Waitress

“Waitress” - Live (Throwing Copper - 1994)

He thought it had something to do with feeding the cats. Or locking the screen door. Or whether all men really were the same pathetic creatures in one particular area of the kingdom of human psyche. It doesn’t really matter. They had gone so far he didn’t even know where they had started. The same trail they always took. She was still talking. At least her mouth was still moving. For what that’s worth.

Why did they always end up in the same place. The same inane discourse. Never about the big things. Not money. Not sex. Not deep dark hidden secrets. Instead there were battles about how long beef stays in the bowels and whether a sweater was actually green. Or, the worse, some explosive fallout from a carefully articulated rhetorical question. HOW CAN THERE BE A RIGHT OR WRONG ANSWER TO A RHETORICAL QUESTION?

The worse thing about these epic, frustrating word-plays volleyed endlessly with giant semantic paddles was that everyone was invited. At least that’s what it seemed like. Of course, that’s okay with her. She thinks she’s amazingly clever always hiding behind that “I’m right and you’re just a fucking idiot” suit of invisibility. Meanwhile, he wants to crawl under the seat. Under the gum-crusted, greasy, orange vinyl seat. It was orange. He was right about that. Why couldn’t she just lower her voice? How hard was that? She had to know. She had to. The pain this was for him.

Often these tirades were in front of their friends. That was until they stopped coming around. The dinner parties seemed to lose their luster along the way. Now it was diners. Really bad diners. I guess it didn’t matter. He wasn’t there for the food. It was the insults that kept him coming back.

Hey, what’s this…He just noticed his waitress for the first time since they sat down. She was sort of gruff. Bad attitude. But she had this Bohemian look. Real hippie chick. Pouty lips. Really red. This tiny plaid pleated skirt. Wore this funky barrette in her hair. Really dirty hair. But she was cute. Really cute. For a minute, after she dropped their milkshakes, the pain started to go away. Peace. Bliss with vanilla ice-cream at the back of his throat and hope in his heart for the first time.

“Are you even listening to me?”

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to repeat it back to her. He knew that was the best thing to do when this question raised it’s ugly head. But he just…He wasn’t listening. And what could he say? Really? What were his options. He said he was sorry.

“Let’s get out of this dump. Pay. We are not finished.”

“We’re not?” It was a rhetorical question, he realized. They were, in fact, finished. And that’s why he didn’t say it out loud. He put the money down and realized it was barely enough to cover the tab. This was not how he wanted to make an exit. He spoke up for only the second time in the past hour.

“Come on baby. Leave some change behind.”
“Why? She was a bitch.”
“She was a bitch, but I don’t care. She brought the food out on time.”
“She wasn’t good enough.”
“Everybody’s good enough for some change.”

As he realized just how right he really was, she threw down some bus fare and walked out. Everybody is good enough for some change. He checked his other pocket and found a five. He set it down in the middle of their mess. He took one of the quarters she had left and dropped it into the table jukebox. Let it ride. The strains of a long lost song was just starting to ring out as he caught her eye and gave her a mischievous smile. The hippie check. Even though his dinner of cheeseburgers and fries was already beginning to burn in his stomach, he knew he’d be back. Maybe sooner than he thought.

Then he went to face the real music for the last time. After all, everybody’s good enough for some change.

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