Lovely to Meet You

“Ideally, you would wait until after dinner service to attempt suicide.”

Sean sits me down in the front seat of his doorless jeep. His attempts to make me laugh distract me enough to ignore the throbbing pain coming from my fresh wound. The Doc in a Box is only a few blocks up the road Sean drives recklessly, like you'd imagine a man with a doorless jeep would drive.

Earlier that evening, the Mimi’s Italian Bistro waitstaff and I had polished silverware, dusted wine glasses, and folded stiff white linens into fantastical origami swans. For me, they mostly ended up resembling paper airplanes.

I had watched each server meticulously fold and crease, corner to corner, to create this elegant table topper. All I could think was Why is an Italian restaurant doing origami?. Sam, a tall chick with a sloppy bun, shoved a vacuum in my face after deciding my origami skills weren't up to snuff.

Being the new girl at any restaurant is painful, but fine dining is particularly heinous. Most of the staff tend to have a few years on me, and I'm a particularly polished spoon. However, I do pride myself on a strong work ethic and eagerness to learn! At least that's what I think I said at my interview? Either way, it landed me here: vacuuming the invisible crumbs off the same spot floor for half an hour until open.

The busted bass of Sean's muddy Jeep thuds against the side of the patio as he whips his car into the parking lot before screeching to a halt. Sean was an ageless soul. Really meaning: he was roughly 50, half-matured, and fond of drinking so much he blacked out.

Every server was enamored by his negging commentary and patronizing charm. They sang praises of Sean, lauding him as a generous and benevolent man who could do no wrong. "Sean? Oh, he could single handedly keep this restaurant together!"

I had yet to find the appeal.

“Newbie?! - Of course I know your name! I just don’t care! - Rachel is apparently in jail for throwing a laptop at her boyfriend, so you're on the floor tonight!" Sean slid his sunglasses to the back of his head, scribbling changes on the floor plan for the hostess before retiring to his office for the remainder of the evening.

Sam rushes over to the host stand and confirms her section hadn't been altered by this slight inconvenience. Relieved, she smugly walks away, “I'm taking over Rachel’s section! The rest of you better learn your new tables. It’s Valentine's and we're booked solid. Natalie! You especially need to nail this.”

I gather the vacuum cord and start back toward the restrooms. My chest tightens and my heart races as I process the idea of my first solo shift on the floor being a fully booked Valentine's Day night. I tip my head between my legs and try to control my breathing. Having a panic attack with less than ten minutes to set up and learn my section was not a viable option. I rise and splash cold water on my face, pulling myself together.

“Do no harm but take no shit.” I repeat this to myself in the mirror."I've faced my share of servers vying for seniority, drunk on power. Sam will not get the better of me.”

I look at the seating chart and memorize my tables, making note of the first few bookings. I have an anniversary and two first dates. No engagements, luckily. I’m relieved that I only have 4 tables after my first dinner service and they are all paced out to give me time to reset between tables without feeling rushed. I feel a serene calm rush over my body as I confidently tell myself I'm gonna to blow everyone away.

The doors to Mimi's are officially open for dinner service. I anxiously fidget by the servers wait-station, peeking at everyone being sat at their tables. The restaurant seems so quiet now compared to the chaos of prep before shift starts.

A local four piece quartet performs lovely string arrangements of modern songs. Oddly, Nirvana's Come as You Are fits the mood quite nicely. The candlelit sconces flicker and the tealights on the table create the perfect, romantic ambiance.

As cheesy as I find Valentine's dates, Mimi’s definitely managed to turn the gentle clatter of silverware and quiet rumble of conversation into an intimate evening for each couple. The servers, usually smoking cigarettes and flipping each other off, were now meek and invisible. Moving to serve their guests woven baskets of warm bread, complete with dollops of heart shaped butter on the side.

I study the individual techniques of each server. How they present their wine and write their orders. I want to absorb all of their knowledge to prevent me possibly ruining someone’s first date.

The hostess peeks her head around the curtain and tells me my first table just arrived. I grab my water pitcher and glasses and make my way to greet my guests. I immediately recognize the absolute horror dawning on the young woman’s face as she listens to her date begin down a tangent. I approach their table to introduce myself and shakily pour their water.

“It’s my first night,” I confess unprompted. “May I interest you in hearing about our specials?”

“Maybe get our drink order first?” The man suggests in a bothered tone.

“Of course, would you like to hear about our drink specials?” I elaborate. I watch him shift uncomfortably in his seat at my resilience in the face of snide comment.

“May I just have a glass of Merlot, please?” The young woman interrupts, desperate. I feel sorry for her. A first date on Valentines Day and he ends up being an obnoxious tool.

I decide to take it upon myself to give her a fun night despite the knuckle dragger across from her. Someone willing to politely endure the evening and honoring that commitment is a good soul in my book.

I end up returning with the bottle and a glass for her. I perform the full pour presentation in her direction and even offer to call her a cab when she is ready to leave. Her face beams with delight. Her cry for help had been heard, and her adorable red dress did not go to waste.

I feel like a hero for this lovely young lady’s Valentine's Day, but only briefly. As I turn to the gentleman and pour his water, my swagger gets the best of me and I place the glass pitcher down on the table a touch too hard.

The blood gushes bright red from my wrist and splatters across the white table cloth. The young girl gets a bit directly in the face. The glass splits cleanly at a diagonal and takes a huge slice of my wrist. The initial cut is deep enough to spray across the table and on to both guests.

I stand paralyzed, watching as blood slowly curls out of my wrist in a deep earthy color. The wound pulses and drips onto the table, causing one nearby server to faint.The girl at my table screams and clings to her face as though I just severed my hand clean off and the guy just stands up and walks out of the restaurant.

Sam and Sean both dart to my table to investigate the commotion. Sam rushes to Amy passed out on the floor. I'm standing in the middle of the dining room holding my hand up in the air with my wrist wrapped in white origami linens as Sean makes his way over Amy and Sam.

“Really Nat, on the first night? Come on, let’s go out the side. I don’t want you bleeding on everyone on the way out the door.

Seventeen stitches across my wrist later and Sean is assuring me I won’t be fired. If anything, he wants to keep me on for the story alone.

He hands the receptionist my fee in cash and I finally relax enough to crack a joke, “Her date was going badly, I just figured she needed the drama.”

I work there for another year before going off to grad school. The girl came back with her family for Easter brunch and specifically requested not to have me be her server. So in Mimi’s fashion, I sent a glass of complementary merlot to the table just to say hi.