In the weeds

In the weeds 

I round the corner into the dish pit; the clatter of plates being dropped off by rushing hands echoing through the too-small space. I glance at the clock -7:48- as I drop the heavy cutlery rack, chock-full from the latest turn of tables.  

“Darren, can you put this through for me ASAP? I need dessert spoons like ten minutes ago,” I say it as politely as I can, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he’ll put a little more hustle into his dishwashing. The reek of weed coming off him isn’t exactly a good indication that I’ll be seeing those spoons anytime soon.  

A quiet grunt confirms he heard me. Good enough.  

I move on to the kitchen in search of the side salad I ordered 10 minutes ago that still hasn’t hit table nine.  

“Runners!” 

The expo shouts it over the chaos, and every server within earshot suddenly becomes very interested in anything that isn’t him. I try to sneak past toward the salad station, but he catches me with a glare and shoves two plates into my hands.  

“I’m in the weeds, Jer!” 

Protesting, I try to hand them back. He doesn’t give a shit. I dash toward table twelve, balancing the scalding-hot plates in my hands.  

I put on my cheeriest customer service voice.  

“Here we are, folks. Careful, these plates are hot.” 

The man in seat two immediately grabs his plate.  

“Ouch!” 

Idiot.  

I bite back an eye roll while mumbling my apologies and scurry away before they can ask me for anything I don’t have the time to get. Besides, it’s Gina’s table, and Gina is a lazy shit who left last night without doing any of her side duties, which fell on me.  

She can suck it.  

I glance at the clock.  

7:52. 

Back through the kitchen, I duck through the other door to avoid the expo line and check the salad station.  

Nothing. Of course.  

“Greyson? I need a side salad with ranch, on the fly, please.” 

“No problem, Nat.”  

He grins and gives me a wink.  

I wink back.  

Anything to get this salad moving.  

I look toward the dish pit. Surely my dessert spoons are ready by now.  

“Be right back!” I call out to Greyson.  

I head back through the kitchen. Screaming metal music greets me as I slip into the dish pit. I scan the room. The cutlery rack is still sitting exactly where I left it.  

Dirty.  

Darren is still washing approximately one plate every seventeen years.  

I grab two dirty spoons and head for the handwashing sink, scrubbing and drying them myself.  

I glare at the back of Darren’s giant head.  

Around me, servers grumble and yell at him to get the cutlery through. He grumbles back.  

I hurry back toward the kitchen with my clean spoons. My salad should be ready. Maybe table seven’s chocolate cake, too.  

I reach the salad station just as Greyson slides the plate toward me.  

“Thank you!” 

I grab the chocolate cake that has just been pushed out and balance both plates in my hands.  

“Corner!” 

I call it loudly as I leave the kitchen. 

Nobody answers.  

I take two steps. A patron rounds the corner. We collide.  

The cake flies. 

Ranch dressing follows.  

For one horrifying second, we’re both standing completely still, covered in food.  

My first reaction is fury.  

I swallow it.  

“Oh my, I am SO sorry!” 

I start gathering the ruined plates while mentally calculating how long table nine has been waiting for its food.  

A pleading glance toward my manager is enough. She’s already heading toward the pissed-off customer. I apologize one more time and bolt.  

“Javier!” The dessert tender looks up. “Chocolate cake on the fly! Like yesterday, please!” 

I don’t wait for an answer.  

“Greyson! Side salad, ranch, same thing!”  

Back to the dish pit. 

The cutlery rack is still dirty.  

Darren is still pissing around.  

I check the clock.  

7:56. 

I inwardly cringe when I see the faces at my two tables side by side, both desperately trying to make eye contact with me.  

Table ten first. They’ve been waiting longer.  

I drop off the spoons and explain the cake disaster. 

“I’m so sorry about the wait. The cake is on the way, and it's on the house.” 

They smile. Bless them. 

I turn to table nine.  

“So sorry for the wait. I’ll be right back with that side salad. Can I grab some refills while I’m here?” 

Glasses pile onto my tray. Diet coke. Cab Sauv. Salad, Cake.  

I turn toward the kitchen. The host intercepts me.  

We collide.  

The empty wine glass wobbles on the tray. Tips. Shatters.  

“OPA!” Half of the dining room erupts.  

The host crouches to pick up the glass.  

“You’ve been double sat,” she says meekly.  

I stare at her. Then at the shattered glass. Then at the clock.  

8:02. 

I say nothing.  

I dump my tray and sprint back to the kitchen.  

The salad is ready. 

The cake is ready.  

I grab both and make it back to my tables without incident.  

Progress.  

Table nine asks for extra ranch.  

I smile.  

“Absolutely.”  

I turn away.  

The dining room doors swing open. Two new tables, both looking directly at me. I glance toward the hosts. They avoid eye contact.  

Back to the kitchen for drinks and a water jug.  

Gina grabs my arm as I’m filling a tray with drinks.  

Her whiny voice grates on my ears as she complains, “I’m closing. Why did they seat you again?”  

I stare at her.  

“As if I have any idea why the nitwit hosts do what they do.” 

She glares. 

“I suggest you ask them. I really don’t have time right now to ruminate over the choices of those dopey hosts.” 

I grab the tray.  

Two new tables. 

Water poured. 

Drinks ordered.  

Appetizers ordered.  

Dinner orders scribbled on my pad.  

My manager intercepts me with a pained smile on her face. I know where this is going.  

“Nat, pass those new tables to Gina, you’re cut for the night. Finish up what you have and get out of here.”  

I stare at her. Of course.  

They double seat me, make me do all the work and then cut me. Perfect. I find Gina and hand over the dinner orders and turn back to table nine.  

My customer catches my eye.  

“Excuse me, Miss?” 

“Yes?” 

“Could we get that ranch?” 

I freeze.  

Shit.

Right.  

Ranch.  

“Absolutely.” 

I turn toward the kitchen. 

Expo is shouting. 

Gina is glaring at me.  

The hosts are hiding.  

Darren is still high.  

And somewhere in the middle of all of it is one tiny cup of ranch.  

8:09. 

I take a deep breath.  

“Corner!”