The Leading Indicators (13 page)

The eatery chain's name was Feels Like Home.

“Sixteen up! Third request!”

Margo hustled for the tray. That table ordered a round of martinis at 11:15
A.M.
The bartender didn't quite have the well set up so early, slowing down the drink preparation and thus slowing Margo down. She noted the manager scowling and pointing at his watch as she carted the appetizers to the table.

All four men had asked for different types of vodka in their martinis. Though vodka is flavorless, those at the table had been discoursing, as they ordered, on whether Grey Goose or Skyy or Absolut “tastes best.” This meant the bartender had to mark each drink so Margo could tell them apart, not that there was a chance in the world anyone at the table would be able to determine, by sipping, whether he'd been served the requested brand. As the men held forth about the vodkas, trying to demonstrate deep knowledge, Margo batted her eyes and tilted her head—flirting cues—and wondered if she could get them to leave a twenty as the tip.

One might think restaurants and big-box stores would be pleased with the cool economy causing the white-collar cohort to seek jobs for which they normally don't compete. Instead there was some resentment by those who had never been white-collar. Margo's manager gave her a hard time over minor slips that he ignored in others. He launched zingers, such as asking where she parked her BMW. Though a little dictator within the province of the restaurant, the manager scrupulously avoided any act or comment that might be construed as sexual, as groping and sexist remarks are changing from a management prerogative to a career-killer within business culture. A generation ago, someone in Margo's position would have been taken to a back room, told to shut up, then felt up, and been afraid to complain. Today someone in her position received class-warfare insults. Progress.

“How's the drinks, guys?” Margo asked, tilting her head and shaking her hair. “Strong enough for big guys like you?” Men stepping out, she'd found, like to be addressed as guys. Margo leaned forward, to draw attention to her décolletage. The guys smiled.

Looking up, Margo beheld what waitresses dread in the way that fishermen dread a high wave approaching from the side of the boat. A dozen people were arriving as a group. No one had called ahead, so nothing was set up. Big parties get huffy quickly about service, expect the waitress to jump straight up into the air, and generate clamor as if no additional patrons were present, disturbing other diners. They do this though the diners at the big table would be outraged if they were trying to have a quiet evening and someone else arrived and started making loud noise.

Often when a large group sits together in a restaurant, one or many toss in less than the average cost shown on the bill, then find it convenient to assume someone else is treating for the gratuity. Irresponsible? They live in a society where citizens angrily demand that government spending go down while angrily demanding a rise in whatever benefits they personally receive.

As the group was directed toward tables being rearranged into a single seating in Margo's section, she went to the manager to ask him to greet them and impose the single-check 18-percent-added policy. Fancy restaurants do this as a matter of course. Dinner-house chains in the middle of the market impose the mandatory gratuity at the manager's discretion. The manager wouldn't, telling Margo it was her problem to deal with the group. She felt sure he would have done this to help other waitresses. There was a nasty twinkle in his eye, as if he could see ahead to an hour during which Margo would work frantically, only to be stiffed.

She headed to the large group and swallowed hard. “My name is Margo, I'll be your server today—” There was a greeting script that she hated, but knowing the manager was eavesdropping, Margo went through it. All the women were talking at once, so none heard her. After she finished reciting the specials, the first question was “What are your specials?”

Margo took their drink orders, and a short time later had the busboy help her carry the drinks back. She raised her pad to ask what they wanted for lunch.

“The fettuccine—how is it prepared?”

“I would like an appetizer-sized portion of the dinner ravioli and a dinner-sized portion of the stuffed mushrooms appetizer.”

“Are peanuts used in the cooking area?”

“Can you give me a half-sized steak at half price?”

“I want the Greek salad with no olives and no feta cheese.”

“Do you accept coupons from T.G.I. Friday's? We have coupons from there.”

“What ingredients are in the lasagna?”

“I don't see tapas on the menu. Can you make a tapas platter for us?”

“Does the coq au vin come with chicken?”

“Oprah says not to eat corn-based sweetener. Which of your dishes contain no corn-based sweeteners?”

“Why haven't you brought the bread yet?”

“My seat faces the kitchen door.”

“You're not feeding us anything genetically altered, are you?”

“I felt a draft.”

“Why do you serve fermented products?”

“Do you have gluten-free bread?”

“There's a spot on my knife.”

“It's too hot.”

“It's too cold.”

“What are your specials?”

“The service here is terrible.”

Minutes had passed and none of the ladies had placed her order. Mentally, Margo heard a clock ticking—other tables were sure to need attention by now. The front door opened and in came a couple who were obviously arguing. They were leading a sobbing three-year-old and carrying a crying infant in a rocker. The arrivals were shown to a table in Margo's section. They sat, waving to Margo as if in dire need. Simultaneously one of the four guys, already on their second round before the clock struck noon, made a broad gesture with his hand and knocked his martini into the drink of the guy next to him, vodka flowing in all directions. From the kitchen Margo heard, “Lunch for sixteen is up! Up!”

Margo gestured to the busboy about the guys with the spilled drinks; informed the ladies she'd be right back (“Now she's leaving. I
told
you we shouldn't have come here”); grabbed crayons and paper to drop on the table of the arguing couple; got the lunch order for 16, timing her arrival just as the busboy finished cleaning the table; promised the guys a third round on the house, wincing to herself at the thought of serving a third martini at noon; hoisted bread and butter for the ladies, plus a new silverware set wrapped in a napkin for the woman who complained about the knife. Twice she had to calculate which hand to hold an item in—whether it would be faster to put down the item in her right hand to pick up something else then pick the item up again or to use her left and right hands at the same time.

At the restaurant, a lot of Margo's brain volume was assigned to making snap judgments about what order to pick up and put down, to maximize efficiency in the relocation of beers and Caesar salads. If you already had three things in one hand and two in the other, putting all five down to move a sixth thing, then picking the first five up again, was way too time-consuming for the lunch-rush environment. She had learned to use one hand only while keeping everything else in whatever hand already held most. Once, juggling many things, she tried to save an instant by putting a bill folder, the black wallets in which checks are delivered, in her mouth. The manager spied that and chewed her out. Okay, she shouldn't have. But Margo was offended that her mouth, the most sensuous part of a woman, the place so many boys and men had wanted to get, now was objectionable.

Margo felt a dull bolt in her lower back, low-voltage pain announcing that high-voltage pain would arrive by the shift's end. She had begun to take an Advil when reporting to the restaurant, not waiting to see if she'd need one later, just assuming she would—the way football players take painkillers before a game when they are feeling fine, because they know it's only a matter of time until they don't feel fine. Six things to carry precariously balanced in her hands, she heard one of the ladies calling, “Miss! Miss! What's taking so long!”

For a moment, Margo worried she would lose her composure. She reminded herself she should only be doing this a short time, that the establishment and many like it were staffed by people who'd spent their lives on their feet trying to meet impatient demands. Margo was pretty good at controlling her own disappointments with thoughts like that. Would she still be good at controlling her disappointments if the family's situation remained the same well into the future?

An hour passed in which Margo worked as hard as she had in her life, as hard as when she stayed up studying for finals; as hard as the night, as a summer counselor in Wisconsin, when the camp-out tent collapsed in a downpour and she led a group of frightened little girls on a mile-long, middle-of-the-night hike back to the lodge through forest in sideways rain.

At the end of the hour the ladies asked for individual checks. Margo said no, and they reacted as if she had lunged at them with a carving knife.

Though they had ordered starters and a number of frou-frou cocktails, the women were outraged that the bill came to $300, before tip. That was $25 per head for drinks, lunch and dessert—what did they expect? Several declared they hadn't possibly spent more than $10. Margo went over the bill line by line, showing it added up to $300. Several among the group claimed to have no cash, just cards or a checkbook, and again demanded separate bills. After the ladies nearly pitched a fit, Margo gave in and split the checks into twelve. This meant quite a bit of added effort—figuring the twelve bills, then doing as many card slips or making change. Nine of the twelve left her nothing, several drawing multiple lines through the “tip” space on the card invoice. Two left a dollar apiece, perhaps viewing themselves as great benefactors of humanity. One left pocket change. The result was a $2.68 tip on a $300 tab.

Attending to her other tables, Margo saw one of the ladies have a heated discussion with the manager, then strut out. As the lunch rush wound down, the manager called Margo to his “office”—a room where crates of tomato sauce and ketchup were stacked. One crate was labeled
EXTRA-HEAVY MAYONNAISE.

“The large party you had today complained about your service,” he told her.

“I busted my ass for them. You saw me.”

“They also complained about your attitude. Said they noticed you making a face in their direction.” The manager had a rack on which hung the orange-and-brown shirts of the chain. He had several, all identical.

“‘Making a face'? What, is there facecrime now?” The manager had no idea what she meant, and if she'd told him she was referencing the novel
1984,
would have been offended that she was hinting he'd not gone to college.

“The customer is king. We cannot have unsatisfied customers,” he said plainly.

“I busted my ass for them, and they left a three-dollar tip on a three-hundred-dollar tab. People like that should be arrested.”

“See, that's attitude. Tips are not guaranteed. Tips are rewards for exceptional service.”

“I gave them exceptional service! And you pay $2.13 an hour on the assumption that all customers tip.”

“Plus she said you were a slut.”

“
What?”

“They saw you flirting with a table full of men when you should have been waiting on them. Her exact words were that she and her friends would never come back to a restaurant where the waitresses are sluts.”

Margo tried to stay calm. “Anyone that mean has issues. Those bitches don't need lunch, they need therapists.”

“See, now you are using profanity to describe our valued customers. I'm sorry, Margo. Have to let you go.”

There was no point arguing. Margo left in time to pick up the girls from school, saying nothing about what happened.

 

Chapter 9

August 2009

Japanese recession ends; lasted 18 years.

United States debt for a single decade exceeds all borrowing in the country's previous 211 years of existence.

M
argo sat at the kitchen table of the apartment with the Help Wanted section of the newspaper open next to her. Once the Help Wanted section was thick, going on for page after page; now, it seemed barely the size of the tables of sports scores. Of course, some job adverts had migrated to the Web. On her laptop, Margo was scanning Craigslist and Monster under employment openings. When Margo first typed Monster in the Google search box, she found the website of a company that makes high-end audio equipment, then that of a firm that makes energy drinks, thereby learning there are three corporations named Monster, the employment agency and two others. Three big corporations that present themselves to the world as monsters. This means something. Perhaps best not to know what.

Kevin had been tossed out, after spending what he had on shots and beers, then coming in stumbling drunk in front of the girls. Margo felt bad about tossing him, in the way one feels bad when hearing of natural disasters in countries one could not locate on a map. She did not feel bad enough to relent.

Margo looked nervously at her cell phone. One of her daughters was at a party, the other “out with friends,” her only explanation. Margo provided both with cell phones, despite increasing problems covering the bill. They protested that the phones were merely phones, not smart phones—unable to receive the Internet, satellite guidance or live video. Web access would be another thirty dollars per month per phone, plus numerous mysterious taxes—sorry, not taxes, “fees.” That would be nearly a thousand dollars per year just so the girls could Facebook from a Starbucks. Once Margo would have agreed to such a small luxury without hesitation. Now it was a budget buster.

Margo texted each of the girls once every hour and fretted if they didn't text back within minutes. She did not care what incomprehensible codes they used—“smh s/b 7 k?”—as long as they texted back.