Current time: where our heroine considers her escape plans

Standing in the kitchen I looked around, and seriously considered dashing out the back door never to be seen again. I was in a precarious position, trapped between two waitresses having an epic cat fight and blocked in from the other side by the owner/manager/chef (who we will call Captain Rigatoni) tearing into one of the cooks. Far to my left hand side one of the other waitress burst into tears upon realising than an error she had made on a check the previous day was going to cost her over $175. I heard glass shattering from behind the line which distracted Captain Rigatoni. "WHAT THE F**K WAS THAT" he screamed, red face darkening to purple as the veins bulged in his forehead. "It was the olive oil decanter" whispered one of the cooks "my elbow hit it and I'm very, very sorry Captain Rigatoni." "THAT BOTTLE HAS BEEN IN THIS RESTAURANT FOR SIX YEARS" Capt Rig screeched with escalating fury "NEVER, NEVER IN MY LIFE HAVE I BROKEN A BOTTLE OF OIL, HOW CAN YOU BE SO STUPID YOU CLOWN???!!!" This rant continued for several moments more as did the enraged waitress debate over side work. Noticing that most employees were continuing to work as though this was a normal everyday event I concluded that making a mad dash for freedom was not critical to my safety, although it might be a wise choice for my mental health.

It had already been a long evening when the screaming in the kitchen started. I had not bargained for a first day mostly consumed by lists of things not to do. The flighty waitress that I had been assigned to train with thoroughly enjoyed lecturing me on the art of staying out of trouble. Her bottom line? Impossible to do. Standing in one the wait stations she fiddled with the coffee machine to appear busy while giving me a long list of dont's. "First of all" she declared "NEVER stand with your hands on your hips. NEVER cross your arms or rest your chin on your hand. And NEVER, EVER lean on ANYTHING." Another waitress made her way in to join us and jumped right on the "don't" bandwagon. Like crows cawing "DON'T DON'T" they jabbered away manically: "Don't EVER touch your face" And NEVER touch your hair" "Don't break anything because then you will have to buy it" "And whatever you do, don't remove your SHOE." Slightly amused I asked what might possess me to remove my shoe. They launched into a long and trying tale of how once a server removed his shoe in the wait station to fix his sock and the floor opened up under him and he fell into the seventh circle of hell. Pondering all that I had been warned against I asked an obvious question. "Who is watching us, and what will happen to me if I slip up and brush my hair from my face?" Cautiously, they both looked up and gestured towards the ceiling "THEY are watching us because there are cameras everywhere" the flighty waitress whispered. "And in the kitchen, they have us all on audio and they can hear everything!!" "So whatever you do" they both droned on "do not say anything about anyone and don't think that you are safe to relax anywhere." "And if you slip up" cautioned another waitress as she walked in "you will be called into the office and reprimanded. Capt Rigatoni will really let you have it." I wondered at that point where I had missed my turn into a restaurant parking lot and accidentally ended up in air traffic control, NASA, or some job where huge world changing decisions were being made. All of this seemed a bit silly and intense to me but I had yet at that point seen the huge hate ball that Capt Rig carried around with him.

Every restaurant has an order of how they like things done and what are the most important things for servers to be doing. Evidently in Capt Rig's house it is OK to seriously delay taking care of "your" tables as long as you are running the hot food out as soon as it's little food fanny hits the dishes. I noticed that many servers would completely forget that tables had reordered drinks or had requested their checks in their panicking haste to remove the food from the line. I suppose that you can look at like this: the guests will never get weary of waiting for their food but will grow old and gray while hoping for a check to get dropped off. but what do I know, I'm just a waitress...

Hours later while driving home I felt as though I had run 100 miles in 90 degree weather without taking off my winter jacket. Reflecting upon my first day I decided that perhaps the screaming was a fluke, the hate between the servers was (somehow?) justified and the feeling of concern that I had about the overall bizarreness of my evening had more to do with first day jitters than anything. By the time I had reached my house most of what I had witnessed seemed something that my jangled nerves had perhaps overreacted to. Was that the case? Stay tuned to find out...