sex with no frills, I thought. He left my body the way one rises from a meal at McDonalds, as if 'that need taken care of, on to other things.'

I however, wanted to penetrate this young man, find out what motivated him, where his ambitions reached. I discovered only that he fully intended to be rich one day. He seemed so in control of his fate, confident and secure, although he was even younger than I thought, a mere 22. He told me briefly how he came to be a cook, been working there since he was 13, kitchen chores, then bus boy, now a self-taught cook.

"That's my name up there too," he said proudly, pointing to the neon sign. I wondered which version he identified with, since there were two, one phonetic, and one in the full Italian. But then kids who went to school in the 80s don't waste much time on orthographic nuances.

He in turn showed little curiosity about me, less than I am used to. He had me pegged as 'sensual' and 'bright', I let it go at that. Despite my curiosity, I felt our intimacy was not yet such that I could ask him if it was true that the soup pot was supplemented with table scraps. Too soon I was thrust out into the cold night, alone with my thoughts.

The next week I saw him talking in confiding tones to another waitress, a young psych nurse student. Vaguely jealous, I asked her in the ladies room if he had ever made a pass at her.

"Oh Jack", she laughed, "he's harmless." My heart sank. There she was, perhaps 10 years younger than me, but capable of what? Mature discrimination? While for me, ah, when will I ever learn that men can be harmless? Probably never.

We had only one more coupling, the night before I abruptly left for one more reconciliation with my husband. At my request he provided a candle and some wine, but there was no more time than before.

In the doorway he said "Well, do you feel fulfilled?"

"Let's just say filled."

"So long kid."

With that he faded into the darkness, good-bye to a tenderness that would never be shared. I felt good as I headed up the hill, wishing only that I'd found some discrete way to enquire whether his mother really went through the bus boys' trays for recyclable food. I suppose some things must be left unsaid, even between lovers.

Some months later I was in town again, on my way to yet another 'new life', and the night before I left I impulsively stopped in at the restaurant. The same blue eyes were there, the same slightly sad, even jaded smile.

What did he see in mine, if he looked at all?

He said, "I sensed that you were in town, why didn't you get in touch?"

Seeing him, I wished I had. Just hadn't seemed worth doing I guess. One more young man passing into and out of my life and my body. Is there really no such thing as free love?

I started up the hill for the last time, glad to be on foot and alone. I knew that if and when I should return, everything would have changed. Without warning I was afflicted with dry sobs, like when you get the wind knocked out and strain to inhale. I couldn't explain it, I had to clutch at my stomach. The tears wouldn't come out until I was almost home. If I could summon up an honest regret, maybe things would be different, but I cannot. And every time I remember, I smile.