Not for the phantom of heart

            I wonder sometimes, about those people who have pursued and succeeded in the line of work they always dreamed of doing and have done it for so long they really don't know how to do anything else. What must have started as a job driven by love and passion for some, talent by others, years later, I wonder...does it still feel like that same dream job to them? Or, do they wish they could travel back to their younger selves and slap them across the head and say..."You should have been a doctor...you idiot!" Take Broadway's Phantom Of The Opera, this is the longest running show in Broadway history, celebrating its 25th anniversary this month, to be exact. The tickets still cost an arm and a leg today as they did back then, but people still fill up those seats like it opened just last week. And from what I've learned, some of the cast and crew have been with the show for as long as it has been running, or a good many years of it anyway. How in the world could these people sing the same darn songs and hear the same darn music six to eight times a week, fifty two weeks a year and not want to set fire to the stage? The first time I heard the much-loved song "Music Of The Night" I was in love with this musical. It was the most beautiful piece of theater music that I had ever heard outside of a stage and I wanted nothing more than to someday sit in the famed Majestic Theater, smack center of that stage, and watch those actors bring one of the most wonderful stories of the musical theater world come to life. I've lived in New York City for over six years all together now and for those six years I've been reserving this show for the perfect moment, that special occasion to finally purchase those tickets and make that small dream a reality. However, at this point in time...what am I really waiting for? I'm probably the last person living in New York City as long as I have that still hasn't seen it. So, this special occasion I'm waiting for, will probably consist of me getting all dressed up and watching it all by myself anyway, so why wait? Then I realized...there is a special occasion to celebrate, every day is a special occasion really. I'm still alive and I still have eyes to see and ears to hear. I'm buying my ticket dang it! Every now and then I like to treat myself to a Broadway show. I live in the theater capital of the world. It would be a sin not to keep up with the culture here. Otherwise what am I doing in this particular city? If I were to just entertain myself with watching a movie at the cinemas once a week or once a month, I could do that anywhere. The cost of seeing a few films here could get you a lottery ticket for most shows, if you're one of the lucky twenty-five winners, or you could put that ol' student I.D. and that college investment to good use after all these years and purchase a student rush ticket at a ridiculously high discount. Then there you have it, a sophisticated and cultured night out without breaking the bank. I've been trying to watch at least one show every two months or so and it's been a wonderful experience every time and well worth it. Although Phantom Of The Opera doesn't really offer those options, they sometimes offer discounts during the post holiday off-season and now was as good a time as any to grab those stubs.

            With my ticket in hand yesterday, I entered the front of the majestic theater, instantly bowled over by its glowing grandeur. Brushing my hand along the wall when no one was looking, like a small child at a museum, I felt its fabric lining and wood detail as I walked through the alcove and into the seating area. Turning the corner and seeing the stage with the set in place for the opening act, shot a thrill of excitement through my veins as the realization suddenly hit me... I was about to watch Phantom Of The Opera for the first time on Broadway. I think I'm having a Carrie Bradshaw moment. When I walked towards the orchestra section, a small elderly woman, who looked very much like the corpse of Norman Bates' mother, demanded in a high pitched screech, that the herd making their way in with me to wait at the entrance. Her frustration and the shrill tone of her voice stopped me cold in my tracks and I didn't dare move an inch until she told me so. When I was next in the order of those who entered with me, she grabbed my ticket with a shaking hand and a garbled instruction for me to follow her. With great caution, I followed as she crept her way over to my row and pointed a knobby finger at my seat. Just as I snuggled into my lovely orchestra seat, situated at the end of the center isle, an elderly couple came following Norman Bates' mother, with the same uncertainty on their faces that I had about the woman they were behind. With teacher-like authority, the grim woman directed the couple to the two empty seats next to me and with a struggle they scrambled out of their coats before finally making their way through the row to their seats. Just as I got resettled into my own, the woman who sat to the right side of her husband stood up with what looked like the intention of leaving the row, so I began gathering my things to stand up and let her through, but she just sat back down and I readjusted. A moment later, with a crisp bill in her hand, indicating that she was heading to the concession stand, up her husband went and up I went to let her through. Five minutes later she was back with her ten-dollar cup of soda and up I went again, dropping everything on my lap as I stood. While I was doubled over, picking up the scattered elements of my purse and the playbill from the theater floor I had to fight the urge not to snap at the woman and tell her that she should have thought of hitting the concession stand before heading to her seat in the first place. Oi, these two. But, of course, I just smiled as her husband next to me apologized on behalf of his fidgety wife. He was sweet...and patient and I knew better.

            Just as the play started, I tried to find some clue from the cast that would indicate whether they might still enjoy doing what it was they did. I wondered if any of those particular actors had been with the show long enough now that they could care less about their performance now, as I do with my job most days...when it's not writing of course. It was hard to read any of the typical signs of boredom related to that from anyone because the opening act was meant to be dreary and depressing anyway. Then as the next scene opened up I was so dazzled by the sudden change of scenery, watching a massive chandelier rise above our heads, praying the wires didn't break loose and bring its sparkling mass cascading over our stunned craniums, that I lost my train of thought on the matter completely. And the explosion of sound, the music so familiar, yet so extraordinary...and very nineteen eighties, Ah, how I miss that time, Guns and Roses, Van Halen, Aerosmith...Andrew Lloyd Webber. What a start!

            One scene after another I sat in my orchestra seat, hair standing on the ends of my arms and the back of my neck as the hauntingly gorgeous vibratos of the singers resonated from the stage in front of me. One of the first times my ears ever heard an operatic voice up close and personal was when a good friend and former roommate of mine opened her carefully trained mouth and breathed out the sound like I had never heard before. Of course I had heard operas sung a million different times in movies, over the radio, in elevators, all of them nice enough but nothing in that genre had ever moved me enough to take the time to learn more about its history, the masters and their sonatas, or how difficult the technique was before then. I had never appreciated it until I heard my friend Heather, who studied with Julliard for a time and once performed on the same stage as Liza Minnelli and Kristin Chenoweth, sing an Italian sonata for me. I was floored, beyond amazement. And that wasn't even when she was at her peak performance. Whenever we were out together and I introduced her to a new acquaintance, of course I boasted about her and her unique talent, sometimes urging her to sing for them if the setting was right. She probably hated it when I did that, but it was the only way I could get her to sing without being weird about it. If she were a man, it would have been easier to ask her when we were alone and I could pretend I was being serenaded to by tall dark Italian instead, but asking her to sing for me on the couch of our apartment between episodes of Family Guy, would have been awkward.  

            During intermission, I turned to my left to see our favorite fidgety woman hovering to my right, trying to make her way out of the row to refill her soda and relieve herself of the last. Up I went again to let her through. When she left, her husband turned to me and asked if this was my first time seeing the show. How did he know? Was it my stupid expression? The smile plastered across my face and my wide eyes wandering around the stage trying to take it all in? Probably. I told him that it was and he said that this was his third time seeing it. The first time was many years ago with his first wife, the second time was with his now grown daughter and this third time was with his "new wife." I had to ask...

"Widowed or divorced?"

"Widowed," he replied.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"We were married for forty-six years before she passed away. I was curious to see how much the show had changed since then. The costumes and some of the set are different now."

"Better different, or just different," I asked him.

"Better different," he said.

"Well, that's good. Are you glad you came back to see it?"

"Oh, yeah. It's a great play."

Just as our conversation was wrapping up his second wife was back with another soda in tow. Up we went and down the lights.

            Towards the end of the third act, I happened to hear a slight sniffle directed to my right. At first I though it was just my neighbor's stuffy nose that took me out of the dramatic final scene, but then I realized through my peripheral vision, that he was actually wiping away his teary eyes, just as the heroine of the play, the love of the Phantom's life, was sailing away from him for the last time. What is it with elderly people? They're always crying in front of me. I imagine that maybe because he was talking about his long lost first wife he might have been thinking of her and the memory their first time here. That touching final scene must have hit him where it hurt and it was more than he could hold back. In that moment, not only did I feel sorry for him, but I was also feeling sorry for his fidgety second wife sitting beside him. I'm sure she knew those tears were not for the magnificence of the show, but tears for the other woman she probably never felt like she measured up to. I suppose it could all just be my hopeless romantic heart that sees too much into things and he was just so moved by the production he couldn't hold back the tears that now streamed down his face. But, I could be right, on some level, and it's just so heartbreaking to think about. As the curtains rose again at the end of the show and the actor's took their final bows, my teary eyed neighbor turned to me and said, "This was the best production."

"Better than the others?"

"The best."

After he said that, I looked at that stage for a long minute and beamed at the thought that I had seen this, "the best." I felt grateful that I was able to experience this production, in this lifetime, on this day in history. Unless Alzheimer’s or dementia steals this memory away from me someday, it would be with me always. Now that the play was over, the show of life had to move on. Off to work I went to make the rent money I just spent to see this production, so that can enjoy one last month in my apartment before I give it up for the cause of a much greater expenditure...emptying that list in my bucket and figuring out that thing I can do for the rest of my life that won't bore me to death first.

The gauntlet

            Monday night I spent most of my time tossing around in bed while visions of drink refills and hot fudge puddings danced in my head. At nine in the morning I couldn't take it anymore. I made myself get up hours before I had to because lying in bed was more exhausting to me than if I actually got up and went about my day. I've been so stressed out about this new job and all of the little details I've had to retrain myself to do, that I'm beginning to wish I had never heard of this place. It's a complete change-up of the way I've always done things that I fear that the old saying: "you can't teach an old dog new tricks" is a statement all too true for me. For the first time in my life I find myself wishing technology had its way because handwriting food orders and manually adding up their cost is just plain daunting. I've been a waitress in several different restaurants for over eight years and I've never had a problem learning a menu or the order of service. In fact, I've even worked at a high-end French restaurant off of Park Avenue on the Upper East Side, where I was the only waitress for the entire ten-table restaurant and I barely broke a sweat. How is it that I just can't get a grip on the way things are done at this place? Oh, maybe it's because it's been around for nearly fifty years and how they do things there now is set in stone and if you dare go outside of the lines, you may as well make yourself a bull's eye and stand in front of a firing squad. When I woke up this morning, I just wanted it to be over. I didn't care if I got the job or not, I just wanted the scrutiny, the micro managing and the pressure of its pace to be lifted from my shoulders. If it weren’t for the fact that I'd be letting my friends down, those who recommended me for this job, I would have called the restaurant up, thanked the management for the opportunity and moved on my merry way. However, I didn't want to fail them and I also wanted to prove something to myself. I know I could do this job...if everyone would leave me alone for a minute to do it. What else would I be good at if I couldn't do this? But, again do I really want to? It's nice to work at a place where I could run into Ed Asner, David Schwimmer or even Al Pachino on a regular basis, but do I really want to be serving them...hamburgers and meatloaf no less?

            Before I even walked into the restaurant that afternoon, I had drunk a massive cup of coffee on the train ride, then drank a small bottle of 5-hour energy just in case my lack of sleep the night before put a drain on my performance, so I was all jitters before I even walked through the door. They were purposely going to put me through the ringer today, just to see if I could handle the stress and I was warned by half of the staff of this so I was mentally prepared for it. I just wasn't sure if my arms and legs were. When I walked in I was glad to find that my pal, Michael Angelo, was working this shift with me. It was a comfort to know that a friendly face would be around if I needed one. This was to be my last day of "training," the last judgment...the deal breaker. Depending on how things went on this shift, I would either be in or I would be out. But, to be honest, I could have cared less. At this point, I was almost in favor of being out. This job was taking up more of my time than I wanted it to and I was beginning to worry about the time off I would need to pursue the rest of my hearts desires before my thirty second year came to an end. That end was fast approaching and I still had many more places to go, people to see and things to do and getting coverage without loosing this job was something weighing heavy on my mind. As is the case with any new job, you have to earn your time off or your schedule of choice through time. And that was not exactly something I feared I had much of. I really should learn how to say no to people.

            After everyone had changed into uniform and we were all on the floor, the manager had sat me with my first table before I could even get a pad of paper to write on. Thankfully, Michael Angelo was there to the rescue and had the table started for me by the time I got there. Best guy ever! I don't know if it was my subconscious doing it but I think I messed up at least once with every single one of my tables, at one point or another, for the first two hours of pre-theater. At my first table, I got a girl a diet coke instead of a coke. She wasn't fat by any means, but for some reason I got her a diet coke. At my second table, I got a refill of a pinot noir for the guy who was drinking a cabernet, at my third table I forgot to bring them their water until they had to remind me to bring it. Then it was just one strange question after another, that I was not prepared to answer and everyone wanting something from me at the same time when I only had two hands to get them. Then when I went to order drinks for my tables at the bar, the bartender chose that insane moment to make an example of the error of my ways by giving me run down on how to properly order drinks there. Apparently, I didn't have the order of glasses lined up according to the strength of the drinks I needed. I should have lined the strongest drinks from the right going to the left of the bar and I forgot to say "ordering" even though she was looking right at me and I had all of the glasses she would need to make the drinks in front of her. I'm sorry, a martini IS slightly stronger than a glass of wine, and the glasses are completely different sizes, but that must have completely thrown you off because I placed the wine glass in front of the cocktail glass instead of the other way around. How will you ever know which drink will go where now? Come on. Give me a break. Of course, I just smiled sweetly, switched the order of the two glasses and said: "ordering," then the nice bartender made my drinks.

            As the crowd began to break up so they could head over to their Broadway shows at the usual time, every one wanted their checks at that same moment too. So, the corner where the one and only calculator was located was lost under a sea of seven waiters waiting their turn to use it so I had resorted to calculating it all in my head so it would be faster and then I could pass the checks over to my trainer so she could look it over for any mistakes. Apparently, I was off my ten dollars on one of the checks and I knew then I was doomed. A new server is allowed one miscalculation at no more than ten dollars within the first month of their employment there. Technically I was still in training and the mistake was caught before it was legitimate, but that weighed heavy on top of the little blunders I was making all night. But then, when I realized I had a desert order for a table I had already calculated still in my pocket and I pulled it out. That was strike two...or was it seven. Crap.

            When the rush of pre-theater was over I went into the kitchen to keep myself busy and out of the searing gaze of my trainer for a few minutes. While waiting out the next storm to unravel my world I was marrying ketchups and dwelling on my mistakes, hoping to vindicate myself in the next round. A minute later I hear the manager call my name and ask me to follow him to the front. Oh boy. This is either going to be a list of notes for things I need to work on or I'm about to get the boot. Either way, I was not likely going to hear nice things if we were talking in private so I was already bracing myself for a degrading blow to my ego. Following the manager to the front of the restaurant (conveniently located by the door) he suddenly turns around and says as quickly and awkwardly as possible, "I'm afraid it's just not going to work out. I'm really sorry."

I knew it! Ouch...Yay! I don't know how I feel about this really.

"Here is your training pay for the night. I hope things work out for you."

Thank God. My ego has just shriveled up and shot across the room like a deflated balloon, but I'm glad this is over. I never have to stress another day about this place again. I smiled politely to the manager, "Thank you anyway."

He seemed like a nice guy and he was just doing his job, but I really just wanted to get the heck out of Dodge and never look back again. However, I still had to get my things from the locker room next door and return with the keys, tail between my legs.

            Walking up that stairwell for the last time was equal parts saddening and liberating. It was sad because I felt unwelcome, unwanted and unworthy to be there anymore, but I also felt free from the servitude of a job I didn't necessarily want anymore either. I don't know which was worse at that point though. Being free, or not good enough? How embarrassing? The more I thought about the situation the more of a beating my ego seemed to endure. How pathetic was I that I couldn't even hack it as a waitress anymore! How in the world have I survived this long? If I can't cut it as a waitress what on earth was I good enough to do? Thank God I still have a job, but gee wiz, if I lose that one someday, what on earth could I possibly be qualified to do? How depressing? I think I'll just walk in front of a yellow cab now. Mine as well. I'm useless. I want my mommy.

            When I walked back over to return the locker room keys, I got the puppy dog eyes from the hostess who took the keys from me and sadly apologized for the disappointing turnout with a sweet farewell. She was really kind but I couldn't wait to just go and sulk in the streets of New York City, where nobody would know who I was to care how I felt, at least not at that hour of the day. Everyone I knew in the area was surly either at work, eating dinner or drinking in a bar by now. Thank God. The last thing I wanted then was to see a familiar face. Wallowing in self-pity is a job best done by one's self. As I walked down the street it was a rollercoaster ride of emotions that played through my head. There was hope, however, in the highs, so I knew that all was not lost, but the lows were very humbling. This experience did make me appreciate what I still had to hold on to but I was now afraid to lose those things at the same time. It's amazing how one day you could have it all and suddenly your world could be wiped clean. This certainly wasn't my case, but it very well could be...someday. It has happened to many people and it could very well happen to me too. It's moments like this that put things into perspective. It's not something to brush aside, but something to learn from.

            As I walked through the bright lights of Times Square, I stopped to look around at the crowds of people taking pictures, laughing with friends and family and I thought, life goes on. What just happened is a blow, but I have friends, I have family and I have enough. I don't have a full weekly schedule, but I have...plans. And those plans, they don't have time for second job like so many others that I've had just like it and that I don't necessarily need. If something came my way that was different and new, I would gladly consider it, but I won't settle for something that would feel like going backwards. So, home I went to finally get a restful night's sleep. And, like those smart Italians like to say..."que sera, sera."

The ring of fire

            Training at "The Restaurant" really hasn't been that bad so far. However, going on day three I began to have my doubts, not only about myself, but about the place as well. When I came in on Friday I was told that I would be training with Jeffrey. Now Jeffery is one of about six waiters who have been there for years. THIS is their job. They don't DO anything else. So they take what they DO very seriously. At least most of them anyway. I had met and worked with Jeffrey the night before but I didn't know anything about him, other than his name, and even that I forgot. It was when I walked in and everyone told me I would be with him that night and he personally introduced himself to me that I got that vibe...the one where you know this person is not someone you cut corners with. When people outwardly compliment a person excessively and in front of them, it's usually because they want to make nice with that someone who has an upper hand on them and if they take it without a modest thanks, this screams arrogance and authority no matter what nice things these "friends" of his are saying about him. However, I had no right to judge at this point. I only just met the man, but my intuition hardly lets me down. So, when I found out shortly after, that Jeffrey had worked there for years and was also a swing manager, I saw that my intuition was doing right by me. Working directly under someone who has the authority to make or break me has always made me nervous, but for the first half of the evening I was just going to be Jeffrey's shadow, so I wasn't too worried...yet.

            For the first three hours of the pre-theater rush, we all hit the ground running. I was mostly watching but I had to be on point with the very specific way they pencil food orders and remember drink orders for the bar. The night before Dean had taught me a simple trick of quickly jotting down those drink orders and how to keep them in order, but when Jeffrey saw me do this he whipped my scrap pad from me and told me to just scribble on the back of the food order pad instead. How rude! The way I remember what to do is not necessarily going to be the same way everyone else does it. What matters is that I remember and I get the guests what they want. What happens when there is no scribble space left on the back of the food order pad? Then what? Remember a gin in tonic in a tall glass, light ice, four olives, not three, four olives, a glass of chardonnay with a side of ice, a vodka martini shaken, not stirred, a Johnny Walker Black on the rocks, two spritzers one, white, one red and then run over to another table and take their plates and their dessert order? I may have a decent memory but that's asking a lot. Especially since I'm not much of a drinker and I hardly know the difference between a whiskey, bourbon or a brandy. They all taste the same...nasty.

            Once the rush of pre-theater was over I knew it would be my turn to do everything on my own. Thankfully, Jeffrey hung back and gave me the space to do my thing and didn't hover over my shoulder, micro-managing my every move or every conversation I had with my tables. But that didn't stop him from criticizing the alignment of my order taking.

"It needs to be over to the right more."

What difference does it make? I need space on that side to write in the prices afterwards, so what do you want from me? I wrote it down right! Sheesh, this is nuts.

            Friday nights at any restaurant in the Times Square area is generally a busy night, and it gets just as busy for post-theater as it does for pre-theater, so it got to be a little hectic. However, I tried not to show how crazy I was in my head. Calm and steady is what I was trying to go for, but apparently it just looked plain slow to Jeffrey and having him buzz in my ear like a gnat to go faster, I nearly lost my calm a few times. He was lucky I had friends there who would have suffered if I did, so I thought of them before I threw up my arms and a carafe of ice-cold water over his head.

            Later in the evening, while standing at the ready by the door, in case one of my tables suddenly needed something, in came a small group of tall, well groomed men I sensed were of some importance. Even though I couldn't see any of their faces, there was a smell and air about them that gave me the impression of privilege and success at the get go. Yup, I was right. David Schwimmer suddenly emerged, ducking his head under the doorway, wearing a black beanie on his head and a small smile on his face as he uttered a "hi" to me in passing. David Schwimmer just said "hi" to ME? Following his entourage to the back of the dining room under the guise of darkness, he sat at a table facing away from the crowd and comfortably regarding his company. Every time I passed his table going into the kitchen, his voice seemed to rise above the others in the sea of eaters and drinkers and all I could hear was Ross and it felt like I was home, listening to an episode of Friends in the background while I went about my housekeeping. I never realized how comforting his voice sounded until then.

            Maybe it's just me, but if a celebrity wanted to anonymously buy a couple at another table a round of drinks...I would do it...and enjoy it. I like to give people things and be mysterious about it, so this was right up my alley of expertise. So when Jonathan Tucker later approached me out of the blue and asked me to order a round of drinks for the couple sitting at my table with a fake name to give them, I said, "sure thing [...Jonathan Tucker. Will you marry me? I love you.]" Apparently, he was positive that the bearded guy sitting at my table was an acquaintance of his who he hadn't seen in a while. He was curious to know if he happened to have a South African accent, but I told him I wasn't sure. I didn't really pick up on anything from the handful of words I got from the man's order but he wanted to buy drinks for them anyway. However, the man's date was the only one actually drinking at the table so I ordered her another glass of wine. When my fabulous trainer got wind that Mr. Tucker wanted to do this, I got the eye roll and sigh of annoyance from him. What's his problem? When I approached my couple with the free glass of wine and told them that someone under this fake name (probably an inside joke between the two men) had sent it over, they were confused but grateful. However, when I mentioned that Jonathan meant to buy both of them a round but only his date was drinking, the bearded man decided to take advantage of the situation and ordered himself a beverage too. Why not? The guy can clearly afford it and he wanted to do it for the guy in the first place, so I went ahead and put in the order. One more glass, coming right up. Lord, what had I done? Apparently, making guests happy was not something my trainer liked to do, because he nearly ripped my head off for doing it and wanted to charge the guy at my table for the glass of wine instead of Jonathan Tucker, who was offering to pay for it.  Sheesh, someone's a little bitter about not making it on Broadway.

            Coming around the last hour of the night, while setting a table with a fresh new paper lining, I suddenly spot Jonathan Tucker's head poking around the stone partition a foot from my face.

"Did he figure out who I was?"

Holy crap, you scared the shit out of me! Giggle, hi Jonathan Tucker. Boy you're really close to my face.

"No, he was really confused but grateful for the drinks."

"Did he sound like he had a South African accent when he spoke?"

Crap, I forgot to pay attention to that.

"I couldn't really pick up on one. I'm not really sure." I don't know about those things. If it's not a British, French or Spanish accent, I don't know. South African accents... There are nearly a dozen different languages spoken in South Africa alone, some of which sound like crickets talking. How would I know what their accents would sound like?

"Oh well, I'm pretty sure it's him anyway. Let me know if he figures it out."

"Sure thing."

Just as Jonathan turned away and made his way back to his table of friends, I looked down to notice that an edge of the paper lining I was in the middle of placing on the table when Mr. Tucker approached me, had ignited itself on the candle sitting at the edge of the table. Ahh! Slap, slap, slap. Out! Thank God. I don't think anyone noticed. I'll just get a nice, fresh, new lining for this nice clean table. Ha-ha, silly me. Be right back.

            I did eventually pick up on an accent from the bearded guy the next time I approached the table, but by the time that happened, my training for the day was over and I didn't have the courage to interrupt the conversation that was going on in the circle at Jonathan Tucker's table, so I just let his waitress know to give him the message. I'm sure he was happy to know that his money went to the right place...if he even noticed. Bidding a mental adieu to Jonathan Tucker, I left "The Restaurant" for the night to return in four days for a final battle round. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Training and development

            Last Thursday I started training for night shifts at "The Restaurant." The more I get to know the service industry in New York the more I've come to learn that the world is a very small place, especially when you work in the Times Square area. Someone you work next to everyday could very easily know someone who you've known for years, worked with at another restaurant, shared an apartment with, or even dated at some point. We're in such close proximity to one another that it would actually be hard to avoid running into someone you know, even by acquaintance. Also, most of the waiters in this area are involved in the musical theater industry and may have worked on a show together her or met at an audition...or twenty. So it was no surprise to learn that my trainer for the night, Dean, a tall forty-something who has also worked in musical theater and once worked at the Olive Garden just three blocks away, also knew a good chunk of my co-workers at my other job and has dated a mutual friend. This should be good. Maybe he'll take it easy on me IF he still has a thing for my friend. Like I said, small world. But, not only does the world seem closet sized in New York City but so is the square footage around here. The restaurant is so small for the number of tables it has squeezed in every corner and the staff running the show, that if you don't outwardly narrate your every move before you do anything, then no one will know how to get around or out of your way before a collision puts everyone at a heated standstill. For the diners who are in the vicinity of waiters narrating their intentions who are not familiar with the ways of the staff, then we likely all look like a bunch of lunatics with displaced dual personalities, talking to each other in the third person. "Filling a pint with ice." "Ordering coffee." "Bussing in." "Grabbing a pencil." "Reaching for a check." "Blowing my nose." The way I've always made my way around a restaurant, going in and out of the kitchen, grabbed dishes, silverware and glasses, has always been done with quiet, stealth-like precision, the way most of us are trained. Everything is done quickly and quietly and first come first served. I suppose I like to look a little mysterious when I do things too. "Where did my waitress go? Here she is...with another refill for me and I never had to ask. How did she do that? Brilliant woman! Let's give her a big tip." Quickly and quietly, that's the way I know how to work. Talking in general is like pulling teeth for me some days but constantly talking, like breathing in and out, like you have to do at this place, is something totally out of my realm.

            Not only do I have to talk to myself constantly but I also have to get used to working with pencils again. I haven't had to write with number two pencils since grade school, but that is the only thing the staff is allowed to use in this place. We're not allowed to erase anything, but we have to use pencil anyway. Putting them in my apron they only sit awkwardly in the pocket, stabbing me whenever I bend down, often breaking the point when I try to grab them from where they've wedged themselves at the bottom of the pocket. So, I've reverted to sticking them in my hair, like most of the staff, but then forget where I put them. At the end of the night I found three protruding from my disheveled ponytail as if I were a samurai, like the ones I used to watch on old martial arts films from the seventies, hiding weapons of destruction in my hair.

          After pre-theater, when the restaurant empties out and theater patrons rush to their Broadway shows, the restaurant's lights dim to a near darkness to set an enchanting evening mood. However, the only way of finding your table at this point is to keep along the path of candles centered on the tables that run down the length of the restaurant, like a runway at an airport. Later in the evening, as the post theater rush began to make its way in for a late night snack, to my great surprise I nearly smashed into Ed Asner making his way through the restaurant to a table. He was wearing a dark suit and it was just after I had left the bright lights of the kitchen so my eyes were still adjusting to the darkness of the dining room when this happened. I think I almost gave the poor man a heart attack when I stopped short about three inches from his nose. It was only after I backed out of his way and he wobbled past me that I realized who he was. Ed Asner! Holy cow. He's still alive? That was Ed Asner! Not long after Ed had arrived did the restaurant start to pick up the pace again and I found myself running back and forth from the dining room to the kitchen in a rush to get tables greeted and orders placed. In my haste while coming from the kitchen, I accidentally tripped over Jeremy, one of the more veteran servers who have been there for years and someone who one might put in the same category as a "mean girl." Thankfully, I had nothing in my hands at the time, but in that moment, Jeremy was waiting on Christian Borle from Smash, who I only noticed at the same time that I was falling over Jeremy's extended foot and I nearly landed on ol' Ed Asner's lap again, sitting at the table next to Christian. He must have thought I was the biggest klutz. I nearly gave him cardiac arrest coming in, and then I nearly landed on his frail little body just moments later. The poor man is in his eighties! I could have killed him! If he makes it out of this restaurant alive it will be a miracle.

            At the end of the night I was exhausted and beginning to get sick of hearing my own story. Nearly every other table I had to watch Dean wait on asked me the same obvious question, if I was in training, because I looked like Peter Pan's shadow following Dean around all night. But, then they would follow with asking to know what my story was. "What do you do during the day when I'm not waiting tables?" "Where are you from?" "Where did you go to college?" I found that the only reason some of these people even asked me these questions in the first place was so that they could eventually talk about what it was that they did and who they are. If I was going to be waiting on them, then apparently, I should know these things. Great, it's so nice to meet you. So glad you're somebody and I'm nobody. Wonderful, you have a platinum business card or a black American Express and you can afford to pay for everyone at your table and a pent house suite on Park Avenue. It must be just fabulous to be you. Now would you like fries with that or mashed potatoes? I think I'm bitter. This is not good. I'm beginning to think that the less I know about this world, the better. I just wish I had the choice. I always thought the rich and famous liked to keep their lives private. It seems I was wrong. They're just as self-conscious as I am about myself. Who would have thought?