Angel of Judgment

Bertie was not a typical waitress for Hot Springs, Arkansas.  Most full-time servers, at this time, were 20 somethings either in college, just out of it or hadn't decided to go just yet.  OR they were washed up alcoholics/druggies looking for quick cash to support their habits.  There wasn't much in between except Bertie.  Bertie was a transplanted Wisconsinite with a strong Badger state dialect that didn't meld well with Arkansan Southernese.  She stuck out like a sore thumb  -- even more so than I did. 

It wasn't just her her manner of speaking either.  Bertie was 40 something with a nice figure  -- D cup, at least --, but her face could stop a convoy.  Let's just say, she wasn't a perty Bertie with her pop-bottle thick glasses and ferret nose.  I don't know what she did to her hair, but I think she blamed it on God and just said it was naturally curly...................... Curly???? A more accurate description would be something akin to Bonnie Blue's clumpy ringlets in Gone With the Wind, but it was an ever changing shade of red (( she colored her own hair, and she must have always bought whatever was on sale because it shifted shades every couple of weeks.))  BUT, I liked her.  She wasn't two faced.  Trust me, one was enough, and she spoke her mind  -- which was odd in Hot Springs.  AND, she cussed like a sailor.  The first words I ever heard out of her mouth were, "Fuck a duck", so I knew she was open-minded, and we became work buddies.  That Wednesday we had to arrive 30 minutes early to prepare the restaurant for opening, ugh, and we got paid a whole 5.00 extra for that --  I would have paid them 5.00 to sleep thirty more minutes --  and we had the luxury of choosing our section.

Later, when I became a restaurant manager, I'd tell my servers that sections didn't matter, but that was a crock of shit.  Sections  matter, and I always wanted the best one.  The best section at this restaurant was the window.  It was an elevated area above all the other diners with huge floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the mall parking lot....( yeah, they got to look at immobilized automobiles  while they ate, but every now and then, they'd see mall security tackle a shop lifter).  Although it was a designated smoking area, non-smokers would request the window often  -- and then they'd complain about the smoke.  ( I think they requested it  because it was elevated, and we all like to feel a little bit above everyone else, don't we?  I couldn't imagine that anyone would really like to look at parked cars while they chewed chimichangas  --- chimichainnnnnggggas in Arkansan  -- they really don't like to let go of their words down here.)  Bertie and I would alternate the window, and this Wednesday was my turn.

All the other servers arrived, and since it was Christmas season, we ran to and fro for a few hours before a lull arrived.  Around 2ish, I happened to look at the restaurant entrance and the waiter from Acapulco's who'd spent the previous night with Mother was waiting to be seated.  He noticed me noticing him, and he smiled big and waved.  I nodded and went to the kitchen to pick up some food, but there was some butterflies in my tummy.  When I returned to my window section with two "tres amigos" in hand, he was seated at one of my four-tops.  Now, any decent hostess knows that a single diner never gets sat at a four-top.  They need to be seated at a two-top mainly so I can make more money, but we tell the customers that they will feel more comfortable at a smaller table....He should know that, I thought, he waits tables.  He kind of did this point/wave thing at me, and I smiled.  Hell, I had to smile.  I was at work.  And, I returned to the kitchen to gather his water, chips and salsa.

As I sat them in front of him, I asked kind of bitchily, "SO, did you have a good time with Mother last night?"

"No," he said flatly.

I could tell I'd struck a nerve, and I was caught off guard  -- but I was elated, too  -- and my smile became totally natural.  I spoke waiter/customer crap to him for a little while, and then I moved to the couple seated at the next table over.

"Hey, bud," this semi-red-neck-guy customer said to me.  "You're a damn good waiter."

"Well, thank you very much, sir.  I hope you enjoyed your lunch," I lied but he'd never know that.  Heck, I didn't care if they liked their food or not  -- and neither do most waiters  -- I just wanted a decent tip.

"I just want you to know that I don't tip fags," he said loudly and almost cheerfully.

I know my eyes must have tripled in size, but my heart felt like it had been gashed and someone had poured pure Clorox on my insides.  I'd never had anyone say anything so abrupt and public to me like that at work.  Yeah, I was sure that other customers in this area of the South must have felt the same way, but no one had ever been so blatant about it.  To say the least, I was at a loss for words, and I could feel my eyes tearing up, so I turned quickly away from them and walked as fast as I could to the beverage area.  I heard his wife and him laughing heartily as I walked away.  With each step, my heart beat faster and faster.  I just kept looking down at the dingy, grease stained burgandy carpet until I could make my way into the safety of the side room galley.

As I walked into the galley, Bertie was filling up some drink glasses with soda, and she was having a particular problem with Diet Coke because it tends to foam more than the others.  I could tell she was getting impatient because she ran her finger over the top of the foam, and for some reason, that always made the foam subside faster (( but don't tell the customers that, because I don't think they'd like to know that servers stick their fingers in Diet Coke all the time.)) She saw me walk in and asked, "Are you having a good day, honey?" in her typical amicable manner.  She tended to ask that question at least once a shift.  What she really wanted to know was if I was making any money.

I was so choked up and HURT that I couldn't really talk.  I just said, "nuh uh." and leaned against the sanitary white wall. All the walls in the galley were starkly, glossy white which made the room too bright when a server entered it from a dimmed dining room.

I really felt like someone had punched me in the stomach, and I was out of breath.  I struggled to keep my emotions in check.  I was HURT.  I was MAD.  I was EMBARRASSED.  I felt LESS THAN.  And, I remembered my mother's voice when she'd told me that no one would ever hire a faggette, and all the other curses she'd prophesied over me....and I was AFRAID that she was right. I was afraid that I'd never be more than a servant who had to put up with this crap just to put food on the table and a roof over my head.  I was so much more than THIS, but maybe my parents had been right all along.........Maybe I was just a FAGGETTE, and maybe I didn't deserve MORE THAN....... And all of that happened in one second.  I'm sure Bertie read all of it on my face because she sat down her soda glasses and gave me a hug  -- just like a Mother would do for her injured child.  I didn’t cry, but I wanted to.  After a minute of her just hugging me, I was able to tell her what had just transpired.

"Brenda and I will take care of this, " she said with supreme forthrightness.  Brenda was her 20something daughter who also waited tables at the restaurant.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"Oh...It's what we do to all asshole customers....The ol'  tip and spill.  You just stay here for a minute and get yourself together, and don't you ever let someone make you feel like less than the wonderful person you are  -- especially shit like that, " she said with tears in her eyes as she pointed her finger in my face for emphasis. So, she HAD read my feelings exactly, and I didn't even have to say it.

I didn't know what a "tip and spill" was, but it couldn't have been good.

"Bertie, I don't want you to get fired, " I pleaded.

"Oh honey, I can't get fired for an accident, " she said with an evil smile and a gleam in her eye.

You know, some people believe in that Karma crap, and some people say, "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord."  Whatever.................... sometimes I like to be the Lord and watch people get what they deserve or even cause it because the Lord just takes too long, and where is my reward if I don't get to at least observe?  I had a feeling that the Lord was going to move in a mysterious way, and a good ol' gal from Wisconsin with a mud-fence face was going to be His angel of judgment.