Last night, I went down to the Duke of York Pub to meet Rachelle and her teammates after their basketball game. I was a little bit early, so I had a seat at the bar and had a drink.
It was pretty busy, and the manager was pitching in to help the unhappy looking waitresses who were zooming about. A curious cross between George Clooney and Quentin Tarantino, he seemed to have a little bit too much charisma, a little too much confidence, to be working as a pub manager, even if it was a pub in Yorkville. He appeared to be good at his job, helping out by doing the things that needed to be done, rather than telling other staff to do them. In short order, as things slowed down a bit, he took a position behind the bar. Little Surfer Girl by The Beach Boys was playing, and now, after the storm, everybody was relaxing into smiles.
One waitress, the career one, had the puffy, worn face of a decade long hangover. She had bad decisions and bad luck written all over her, and it was clear that she was used to be disappointed. Her eyes were angry, and she told the same story to every staff member who passed by her. A customer had scammed her out of $5.34. Each person got a new variation of this tale, and with each telling other occasions when she had been ripped-off were brought up, until eventually it was just one long grievance of her crummy history as a waitress.
As she was fulminating to a bus boy, a line of elderly, grey-haired women leaving the patio walked by. Moving slowly, they were like a line of happy ducks crossing the street. The bus boy snapped to attention, “Good-night, ladies, good-night! Bye-Bye, now!” Practically blushing, the women smiled and waved, “Oh, you know we’ll be back, we always come back!” The waitress gives them a quick look, and barely breaking from her screed, said, “you take care, dears,” but she didn’t mean it, she didn’t mean it at all.