It’s Thursday afternoon and I’m late for work. I’m running late because, consciously and unconsciously, I don’t want to work at Café Machiavelli today. The money’s been sucking, we’re understaffed, and I’m just sick of restaurants in general. Of course I forget to eat today.
“So how you doing Chimo?” I ask during a lull in service. “I’m great, dude,” my Mexican-American comrade replies. “I got a deluxe blowjob last night.” “A deluxe blowjob?” I ask. “What’s that?” “Dude,” Chimo says, looking at me dumbfounded, “You don’t know what a
It’s a slow Saturday night and I’m standing by the hostess stand, reviewing my tips. I’m not doing well. “How’s it going there?” the owner asks, looking over my shoulder. “Terrible,” I reply. “Less than fifteen percent.” “Really?” the owner says, looking surprised. “You usually
“Hello and welcome,” I say to my new two top. “Would either of you care for a cocktail?” “I think we’ll just start off with some water,” the husband, a bald man in a open collared silk shirt, replies. “Maybe we’ll have wine with dinner.”
It’s a stormy Friday night and I’m enjoying a mid shift espresso with Jimmy, Cafe Machiavelli’s youngest busboy. As I sip my coffee I watch as heavy raindrops explode against the restaurant’s front window like liquid kamikazes. The foul weather’s putting a dent in our