Tag Archives: writer

Ode to My Nice Neighbor

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She knocks at my door. I answer.

“I’m a bootlegger,” she said and thrust a gallon jug with a sunny liquor in my hands.

The homemade label says, “Limoncello. Enjoy!” The top looks like a jam jar.

“Cleaning out the house for my move. I found it in a corner, but it should be good.”

I hugged her, “Damn. Now I’m really sorry to see you go.”

She laughed and left just as quickly as she came. “… so much to do…”

“Thank you and good luck!”

I made a lemon drop martini before you could say “Lemonade.”

My dog, Jack, says, "Let them eat steak!"

Dogfucius say, “Love thy neighbor, especially if they make good drinks!”

Job Searching 102: Easy Come, Easy Go

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My cell phone shrilled its faux phone ring and I looked at it. Father Owner was calling and I hit answer. “Hey there! I was just thinking of you. Our minds must be connected through the firmament.” I giggled my little self-conscious giggle.

Father Owner let out a small laugh and simply said, “Yes.” He went on with a wavering voice. “Listen, I have to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a reason I couldn’t give you the schedule last night. Remember when I said Son-in-Law had a guy in mind?”

“Yes.”

“We talked about it. He won’t let this go. He wants to bring his guy in.”

My belly immediately felt chilly. Three days prior, I was hired by Father Owner as a server in his restaurant, Neighborhood Bistro, and was very excited. On and off throughout my sojourn with The Pie Shoppe, I’ve looked for another job. I kept hoping to work two jobs as I settled into my new restaurant and, assuming all went well, I would eventually and happily let The Pie Shoppe go. I had cold called Neighborhood Bistro a couple of times and loved the place. Father Owner and I chatted and got on well. He had held onto my resume, and some 8 months after my first visit he called me in to meet with Son-in-Law, a co-owner. This meeting went well and they hired me on the spot to start training that night. During the interview, we discussed The Pie Shoppe. Since Neighborhood Bistro operated with a set schedule and the Pie Shoppe had a flexible one, we determined it’d be easy for me to work the two together.

Neighborhood Bistro was set in an Old Town section of a well-to-do neighborhood in the suburbs of Los Angeles. The ambiance was light and cheerful. The entire dining room was sheltered under a large tent. Around the side and back was a tall, vine-covered brick wall, lined with flowering potted plants. The tent connected to a small, old house which had been repurposed into a kitchen, office, server aisle, and bathroom. A large front porch served as the entrance and in the very front was an open patio, nestled against the sidewalk, with large umbrellas shielding the tables from the sometimes hot Los Angeles sun. Inside, strings of lights, artisan lanterns, and candles gave a soft, beckoning glow. All the tables were painted brightly with primary colors. The booths and chairs were cushioned in secondary colors. Tall wine glasses and white folded napkins adorned the tabletops. The menu was eclectic and gourmet, changing seasonally. Father Owner and Son-in-Law co-owned the place with his wife, Father Owner’s daughter. Both Son-in-Law and his wife were trained chefs with a resume of fancy, fine dining establishments from around the country. The food was freshly prepared with an artistic touch. The music, a playlist off their iPod, was lively and upbeat. The family-owned Neighborhood Bistro charmed.

In almost every way, I was excited to replace The Pie Shoppe, a chain restaurant set inside a strip mall. Their corporate environment, where the mandates of the system treated the employee like an object to serve a purpose, was wearing on me. The menu of American comfort food standards, created out of the industrial food complex, was of dubious quality. Ingredients came into the restaurant pre-cooked, pre-chopped, pre-mixed, and frozen to be assembled onto plates by short order cooks. The ambiance was sterile, colorless, and cowardly, made to be the least offensive to the greatest number. The canned internet music was so innocuous as to be distracting.

For two days, I trained with two Neighborhood Bistro servers. The first started as busboy and, over 10 years, worked his way to being an assistant manager. The second was Father Owner’s Son, who was leaving the restaurant to go on an extended traveling adventure with his wife and new baby boy. I was to take over his shifts. From what I could discern in two days, the training went very well and the culture of the place seemed easy-going. All the employees had computer codes to comp and void what they needed off of tickets, a process usually limited to the management as a check and balance to prevent employee theft. Father Owner’s Son assured me that I must’ve been hired because I was like one of them and could be trusted. Everyone was very welcoming, including Son-in-Law. The food was beautiful and my early menu sampling was a party in my mouth.

“He wants to bring him in,” I repeated. “You mean, he wants to hire us both? Try the other guy out too?” This would mean less shifts, which I was okay with since I’d be working two jobs for the short-term anyway.

“Well… no… here’s the thing,” he said, with a hesitant, stumbling voice, like he’d rather talk about anything else in the world. “Last month, my daughter and I made some changes to the restaurant that he didn’t agree with. He’s been upset about it ever since. Now that we have some hiring to do, he’s insisting on his way, even though I’m in charge of the dining room and he runs the kitchen. He just wants to feel like he’s listened to, like he’s been validated.”

He paused, but I didn’t speak, so he went on. “Listen, I’m sorry. The guys that trained you, they like you. I like you. Your experience and personality are a really great fit here. And Son-in-Law can see you’re a strong server. He doesn’t have any problems with you. It’s not about you. He just wants his guy. Personally, I don’t like the guy.”

I jumped in. “You don’t like him and Son-in-Law would still force you to work with him in the front of the house? Doesn’t he manage the kitchen and you manage the front?”

“Yes. I know how it sounds. It’s complicated. This is part of a string of decisions where Son-in-Law is feeling picked on and singled out in the family. I offered to hire both of you and split the shifts but he said no. He wants his way only. In this case, because of what went down last month, I have to give in. It’s a family dynamic thing.” His voice never lost its awkward, I-don’t-wanna-be-here tone.

“Oh, I get it. It’s political,” I said.

“No, it’s family dynamics,” he said, as if I should understand the difference. “Son-in-Law doesn’t feel like he has a voice in the restaurant cuz my daughter and I pushed through a change he didn’t like. So he’s putting his foot down on hiring his guy, with no compromises.”

I sat quietly for a bit and this time he stayed silent too. Then I said, “So, you’re letting me go?”

“Yes. I have to. I am so sorry. Of course, we’ll pay you for the two days of training.”

“Okay. But do you realize you put me in a bind? I told The Pie Shoppe that I have a second job now and I only need a limited schedule. Now I have to go back with my hat in hand and say I’ve been fired already–beg for my hours back. Next week, they only gave me one day. That schedule is set. That’s a significant bite outta my income. I can only hope they’ll give me more the following week. Am I supposed to just be a casualty in your family dynamics?”

I heard a sigh on the other end. “Yes, I know. I am so sorry.”

I believed he was sorry. He went on again. “Listen, I’ve got your number in my phone and I still hope to bring you in. I’ll call you if something happens.”

“Yeah, okay, thank you.” I said. I didn’t say what I was thinking. How would I know I’d be hired for real next time? We talked a bit further as I told him my hours worked and my address so he could mail me a check, then we hung up with an uncomfortable goodbye.

When I went to The Pie Shoppe on my next shift, Server Manager asked after my new job. I said, “Well, my second job that dropped in out of nowhere just as quickly disappeared into thin air.” I gave her the rest of the story.

Her face grew solemn and sympathetic. “It’s probably good you found out about this so quickly. You know, it’s interesting–corporate is a beast and family-owned is a beast. In a family-owned restaurant they make their own rules. In corporate…” She paused. “… well, corporate is corporate.”

“Great. No such thing as a beast-free zone in the workplace.” I laughed and went back to my tables.

My dog, Jack, says, "Let them eat steak!"

Dogfucius say, “Man looking to be beast of burden need to be careful what he wish for.”

My So-Called Double Life

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“What else do you do, Dawn? Do you have another job?” asked My Favorite Busboy.

“I write,” I said, a bit reluctantly. I try to stay private at work.

“Oh, really?” he said, eyes bright. “What do you write?”

“I work on short stories and novels. I also have a blog.”

“I love to read. How can I find your stuff?”

“You need access to an ebook reader or computer.”

“Oh. I have a phone.”

“A smartphone?”

“No.”

“I’m afraid you can’t read my stuff then. It’s all online,” I said. Then, noticing his disappointed expression, I added, “Maybe I’ll print out a sample and bring it in.”

I said this knowing I didn’t want to bring in any of my writing. I think I opened up to My Favorite Busboy because I knew he didn’t have a computer or a smartphone and, therefore, would have difficulty finding me online. I like him and it was a low risk sharing of me.

I don’t like feeling the need to be cagey, but I keep a low profile about my writing at my day-job. It’s not just cuz many of my blog stories are inspired by my day-job and someone may take offense at my observations. I recently published my first ebook, An Encounter With Death, a short story which explores themes of sex and suicide. Those don’t exactly qualify for “office” shop-talk. Discussing the finer points of deep despair or how sex can be a loving, healing exchange between two people are not exactly fodder for snippets spoken while cutting slices of pie.

Hot off the online presses: An Encounter With Death. After a series of emotional setbacks, Vanessa, is filled with despair. She decides to take control of her destiny, but like her life, nothing turns out as planned. Wanting to meet her maker, she instead has an encounter with Death. A magical tale of the power of love to heal. Available for $.99 at Smashwords and Amazon.

Hot off the online presses: An Encounter With Death. After a series of emotional setbacks, Vanessa, is filled with despair. She decides to take control of her destiny, but like her life, nothing turns out as planned. Wanting to meet her maker, she instead has an encounter with Death. A magical tale of the power of love to heal. Available for $.99 at Smashwords and Amazon.

Plus, the day-job is generally not a safe place to talk about my writing or even my personal life. You just never know what random situation or misunderstanding will come to haunt you.

A perfect example of why I feel a need to be so careful at work happened recently. It was a busy Saturday night. I had a full station of 8 tables, two of which had just been sat and were wondering where their waitress was. I had two bill books in my hand with credit cards to run for tables who were anxious to leave. I was standing at Table 54 with four customers taking their order. One woman ordered a gorgonzola salad. “I have a nut allergy, so could you take out the pecans and add extra cheese.”

“Of course,” I said.  I took the rest of the orders, greeted my two waiting tables, got their drink orders, and rushed to the computer. When I wrote up the order for the woman at Table 54, I clearly stated, “NO PECANS SUB EXTRA CHEESE.” After I finished the rest of the orders and ran the credit cards, I looked for one of the managers to tell them about the special order, which I knew was important. We were so slammed, I couldn’t find anyone. I looked into the kitchen window to talk to the cooks. “Hey, guys, I got a special order for Table–”

“Put it on the ticket!” one of the cooks said, waving me away. I had to get back to the floor, and hoped I would catch a manager in time.

Later, I saw the manager delivering the gorgonzola salad to Table 54. When she finished her delivery, I flagged her down. “Did you make sure the salad had no pecans?” I asked.

“The Kitchen Manager said there weren’t any. I didn’t see any.”

Satisfied, I went on with my service. Moments later, I noticed the woman was gone from her table. I dropped everything I needed to do to ask if everything was okay. A dining partner said, “There were nuts in the salad. She had a reaction.”

“I’m so sorry. The kitchen said there weren’t any nuts. Lemme get a manager over to talk to you.” I picked up the bowl, stirred it with a fork, and buried under the field greens were a few pecans blending into the colorfully tossed salad. Embarrassed, I said I’m sorry again and went to find the manager. She handled the rest of the service by writing a report and comping the entire meal.

On my next shift, the Bald Man called me into his office. “I have to write you up,” he said.

“What? Why?” I was honestly surprised.

“If a customer has an allergy, you have to write ‘allergy’ on the ticket.”

“What? Okay. That’s no problem. I didn’t know that. I did clearly state ‘no nuts’ on the ticket. Why are you writing me up? The kitchen screwed up the order.”

“They’re saying they didn’t and it’s probably cross-contamination cause some bits of pecan fell into the cheese container. They–”

“Cross-contamination is a kitchen error. They should never cross-contaminate.”

“No, but they didn’t know there was an allergy. If they did, they woulda gotten fresh gorgonzola from the back.” He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Why didn’t you tell a manager?”

“I tried! The floor manager and the kitchen manager were nowhere to be seen. They were busy running around doing other stuff. I had to get back on the floor to my tables, cuz it was very busy and I was behind on the floor as it was. I tried to interrupt the cooks and tell them directly, but they wouldn’t stop what they were doing to listen. It was a busy night. You know that. You have the sales figures.” I paused. “And, I didn’t know to write it on the ticket!”

“You had to have known to write “allergy” on the ticket. It’s in the manual.”

“Where in the manual? I never saw it.”

“Well, I couldn’t find it this morning. But still… it’s a part of our training.”

“I was never told, or trained, to put “allergy” on the ticket or I would’ve done it. I’m sorry this happened. I take these things very seriously. I care about people. But, at the time, I thought I did everything I could.”

“Look, this went all the way to The Owner. I have to explain to him that you’re in deep shit and back it up.”

“So lemme get this straight. I’m being written up for failing to do something I didn’t and couldn’t know I had to do. And even though both managers and the cooks had their hands in this problem, I’m being thrown under the bus.”

“Just write “allergy” on the ticket.” He motioned to a piece of paper on table. “And sign here. You can write in the margin that you didn’t know.” He said that last bit as if it was supposed to mollify me.

A lot of lip service is paid to team work and team spirit, but when a mistake happens, the team disappears. Shared, and even personal responsibility, also disappears. It’s one person’s problem. Somebody has to take the fall. I work in the politics of cover-your-ass. These people aren’t my friends.

I have a job to do because I need the money. The money-making opportunity needs to be protected. It’s scary to share my private life with The Pie Shoppe. This sounds paranoid, but any knowledge they have may somehow work against me.

And so, I have a working world and a personal artistic life between which exists a wall surrounded by a moat teeming with alligators. I almost regret my lapse in silence with My Favorite Busboy, even though he is also my favorite co-worker. I would love to share my writing and especially my new ebook, An Encounter with Death, with everyone–put a sign up at work or casually mention it to all, including customers who come in. The more people who know, the better chance I have at selling books and letting go of the day-job. But, I’ll take my chances that this small population surrounding The Pie Shoppe can stay ignorant of my dreams and they will still come true.

You Can Come Home Again, Redux

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Aiea Loop Trail: I found myself obsessed with tree roots during my recent visit to Hawaii. Small wonder, I think as I look back now. Our roots are our family and our home. Hawaii, with its unique beauty and culture, is a force within me, subterranean and hidden. Though I’m faraway, my family still nourishes.

Banyan trees have always been my favorite, with their exposed roots growing down into the ground, like water flowing into the earth. Growing up, roots which hadn’t yet reached the ground became swings, which we’d cling to like monkeys.

“Dawn!”

I had just returned from a long walk through my childhood neighborhood in Hawaii. I was standing at my parents’ mailbox, at the foot of a long uphill driveway, removing its contents for them.

The yard surrounding my family home is a wild forest of trees and shrubbery set into the hillside. After eating fresh pineapple, my mom throws pineapple tops into the yard and they flourish throughout. They now have more pineapple than they can eat.

A postal truck was parked nearby and the post office lady had had her head buried inside organizing her mail. I hadn’t paid much attention to her until she called my name. It was the last thing I expected to hear. I left Hawaii over 30 years ago and have had infrequent visits since, none of which included the post office.

A visit to Hawaii always includes a luau. My lunch here included kalua pig, lau lau, lomi lomi salmon, squid luau, chicken long rice, poi, and haupia for desert. In Hawaii, chopsticks are as ubiquitous as forks.

Another favorite is ahi poke (pronounced like Gumby and Pokey). Ahi is a type of tuna. The salad consists of raw tuna and various other ingredients, typically seaweed, soy sauce, ginger, and green onions. Since my childhood, the concept has expanded exponentially to include such flavors as California poke, inspired by the California sushi roll, and made with avocado and cream cheese. Our local grocery stores serve them out of their deli counters.

I turned my head to see an enormous smile in a wrinkled face. She was as small and fragile looking as my aging parents. Her lined face was tanned and blotched from a lifetime in the bright Hawaiian sun. Gray hair, short and frizzy, stuck out about her head. I vaguely remembered the petite, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who drove up our long driveway to hand deliver large packages. Her brown teeth gleamed with glee as I returned her hello. “What a memory you have! I’m so impressed.”

“I can still remember you and your sister playing in the streets with the other kids.”

This stream runs through my neighborhood. It was a playground for my sister and me. It still murmurs with the fairytale magic inspired by my childhood imagination.

I looked down a street all at once lushly familiar and eerily different. My mind’s eye conjured a ghostly image of children skateboarding and her waving as she drove by. Like a skeleton with a new skin, the street looked the same, but many of the homes and landscaping were remodeled. I said, “All of my old friends have moved away. Almost no one is left here from the old days.”

Another tree with exposed roots, the hala tree is found all over Hawaii. The entire plant was used by ancient Hawaiians. The leaves were interlaced into hats and mats. Flowers smell sweet and were used as a preservative. The trunk yielded pipes and posts. Parts of the edible fruit were fashioned into paint brushes and leis. Punahou School, the alma mater of President Obama, uses an image of the hala in its school seal. More importantly, my sister teaches calculus there.

“Are you visiting your folks?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Where’s your sister?”

“She lives in Kailua.”

“Same as you?”

“No, I’m visiting from L.A. ”

My sister now lives by Ka’elepulu Pond. Its stretch of canal lends beauty to many backyards.

Her eyes widened with the kind of surprise I often see when people discover I left Paradise to live on the Mainland. “Why would you leave Hawaii?” they ask in tones suggesting my wanderlust is a sign of mental deficiency. I always answer that I can visit. When I do, so much is different.

The Ko’olau Mountains were the backdrop to bike riding, skateboarding, and kickball on my childhood street. The grey strip near the mountain base is the H3 freeway and didn’t mar the soaring emerald-green as a child. It’s an intrastate Interstate Highway, built with Federal funding to link the Pearl Harbor Naval Base with the Kaneohe Bay Marine Corps Base and fulfill national security needs. Though it’s an engineering marvel designed to preserve the beauty of its surroundings, and, at $1.3 billion, the priciest highway in our country, it’s also sore on my nostalgic eyes.

The plants grow wild in my parents’ yard. New highways are built and roads are expanded. The beaches erode and wash away. Houses develop further and further up the hills. Pineapple and sugar businesses go away and tourism steps up its game to replace them. Hawaii becomes like a woman who changed her style so completely as to be almost unrecognizable. I added, “My Dad’s not doing so well.”

Kailua Beach was my favorite beach. Once a wide expanse of white sands, it’s become a victim of beach erosion. In fact, all of Oahu and Hawaii suffer from disappearing beaches. The beaches in front of the famed Outrigger and Royal Hawaiian hotels in Waikik have to import sand from California, Australia, and other Hawaiian beaches to keep them alive. Locals complain about the coarseness and color of the imported sand. This hasn’t happened in Kailua and during high tide, the beach is all but gone, and the waves lap tragically at tree roots.

Her eyes became soft with sadness, but she smiled and said, “When people get old, they like to see their kids. I don’t see your parents so often these days. When I drive up the hill, I leave the boxes at the door. Don’t wanna disturb them.”

Geckos in the home are considered good luck. I like them because they eat bugs I don’t like. This visitor to my parent’s home, was roughly an inch long and has unusual markings. They’re usually a dull brown monotone.

Yet, with every visit, something small will happen, like a rainbow dancing in the clouds, and all I ever loved about Hawaii shines with her jewel tone colors in the salty sweet air. Here, the brilliant memory of my old postal clerk lets me know I’m home again. I hugged her spontaneously. “Thank you,” I said, then walked up the hill.

Sisters, smiling through tears. Airport departures are always poignant.

My Mom and Dad. Farewell, my beloved father. Though your brilliance fades like a setting sun, your spirit will forever shine in my heart.

Writer’s note: I am grateful to WordPress blogger, Adventures in Kevin’s World, and his blog, The Answer’s to Life, The Universe, and Everything. His lovely photo journal of his birthday trip to Alaska inspired me to enliven my story with images.

Job Searching 101: Early Warning Signs Your Employer is a Jerk

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The day was too warm to be pounding the streets and dropping off resumes in restaurants. The Sushi Place was my last stop and I felt wilted walking in. The sign outside offered a happy hour with $1 off sushi and half-price Asahi and Sapporo beer until 7 p.m. It was close to 5 when I walked in. Near the entrance was a bar, where a tired looking bartender stood staring at a huge, soundless, wide-screen TV located over the sushi bar. An experimental art film seemed to be playing. The images were visceral and discordant, closeups of food being chopped and chewed, raw. A Lady Gaga song played innocuously in the background. There were a few occupied tables, but it wasn’t very busy.

“Hi,” I said to Weary Bartender. “Is the manager or owner available? I’d like to apply for a server position.”

A small smile cracked his stony expression, more out of amusement than friendliness. He gestured to a seat at the far end of the bar. “The owner is in the back. You can wait here if you’d like.”

“Sure. Thank you. It’s hot out. The air conditioning feels great.” As I sat down, I noticed a half-finished pint of beer and a laptop in front of an empty seat at the other end of the bar.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“Oh, yes, please. Are you hiring servers now?”

“We’re always looking for someone,” he said, filling my glass and placing it before me.

“Oh. Great. How long have you been here?”

“A few months.”

“Are you pretty much settled in, then?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

I gratefully drank as I took in the place. It was decorated in a lean, vaguely Asian style with oak wood paneling throughout. The sushi bar sat in front of the kitchen and next to the bar. A sushi chef was unwrapping fish and placing them in the bar display. A couple of girls were nursing beers and staring at the sushi chef expectantly. In fact, there were a lot of expectant faces and I had yet to see a server.

The TV caught my eye again. What I thought was an art film turned out to be a Japanese horror movie with subtitles. A man had just thrown a naked woman across a table. Her face was made up Kabuki style. Another man, also naked, held tongs in one hand and poured a brown sauce on her with the other. I stifled a shocked laugh.

“Have you seen our waitress?” A man from one of the tables had just approached the bar. “We’ve been waiting 30 minutes for our sushi.” I looked over at the sushi bar and there were some plates with sushi on them at the service area waiting to be delivered. The girls at the sushi bar still sat waiting to eat. The sushi chef was slicing fish laggardly, like a DMV clerk processing forms.

“She’ll be right with you,” said Weary Bartender, not moving.

Just then, the kitchen door banged open and belched forth a man. His hair was greasily combed over half his forehead, barely covering a bald patch. A couple of facelifts had given his face a wide-eyed skeletal appearance. He shambled over to the half-empty pint at the other end of the bar and drew a draught between surgically fattened lips. His colorful collared shirt was unbuttoned almost to his navel, revealing sparse hair, strange scarring, and the top half of his beer-gut. He seemed to be hanging onto a style from his heyday.

“Are you the owner?” asked the customer at the bar.

“Yes,” said Weird Owner, not even looking up from his now finished beer.

“I’ve been waiting 30 minutes for my sushi.”

“Yes, well this isn’t fast food you know.” He then pirouetted away from the bar and toddled to the back to pour another beer. Frustrated Customer went back to his table to rejoin his friend. After setting the beer down next to his laptop, Weird Owner walked over to the sushi bar, sashaying to the music of Rage Against the Machine. I thought he might deliver the still-waiting sushi plates, but he stopped at the two women. A caterpillar roll finally sat in between them, upon which they were nibbling. They looked up at him as he inquired about their food in a voice that carried over the thin din of music and guest murmuring.

The girls smiled and said something I couldn’t hear. “Pretty girls and pretty sushi go together like a handroll with spicy tuna.” He snorted at his own joke.

They smiled politely. He went on, pointing to his chest. “See these scars? I got them in ‘Nam. I got this there too.” He rolled back his sleeve to show them a tattoo on his upper arm. It continued onto his shoulder, ending who-knew-where. I was afraid for a minute he would take off his shirt to show them the whole thing. “You ladies really are pretty, and for a kiss, dinner is on me! Hell, I’ll pick up your tab even without the kiss.” He chortled.

This time the ladies didn’t smile back and I heard a reply. “That’s not necessary,” said the bolder of the two.

“No, I insist,” said the owner.

The kitchen door banged open again and a young server, looking bored, walked out. The owner jerked around and marched toward her. “Where have you been, skank? I don’t pay your lazy ass to stand around.”

She looked unsurprised by his outburst. “I took a cigarette break,” she said and went to the server station to pick up the waiting sushi. When she arrived at her table, Frustrated Customer started complaining to her.

At this point, Weird Owner finally noticed me taking everything in. He approached, his bee-stung lips parting into a grin. “What can I do for you, young lady?”

“Um. Nothing. I was just leaving.” I fished for my wallet and pulled out a dollar for Weary Bartender. Then, as he continued to stare, I picked up my résumé and handbag and scurried back out into the stifling air.

I may be broke, but I have standards.

Server for Hire

You Can Come Home Again

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“Dawn!”

I had just returned from a long walk through my childhood neighborhood in Hawaii. I was standing at my parents’ mailbox, at the foot of a long uphill driveway, removing its contents for them.  A postal truck was parked nearby and the post office lady had had her head buried inside organizing her mail. I hadn’t paid much attention to her until she called my name. It was the last thing I expected to hear. I left Hawaii over 30 years ago and have had infrequent visits since, none of which included the post office.

I turned my head to see an enormous smile in a wrinkled face. She was as small and fragile looking as my aging parents. Her lined face was tanned and blotched from a lifetime in the bright Hawaiian sun. Gray hair, short and frizzy, stuck out about her head. I vaguely remembered the petite, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who drove up our long driveway to hand deliver large packages. Her brown teeth gleamed with glee as I returned her hello. “What a memory you have! I’m so impressed.”

“I can still remember you and your sister playing in the streets with the other kids.”

I looked down a street all at once lushly familiar and eerily different. My mind’s eye conjured a ghostly image of children skateboarding and her waving as she drove by. Like a skeleton with a new skin, the street looked the same, but many of the homes and landscaping were remodeled. I said, “All of my old friends have moved away. Almost no one is left here from the old days.”

“Are you visiting your folks?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your sister?”

“She lives in Kailua.”

“Same as you?”

“No, I’m visiting from L.A. ”

Her eyes widened with the kind of surprise I often see when people discover I left Paradise to live on the Mainland. “Why would you leave Hawaii?” they ask in tones suggesting my wanderlust is a sign of mental deficiency. I always answer that I can visit. When I do, so much is different. The plants grow wild in my parents’ yard. New highways are built and roads are expanded. The beaches erode and wash away. Houses develop further and further up the hills. Pineapple and sugar businesses go away and tourism steps up its game to replace them. Hawaii becomes like a woman who changed her style so completely as to be almost unrecognizable. I added, “My Dad’s not doing so well.”

She smiled and said, “When people get old, they like to see their kids. I don’t see your parents so often these days. When I drive up the hill, I leave the boxes at the door. Don’t wanna disturb them.”

Yet, with every visit, something small will happen, like a rainbow dancing in the clouds, and all I ever loved about Hawaii shines with her jewel tone colors in the salty sweet air. Here, the brilliant memory of my old postal clerk lets me know I’m home again. I hugged her spontaneously. “Thank you,” I said, then walked up the hill.

Sisters!

Birthday Bitch

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I picked up a bottle of Bitch Wine from the endcap at Trader Joe’s, hoping it would give me an expressive, expansive, and inexpensive Cabernet.

An earthy and elegant woman stood on the other side of the display studying the chalkboard description. Her fingers twirled a supple lock of hair as she read about the voluptuous succulence and creamy mouthfeel of this sassy, full-bodied red.

Her daughter approached, looking adorable in pink leggings which matched the collar of her dress, and clutching a box of Joe-Joes. She stared up at her mother with the cloying sweetness of pleading eyes.

“Put those back, please. We have plenty of junk food at home,” said the mother, not taking her eyes off the wine display.

“But, Mo-om…”

“I said, ‘No!’”

“Buut, Mo-o-o-om…”

The mother looked down at her daughter, exchanging an unspoken communication. Her body sagged and her face crushed into a yearning-to-flee expression. She grabbed two bottles of wine, holding them to her breasts. “Okay. You can have them. But today is the last day of your birthday month!”

Today is the last day of my birthday month and my 50th birthday.

Young Love in Old People

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They were so easy to serve, I almost made the mistake of giving them very little attention and dismissing them as uninteresting in lieu of the more needy tables around them. They were lumpy in their comfortableness. Her shoulder-length gray hair sat limply on her head. She wore a simple dress with sensible shoes. His hair was thinning and neat and his sports coat looked worn and clean. Soft and smiling, they brought a quiet dignity to The Pie Shoppe, where many of the young customers sat crumpled into casually torn jeans or sweats. They blended into the bland decor of the restaurant, where the bright colors and brash brassiness of their younger counter parts screamed their being.

Their food was finished and he asked for the check. “We have to go home so she can have her way with me.”

Did I just hear this bland old man make an indirect sexual reference? That was the last thing I expected from a smiling great-grandparent. I felt uncharacteristic warmth on my cheeks and giggled self-consciously. “Well, don’t get too crazy now.”

The woman burst out laughing. “Oh! You have no idea!”

I laughed too. “Well, I guess not!”

He said, “She’s insatiable. I didn’t know I could keep up with her. At first I thought she’d break me. But this old soul’s got some dance in his step.”

“It’s good to know it doesn’t go away!” I said.

“Oh no. It just gets better,” said the woman.

After their check was paid, they gathered themselves slowly together as I said good-bye and thank you. She handed him his cane, then walked ahead as he paused to talk to me, touching my arm as he spoke. “You know, we met again after 60 years. We knew each other in school and didn’t even date. We went our separate ways for 60 years. Now, we’re like kids again! I didn’t know it could be like this.”

My spirit soared as I watched him walk away, stepping lightly despite his need for a cane. Young love in old people. I didn’t know it could be like that either.

Passages

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I stood at the hostess stand and one of my regulars, The Wife, walked in with a man who resembled her husband– same handlebar mustache, same slightly wild, side-combed hair, only they were sandy-colored instead of gray.

“Hi! I haven’t seen you in forever,” I greeted with a big smile.

She smiled too. “Have you met my son?” she asked.

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” He and I shook hands then we walked towards a booth in my section. “Where’s your husband? Parking the car?” The words tumbled chirpily out of my mouth, even as I suddenly sensed what was next.

“He passed away a couple months ago.” She sounded calm.

My chest collapsed. My eyes stung. Death’s hooded presence was looking over my shoulder again, his scythe hollowing out my heart. I was still reeling from the recent loss of my cat. The Wife’s loss of a lifetime love, whose union was represented in their middle-aged son, and his loss of his father seemed incomprehensibly painful. All I could manage was, “I am so sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said, recognizing compassion in my moistened eyes.

As they settled into booth, I asked, “Would you like your extra-hot decaf?”

“No,” she said with a tiny shake of her head, “I’ll just have water.” She’d never just had water before.

I looked at The Son. “I’ll have water too,” he said.

“He looks just like him,” I said to The Wife.

She puffed up proudly. “You think so?”

“Oh yes. I almost thought it was him when you walked in.” I was happy to make her happy. But, as I walked away, I looked back to see her sparkle had dulled like lead, and her ash-colored hair hooded her crestfallen face.

When they were finished, he approached me at the server stand with the bill book open, exact change for the bill on one side and a $5 bill–a generous tip–on the other. His father paid with the same style. I thanked him.

He stared at the front of the restaurant, a wall of windows and a door leading into the patio. The parking lot blacktop glistened darkly under the midafternoon sun. “He passed suddenly. A bleeding ulcer. I had lunch with him the day before. The next day he was gone. We argued at lunch. I didn’t get to say I’m sorry. I didn’t get to say goodbye.” The words were stated blankly, numbly, as if they were said before and often, but the repetition hadn’t eased their poignancy. Then he looked at me. “Life changes. It always changes. We can’t fight the changes.”

My mind floated to my cat. She was put to sleep in my lap by a home pet doctor’s needle. I had to fight the rising force in me to jump up and rip the needle out of the gentle hand, whose owner was invited into my home to do exactly what he was doing, to scream out, “Stop! Stop! You can’t murder my cat! I won’t let you! Please stop!” Instead, my scream stuck in my throat in a bilious lump. My hands caressed my kitty as they had for all her 18 years, while tears dripped off my chin in steady rhythm. She was ill and had suffered enough. Any alternative was more suffering and little hope for much else.

Her surviving litter sister took it better. We all spent the morning huddled in bed, their purrs a continuous hum. As her sister ceased breathing, she moved restlessly about. The body was laid to rest in a cat bed to be picked up later by the crematorium. She sniffed her sister softly, then licked her gently, like goodbye kisses. She laid down to share the bed, as if she was still alive to snuggle, until the body became cold and stiff. She got to say goodbye. I got to say goodbye. I got to say I’m sorry.

No, we can’t fight the changes.

I said, “He will always be with you. He is with everything now.” I hugged him spontaneously, though I’d only just met him, then hugged his mother, who joined us at that moment. We said no more and they turned to walk slowly out of the restaurant.

Me and My Sweet Survivor

How to Date Your Waitress

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Theatrical Server looked mystified as she counted cash from a bill book. “I just don’t understand,” she mused.

“What?” asked the Manager Server, a young blonde who doubled as Assistant Manager and Server depending on the shift assignment. That day, she was serving. She and Theatrical Server are terrific friends.

The lunch rush was dwindling. I was hiding in the corner of the server aisle, nibbling on some illicit cornbread and listening. To eat unpurchased food at The Pie Shoppe was strictly forbidden by The Owner who considered it stealing no matter how long we worked without a break.

“The guy at 62 kept asking me out. He kept saying he wants to share a slice of cherry pie with me one day.”

“Hahaha! Cherry pie? That’s random. What was he suggesting?”

“Cherry pie came up cuz his mother asked if it was good and I said it was my favorite. That’s what I say every time someone asks me about a pie,” said Theatrical Server with great élan. She was a natural flirt. In addition to working at The Pie Shoppe, she was a lead singer in a band, went to college full-time, had an active social life, and generally burned the candle at all ends.

She went on. “So, he just paid and left me a $3 tip. The bill was $24. He was still talking ‘bout wanting to share cherry pie when he walked out of here. That’s messed up!”

Manager Server said, with a wry grin, “So, you gonna go out with him?”

“No! I don’t get it. That tip’s insulting. Plus he asks me out. What’s he thinking? I would’ve been okay if he gave me just one dollar more. Two more dollars would’ve impressed me!”

“Did you wanna go out with him?”

“Dude! No! That’s beside the point.” Theatrical Server’s pale emerald eyes glittered.

“Maybe he doesn’t know how to tip.” She was still grinning.

“Shit! He doesn’t know how to date.”