Saturday, October 30, 2004

Theme Seven Small to larger

Theme Seven: Small to larger.
When I arrived to work on Sunday morning at six forty-five, for my second double in a row, I was informed that we were out of home fries. Eighty-six home fries.
I made it through breakfast with the disappointing news. At eleven, we switched over to lunch. I was then informed that we had run out of potato chips, so all sandwiches were served with a small portion of french-fries. Eighty-six potato chips. One of my customers ordered a vanilla shake, I went to the freezer. The bucket was mostly empty with the exception of what was stuck to the edges of the bottom. Eighty-six vanilla.
Breakfast and lunch were busy. There were two cruise ships in the harbor. I kept on top of things, and felt like I had breezed right through the day with out missing a beat. My apron was stuffed with dollar bills, some fives, some tens, and the change jiggled when I carried out trays of food.
When dinner arrived, we were slammed. There were tour busses in town this evening. I was prepared and ready for the challenge. I felt confident and ready to hustle through the home stretch. We split the restaurant into two sections. I took the left wall, an eight table section, and the fill in waitress took the right wall and middle, a seven table section.
I took drink orders for several tables in a row. I filled cups with ice and the selected beverages and placed them on a large tray. I ran the drinks and took dinner orders. I placed several orders in the kitchen at one time. Then as my section filled, I repeated the process and collected drink orders. My task was interrupted when I was beckoned to the kitchen. “We are out of turkey.” Ashley informs me.
I flipped through my check book to check the table numbers, and returned to two different tables with menus in hand and informed my customers of the inconveniences and offered them something else for dinner. I stood there impatiently, trying to be patient while they ponder other choices. I took the new orders and submitted the slips to the kitchen. By that time, a few of my plates were up in the window. I ran food to two tables. And returned to the cups all lined in a row. I filled the order and ran the drinks. Then I took new dinner orders, and submitted the slip to the kitchen. I took a walk through the dining room and checked on customers with their dinner. I heard the bell ring once, “Number One!” I returned to the kitchen. “We are out of roast beef.”
I exhaled with disappointment, and returned to one of the same tables (that ordered turkey) with menus in my hand once more. I took a deep breath and presented my customers with more disappointing news. The man looked at his wife, reached for his wallet, threw a few bills on to the table as he stood. “That is for the sodas.”
“I am sorry for the inconvenience, sir.” I said as they walked out the door.
That is also a hard experience to have especially during a rush, and when other customers are watching. I do not have control over stock. Because of the interruptions, I had lost my rhythm, I had hungry customers waiting. I returned the kitchen and picked up appetizers.
“May I have plates under my soup?”
“Yeah, if we had some.” Paul replied.
I looked in the window, at their stack of plates, there wasn’t one small plate! My eyes transferred to the dish pit, it was over flowed with cups, straws, napkins and lobster shells. We didn’t have a dishwasher on that evening.
I grab two soup spoons and two drink trays, and carry soup out on trays. In addition to the embarrassment of not having these items, the dinners took longer, because we were running out of dishes to serve food that we did have. The cooks were taking turns swapping off from cooking, to doing dishes. Everything was delayed. I walked through the dinning room. A customer put his finger in the air, and looked right towards me. I remembered what he needed. I dropped off the soups and pulled two bags of oyster crackers from my apron.
Then I walked up to the man. “All I need to do is total your bills and I will bring them right along.”
I had to manually write out the prices and total to bills, four separate checks, for each customer at this four top. I ran their bills, and totaled up the bills for each table that already had their dinner.
In addition to the embarrassment of not having these items, the dinners took longer, because we were running out of dishes to serve food that we did have. The cooks were taking turns swapping off from cooking, to doing dishes. The night went on chaotically, and we continued to run out of items. So now instead of greeting each table and rambling off the specials of the day, instead, I told my customers what we did not have. The fill in hostess had kept the manager up dated on what we were out of, but still she wouldn’t let us close.
So the embarrassment continued. Tables continued to walk out, or gave me time limits to when they were walking out. I made a forty five cent tip off of one table. The eighty-six list grew from just home fries to: buffalo wings, turkey, roast beef, ham, vanilla ice cream, meat loaf dinners, pickles, wraps, dinner rolls, and mayonnaise; which meant we couldn’t make tarter sauce for seafood dinners, nor could we serve crab rolls or lobster rolls (which is a popular fourteen dollar item). Oh, and potato chips twice. I no longer told my customers what were out of, but what they could actually order.
I am so grateful that the season is almost over. I can’t believe that a manager would do that to her help! I should have walked out.
All of these problems steamed from two simple tasks that were not completed; the morning crew needed to prep, and thaw out particular items. And a manager or should check inventory daily to keep the restaurant in healthy stock.

Sunday, October 10, 2004

Theme Five Action, Narrative, Story

I stand dressed in my favorite blue jeans, a black short-sleeved top and three-inch boots. I look through my glasses, and into my eyes coaching my self for the long day.
“You will be fine, every problem has a solution, your creative, just wing it.”
I take a deep breath, and exhale.
“The cars are packed, are you ready to go?” I yell to my boyfriend, who’s in the living room. We walk down the wooden stairs from the apartment.
“I’ll meet you there”, I say to Wes as I get into my Lumina. Putting on my seat belt, I take a deep breath…and exhale. We drive around the block, and up to the Village Green. I park in the bus zone, Wes parks in front of me. We walk through the Green searching for my spot, we discover nametags duct taped to the paved sidewalks. Shortly after, we discover mine.
We return to our vehicles to unload and we start with a heavy, eight foot table. Then Wes lugs the canopy tent, and I carry my portfolios.
Wes slides the sleeve off the tent, and begins to open it. It works like an umbrella effect, one person on each side and pull. “Walla,” He says as it opens.
We adjusted the height by stepping on a triangular piece at the bottom of the leg, while pushing in the knob. However, one of the legs was missing the triangular piece (which keeps the leg from going all the way back into itself), and the leg was shoved all the way in! So there it stood with one whole corner on the canopy practically on the ground.
“What the fuck do we do Wes?” I ask in distress.
“Did you bring any pliers?” He asks.
“No.” I look back at the lopsided tent, and my brain fails to work.
“Well, why don’t we unpack everything, and then go back to the house and get the pliers.” Wes suggests.
I look at my watch, eight fifteen. “Well I guess so,” I say, like I am put out with the idea.
I walk back through the park to my car and return carrying my backpack, two easels and a wooden chair that had been painted yellow. Wes informs me that the lady next to us had a tool to pull the leg out. Her husband has gone to the car to retrieve it.
We get the leg fixed, and the table set up underneath the canopy. I turn to Wes, “Where are the sides to the tent?”
He walks over to the sleeve, and picks it up. “It’s empty.”
“Oh, great they rented me a tent, with out any sides!” I say with a ‘to top it off’ attitude.
We string twenty gauge wire on the poles of three sides of the tent. With butterfly clips, I hook the top of each shrink wrapped piece of artwork. I set up the easels, and unwrap all of the framed artwork. Then we move things around to create a space to welcome viewers into the tent.
.
People had been walking through all morning, but I had not paid them any attention until now. I sit behind my table, my comfort zone. My comment book lay open in front of me, and gel prints all along the table. The morning was beautiful, the sky was blue, the sun, shining down on our art show. The breeze is nice it cools me off. I look at my watch, ten forty seven.
People browse through my artwork, and comment, and leave comments. The pieces of artwork sway in the breeze. We sit in the sun, drink our juice, and watch the people, as most of them just walk by.
“Do you feel like lunch?” Wes asks.
I look at my watch, eleven thirty. “No, not really.”
“Well, I am not hanging around much longer. I need to sleep some more before I go to work.”
“I guess so.”
“I was thinking subway.” He suggests.
“Yeah, me too.”
“What would you like?” He asks.
“Umm, let me write it down for you.” (I am very particular.)
Wes kisses my lips, and heads off.
I try to discretely smoke a cigarette. The breeze picks up a bit, and my business cards and gel prints go flying to my left. I place my cigarette in the ashtray I brought, and chase after them. A lady in the gazebo offers me some duct tape. I gladly take it and tape my table-cloth down so the wind won’t blow under it.
I decide to walk to the tent on my right (the lady with the tool.)
“Hello.” I say,
“Hello.” She repeats.
“Lily.” And I put my hand out.
“Sheila.” She replies while returning my gesture.
“I wanted to thank you for your help earlier, I was very grumpy and stressed out this morning.”
“Yes, this morning was stressful.” She agrees. “Is this your first show?”
“No, this is my sixth show, however, my first show outdoors.” I reply.
A browser walked into her tent. “I will catch up with you later.”
I return to my tent, just as Wes walks onto the green. We sit on the grass and eat our lunch. Wes goes home to nap. The breeze picks up once again takes my gel prints with it, I chase them again. I bound the business cards with a hair elastic, and add a second strand of wire at the bottom of the back of the tent and clip the bottom of the work to it.
My father calls,
“I should be leaving tow in about fifteen minutes.” I look at my watch, two thirty three. He should be here in about an hour.
“See you in a bit Dad.”
I am relieved that he will be here, I hate doing art shows all by myself, the company helps. Maybe he will have some ideas to fix my side-less tent problem.
I had run out of wire earlier when I strung the back of the tent, so the pieces on the left and right sides were blowing off, and away. At this point in the afternoon, I was no the only artist fighting with the wind.
The lady diagonal from me (known as Gloria) comes over to assist me. Wit her she brings clamps and a basket. She suggests that we clamp the shrink wrapped work to the wire with them, and lends me a basket for the gel prints.
Everything seems secure now so I unfold an easel and set up oil painting I have been working on and begin to mix paint. The breeze shifts and come through the back of the tent and flips the portrait of Albert Einstein onto his face. I jump from my chair and slowing flip it back over, hoping to find it scratch free and in one piece. To my relief it was. I angle the frame pieces so the wind won’t blow them over. I return to my seat, and the wind swoops under the canopy and lifts one of the legs from the ground. I now hold onto the tent while the wind pulls at the sail.
A man walks up to me, “I have watched you struggle long enough, and I will hold it for you.” I thank him with great appreciation.
I point down to the tent of my left, “That guy’s got the right idea.” I say. He has gallon jugs tied to each leg.
“You could go right up to the hardware store and buy some rope.” The man suggested while holding the pole and leaning on it and the same time.
“Well I live right down School Street. I have rope at home and have plenty of empty jugs at my house.
“Well if you trust me, I will stand here and hold down the fort.”
I think about, it’s not like he is going to steal my artwork. I am running out of options. “Well if you don’t mind, I will run right over.”
“Not at all.”
I grab my cigarettes and keys and run through the park to my car. I race home and fill four gallon jugs with water, and grab some rope and a pair of scissors. I place everything into a laundry basket, and load it in my car.
I return to the Green and park in the movie theater parking lot and lug the basket back to my tent.
I greet him, out of breath and with a smile. “Thank you so much!” I drop the basket, and plop a gallon at every corner.
“Well I have to get going now.” The man informs me.
“Thank you again.” I hold out my hand, and he shakes it.
I tie all the jugs to my tent, and pack up my oil painting.
My father calls again, I look at my watch three fifty four.
“Where are you?” I ask while looking around the park for his van.
“I am still in Bangor I don’t think that I am going to make it. The day just slipped away…” He continued through what he had done today. “I just don’t feel well, and wel’p I’m sorry.”
I sit and slouch further in my chair, my eyes fill with tears. I try to keep my throat clear so I sound okay. Meanwhile a guy that I work with) walks up to my tent.
“Well I hope you feel better, I will talk to you later Dad.”
“Alright, sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“Talk to you later.” I say and hang up the phone. I try to make the tears in my eyes go away. He looks at me, I try to smile, but the tears fall anyway.
“Why you cry?” He asks with his broke English
“My Dad’s not coming.” I wipe the tears quickly from my face. “It is very good to see you ! You are the only person that told me that they would come to the show that actually did. Thank you!”
“I like your paintings.”
“Thank you Krasimir.”
“I play tonight on the sail boat, I must go now.” (He plays the tambura and sings Bulgarian music, on the Margaret Todd.)
He leaves, and again I am alone. The sky is darkening, and the wind seems against me especially. A gust of wind comes out of no where and blows over my display easel. Framed art work meets with the ground, some on its face, and some of the faces of others. The ladies next to me come to my rescue. I pick up the artwork and begin to sob. Gloria puts her arm around my shoulder, pulls me closer to her, and squeezes.
“I just feel so unprofessional, immature, amateur. I don’t know what else to do I am running out of ideas.” I cry.
“Well it is after four, I don’t think that the chamber (chamber of commerce art show) would mind if you left a little early. Sheila and I will explain to them what happened. Go home, get a goods night sleep and try again in the morning.” I take a big breath, and wipe the tears from my face. Gloria helps me pack up my work, while I continue to cry. We lower the tent and take the sail off to prevent it from blowing away during the night. I pack my things into my car, and return home, I lug the artwork the up the stairs and I slip into bed still crying.


Saturday, October 02, 2004

Theme Four: Person

A man in his fifties awakens from his slumber and rolls out of bed with his dog. The man robes himself as he makes his way down the hallway into the bathroom, and proceeds to pee with the door partially ajar. He continues down the hall, into the living room to the kitchen.
He opens the cupboard door and selects a mug. Pouring the already brewed coffee into the mug adds some milk and pours in the sugar. He yawns, and his whole upper body shakes. He stirs his coffee, and then leaves the sugar and the spoon out on the yellow countertop. Opening the glass door to the back deck, he let’s Tank out on his leash.
Sitting at what we call the bar, (his desk) in the kitchen, my father lights his morning cigarette. He coughs and hacks with the first drag, then sips from his steaming mug. Then presses play on his answering machine to collect his missed calls. He is the owner of a contracting business; (his twenty sixth year). He built our home with his own hands. He is a business man to the core, he likes to talk money. He returns his calls on estimates and talks to his crew. He has the gift of gab. Sipping from his coffee and chain smoking, he prepares his schedule for the day. Sitting on his stool, he always has a tendency to rub his big toe against the next toe. (Something I have always noticed.)
Then he is off, to shower. He must get out of the shower before he dries off. There always seems to be wet foot prints on the floor from the shower to the closet. Returning to the living room; my father sits on the footstool, grunts while tries to put his socks on, on her pot belly. White shaving cream has gathered in his ear, he wipes it off with his hand and wipes it on his jeans. He places a hat on his bald head, and grabs his cell phone and Tank off the leash. They both jump in the van, for another days work.
My father is a veteran of Vietnam, he enlisted for two years, in the Marines Corp. Unfortunately, and he is a republican and sides with Bush.
My father has always been there to bail out his kids; and he knows a lot of people, or the right people I should say. He is softer with his girls than his son. When I was in high school, he would sign me out of school when I was having a rough day. He’d call my sister and me in sick, when we decided to stay home. (Our grades were good, so that was how he justified it.) For a while, this was a common occurrence with Kati and I. He has an indulgent parenting style, which would make my mother the bad guy, more of the times than not.
My father is a stubborn man, especially when it comes to him, and the way he does things. He likes to do things his way, and he doesn’t have much patience. I think he has passed both of these traits down to his children, more so my brother and sister, than me.
Now when I look at my father, I see an aging man, with a big heart and a hard head.