Casual Fridays

Our assignment for class today was to write about an environment that felt like home.  I chose Outback (where I work), and started sort of free-writing.  What I came up with at first didn't really work for the assignment, but I figured I wouldn't let it go entirely to waste, so I'm sharing it here:

"Sup, guey!"

"Sup, Superman!" Samuel jerks his head above his bus tub.  This counts as a nod.

"Superman?  Why am I Superman?"

"Cuz how you walk guey!" Samuel demonstrates - struts bowlegged, head cocked up, arms akimbo, looking more caveman than superhero.  I laugh.

"I'm Superman, then you're Batman, guey."  Samuel does not seem to understand, but jerks his head again.  This counts as a yes.  "Table 45's complaining.  They say their seat is 'filthy' . . . 'sucio.'"  I swivel my hand like it's holding a washcloth.

Samuel pretends not to understand.  Next to him, Jose has better English:  "Then tell them to wash it themselves, guey!"

I don't answer.  Skid away on the hardwood floors.  I can see myself in them.  Samuel's been working harder than he lets on, and behind me he is already almost-running to 45.  I highstep it back to the host-stand, rolling up my sleeves as I go.  More fold than roll - each crease military.  My arms are too short, the sleeves billow if they are not folded.

"Do you own an iron?"  Nick apparates over my left shoulder, six-two and all bird, leading with his nose.

"Sorry, Nick, I was running late after class . . ."

"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm . . . walk with me for a second, will ya?"

The four other hosts do an owl swivel, watching me totter behind Nick, away from the door, back to the kitchen.  They match in all-black.  They huddle around the host-stand, a murder of crows, wings rustle gabble gabble.  Gabbles get louder, don't hear Brian's angry "Door!" and a customer walks in ungreeted.  Brian is Nick's boss and Nick is Cathy's boss and Cathy is our boss.  Brian walks like Samuel's imitation of my walk at all times.  He bull-rushes the murder, and they flap-flap "How many?" "Right this way" ". . . provide excellent service!"

I laugh, and almost fall into Jim as I turn the corner into the kitchen, too busy looking back towards the door.  His tray is plastic, and wobbles under its porcelain plate weights.  He does a full pirouette and throws back a glare.  "mybad. . . "

Now everything is white and noise.  In the dining room, lights are muted, and adult-contemporary drones over any chatter.  John Mayer whispering inanities like he's slipping us soma (say what you need to say, say what you need to say, say what you need to, say what you need to . . .).

Here, not so.  All Clang and Fuck and The "Canadians" at 16 . . . and EEEEEEE Juan how do you not hear that get the app out of the microwave! and Chhh Ah shit damn bread oven got me again.  Everything is systematic and nothing is systematic.  Ramekins and silverware go down this chute, each cup is labeled, motivational aphorisms tacked neatly to bulletin boards.  Ramekins chucked, cups doodled on, aphorisms scrawled in orange and pink and green.

"Ben, you know we expect Wahwahwah . . ."

Right.  Nick.  I jerk my head.  This counts as a nod.

(P.S.:  For those that don't know Spanish and have not worked at a restaurant, "guey" [which is supposed to have an umlaut over the u, except I don't know how to do that in blogger] is pronounced "way," literally means "ox," but is used like "dude," and "sucio" means "dirty")