The Perfect Solution

Personal Yummy #79

About a month into my new job, I approach her with a question.

It is an early Wednesday evening around five, and, as I’ve gotten into the habit of doing before leaving each day, I decide to check the schedule that Bobby posts each week in the kitchen on the wall directly above the soup and sauce bins. The schedule isn’t anything fancy, just a piece of white paper with a handmade grid that Bobby creates with the aid of a ruler. On the left-hand side, in list form, are all of the employees’ names, and across the top, each in its own column, is a day of the week.

I stop in front of the soup area and look up, studying the schedule. As has been the case for the past four weeks, the box that falls under the Monday column and corresponds with my name says “10:30 to 5:30,” as do the boxes for Tuesday through Friday. However, this time, as I glance at the boxes under Saturday and Sunday, which are usually empty, something is different. The box under the Saturday column says “Bus, 6 to ?” I look away and then look back at the schedule once again, sure that my eyes are playing tricks on me, particularly because I hadn’t noticed anything there when I had checked earlier in the week. But as I review the schedule one more time, I realize that they aren’t.

“Bus, six to question mark” I slowly read, as about four surges of adrenaline shoot through me, one to each limb. Immediately, images of me wearing a full-length, spattered apron; my hair in tangles and sticking to my greasy face; dashing, exhausted, from table to table; carrying a heavy, large, gray bin, full of dirty dishes, till the wee hours of the morning; no one else left in the restaurant but worn-out, disheveled me flood my mind. Bobby! my inner voice screams, I don’t want to BUS tables—I took this job to be a waitress!

I stand there, not able to move, completely inundated with the unexpected change in my duties. My mind starts racing, and I wonder why I feel so uncomfortable, especially since I don’t think that bussing is beneath me or that I shouldn’t help out wherever I am needed. What, then, is the problem?

Not able to immediately figure it out, I continue standing there—and for quite a while, in fact—until I am momentarily knocked out of my dilemma by the sound of someone walking up the basement steps toward the kitchen. I suddenly realize that I must look rather foolish. I figure that it must be Bobby, because I was told that he was going to help out in the kitchen tonight, as he does when it’s necessary.

Thus, not wanting to run into him just then, knowing that I want to say something to him about the schedule but not knowing exactly what to say, I quickly walk out into the restaurant, looking down at the floor (to gain more speed, I guess), just missing him before he makes it to the top of the steps. Bobby is extremely nice and gentle, and I have no reason to be afraid of talking to him, but he is the boss, after all, and I’ve worked here for only a month. I then realize that I am walking rather fast, so I tell myself to slow down.

Once I do so, I glance up, and there, standing close to the ancillary bar, is Beth. (The ancillary bar is simply a small counter that lines the wall near the entranceway, and it is very close to the main bar.) She is getting ready for her shift, tying the strings of her dark blue apron around her waist, which she has to wrap around and tie in the front of her since the strings are so long.

Then it hits me. Why don’t you ask Beth about it before you go to Bobby? She’s worked here for a couple of years and will probably know why he put you down to bus tables. Plus, she’s really easy to talk to.

“Hey, Beth,” I say, trying to act casual as I sit down on one of the ancillary bar’s stools. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, not too bad… I guess you’re getting ready to go home?”

“Oh yeah, my shift’s just about over. It was slow today, so I got most of my side work done early,” I reply.

“That’s good… Oh, but I mean the part about you getting your side work done early,” she says, lightly laughing.

“Yeah, hopefully it’ll be busier tomorrow,” I say, acting as if I don’t have a care in the world, when in all actuality I am totally preoccupied with asking her about the schedule. Finally, though, I succeed in getting the words out. “Beth, uh, do you, uh, mind if I ask you about something?”

“Do I mind? Of course not. What’s up?” she says, finishing with her apron and looking right at me.

“Well,” I begin, lowering my voice, “I just noticed that Bobby put me down to bus tables on Saturday night, and he must have just added it to the schedule last night or earlier today because I don’t remember seeing it earlier in the week. And he didn’t even say anything to me about it… I mean, I realize that our schedules aren’t set in stone and he’s the boss and can change them, and of course I bus my own tables during the day—it’s part of the job—but I didn’t know that I was going to have to bus tables on a Saturday night…”

“Oh—” Beth replies, having listened intently to everything I said. “I don’t think Bobby meant that he wants you to just bus tables. He probably wants you to hostess.”

“Hostess?… Then why did he put bus on the schedule?” I ask.

“Well, hostessing here doesn’t just mean that you’ll greet people and lead them to their seats. It also includes helping the waiters and waitresses in any way you can, like delivering food for them, taking drink orders, and also bussing tables and resetting them whenever it’s necessary—you know, all the same stuff you do when you waitress. It’s really not that much different, except that you won’t be taking the main food orders, and you’re asked to dress up a little. And, instead of getting two-eighty an hour, you get five. It’s really not so bad,” she says, her face bright and encouraging.

“Oh,” I say, starting to feel quite a bit better about the situation.

“And,” Beth continues, “you only need to work until whoever’s waiting that night feels that they can handle things without your help. When they let you know that, you just need to check with the bartender if it’s okay for you to be finished, and then you’re all done!”

“How long does the shift usually last?”

“Sometimes two hours, sometimes four or five, depending on how busy it is.”

“So it’s a pretty short shift then.”

“Oh yeah…it’s actually really nice. You get to come in and make a few bucks, but you don’t have to spend your entire evening here, especially on a weekend… Oh—and about Bobby not letting you know that he was going to put you down for hostessing…he does stuff like that a lot. He probably had every intention of telling you about it and explaining to you what was expected of you, but it most likely slipped his mind. In fact,” she says, smiling and shaking her head, “he may not even have realized that you’ve never hostessed before. You know how lackadaisical he can be sometimes.”

“Yeah, I have noticed that,” I say, nodding. “But, Beth, to be honest with you, I really…I just really don’t want to work on Saturday night. I just don’t think—I don’t think I’m ready for it.” I look down for a moment and then back up at her.

She smiles at me thoughtfully. “Oh, Jenna, I’m sure that you’ll be just fine. Everyone says how well you’ve been doing so far, you know.”

“Yeah. I know. But I—”

“Jenna—” Beth’s eyes light up suddenly. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I just thought of something. I have to work the day shift on Saturday, from eleven to five-thirty, like I usually do. If you wouldn’t mind switching with me and working during the day, I could hostess for you on Saturday night…”

“Really?” I say, feeling like I’ve just been rescued from a bunch of turbulent waves. “That would be so great for me, Beth, but…but…but I really don’t want you to have to adjust your schedule for—”

“Oh, no, Jenna, believe me—you’d be doing me such a big favor as well. I don’t think I’ve slept in on a Saturday for months, and I’m just so exhausted. To be able to sleep in on Saturday morning, leisurely drink a cup of coffee and read the paper when I get up, and then study for a few hours in the afternoon before I come in here—that just sounds wonderful…” she says, her eyes quite dreamy.

“Well, okay, Beth. Okay. It sounds like it will work out really well for both of us, so let’s go ahead and do it.”

“Great!” she says, the gratitude emanating from her. “We should check with Bobby, though, to make sure it’s okay. He usually doesn’t have a problem with this kind of stuff, but it’s best to mention it to him… But, don’t you worry about it. I’ll take care of that tonight before I leave.”

“Thanks so much, Beth,” I say, removing my apron, “and thanks for explaining things to me. Have a really nice night.”

“You too, Jenna. I’ll see you Saturday,” she replies, giving me an appreciative wink.

******

The above excerpt is from my coming-of-age novel—The Grill on Murray Avenue: A Story of Innocence—about the inhabitants of an unassuming bar-and-grill in Squirrel Hill, a vibrant neighborhood in the east end of Pittsburgh. The story is told by Jenna, a young waitress who dreams of becoming a professional dancer.