“Dear God, Please Burn Down Table 32.”


You know you are a writer when it is 3 a.m., and your mind will not rest until all your coworkers have names associated with dogs. Yes, it is neurotic, but mind you, I am used to it. I am always writing in my head, and I admit, I am the lady you are honking while sitting at a yellow light, the one frantic for a napkin to write “Calamity Jane” down, a blog name you can’t afford to forget, dropping the pen under my seat, right as the light changes.

Honk away, assholes.” That is the bumper sticker I would like to have, but don’t, because I know the only thing harder than being a writer, is being behind one in Atlanta traffic.
I have a new project.

Over a period of time, various coworkers, mostly my good friends, have asked me to write a blog about work. Somehow, it keeps being brought up.

Even my boss, at the chip machine once said, “You should write a blog about those people.”

I believe he was referring to that particular day about the man who called himself “The Country Fried Steak Connoisseur.”

His wife followed me into the kitchen, asking my shoe size, not partly, but fully in the kitchen, at the ice machine, to be exact. It was an entertaining moment for sure, to pretend everything is absolutely normal as I fill ice into cups, nodding my head to her I am listening, the cooks all staring, as she babbles on and on about my name, one she gives me in fact, in the Native American Indian tongue.

I repeat it with her slowly, her hand clasping mine.

Funny enough, I am wondering if Table 32 has wing sauce, while she whispers, “You have been just given the chosen name for “Happy One.” I nod my head in appreciation, wondering where the hell I am and how did I get here, this woman a reflection to me I have gone to some place of no return when you are willing to rain dance if that is what it takes to make a good tip, to not get fired.

“You have been given the chosen name of “Crazy Asshole” is what I would like to say, wondering if my manager is still around the corner, discussing Country Fried Steak and the fact today it is chewy, with her husband, who is the “Connoisseur” after all. Rain dances and Steak experts scare me, but if you order an Arnold Palmer (1/2 tea, 1/2 lemonade), I don’t trust you. I do not care for you if you are a man who wants lime in his diet coke, and I don’t want to have a play date with you if you give your kid five cokes at 7:00. I just want you to give your three year old a choice between two sides, not forty, that’s all.

Who are you people anyway?

Sorry, I was talking about the staff before, not the customers, and the fact is, we can’t even judge any of you, because the truth is that restaurant people are total wack jobs.
I don’t even know what that says about me, because personally, I love waiting tables.
I may have lost friends over that last statement, but sadly, it is true.

Every night is really about survival, which is why we understand how creatures in the animal kingdom sometimes eat their young. We know this after weekends of 14 hour doubles, 500 silver to have rolled, 30 million birthday songs. We are the ultimate performers, even after salsa ranch gets splashed into our mouths at dish, some dumb ass throwing it in without thinking, walking right by the empty ice bin, which is how rage begins to settle in, the manager asking why you didn’t bring full hands in from dish, already calling for runners before you even get a chance to respond.

So, I have been going over these requests very carefully, knowing full well after a night of rednecks and ten percent tips, my tires could be slashed over giving the wrong person on the wrong day, the wrong blog name.

That is why I decided to write from a different angle.

I decided we would all be dogs, each named for particular reasons only we would know, an idea everyone jumped on. It was hilarious to realize dogs really do carry personality traits so closely to our own, some small and yippy, others playful, some potentially vicious, but all unique, with important roles to play.

I plan to write a story on a bunch of dogs, surviving in a big corporate Puppy Mill, and how it begins or ends I don’t know.

Just know if you see me at a yellow light, prepare to honk.

2 thoughts on ““Dear God, Please Burn Down Table 32.”

  1. This is funny and so true. I can hear my old manager telling the crew how he walked passed the same tray jack six times and no one picked it up to move it…um, okay. So apparently although you can count you can lift a miserable finger to move a one pound tray stand. Great. ha ha

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