**Note: I've not updated this chapter of the blog for some weeks. It's been consuming, I've made notes, but there's been no time. Now there is time and so it's been written, boring, perhaps, because it's past tense, old hat, I've been out of work over a week now and am just beginning to organize my affairs, but it's done.
The decline of the Roman Empire.
I'm done. I've been for a while, been trying to hold out as long as I can, but I'm done and I'm going to give my notice. I'm beat up, my face swollen and bruised, the customers - some discreetly try to ignore it, many are imprudently curious, others joke, the more gangsterish offer me words of encouragement like "you should go for the five hole....", whatever that means. My heel is broken and slow to heal, this 12 hours a day on my feet, on one foot limping isn't helping. And there's the dentist, the mouth full of pain and cotton, I'm done.
The boys, Franco and G, they don't want me to go, we're a team, we work well together, when I'm gone their work load will double, triple, Franco's jealous, he understands but he jokingly threatens to lock me in the cellar only to release me for work and I laugh but it's time to move on, my life is so far behind schedule it's not funny and so I pull aside the owner and tell him that I'll be leaving.
I've been dreading this, but he takes it well.
I explain my reasons, that there's not enough time and I need to see my children, my remaining child, that I have home improvements and renovations to attend to, that I need to organize my life.I leave off the other things, that I want to paint and write and that the job is too consuming, keep it simple, keep it to things he'll understand, and overall he takes it well. He'll be sorry to see me go but appreciates my reasons, wants to know if I've found another job and I explain that for a few months at least I won't be looking, I'll be catching up, unpacking, renovating, and he understands.
The boys, Franco and G, they lurk close by, for some reason afraid that I'll give them as my reason for leaving, that I'll cite their laziness as a reason for my departure, they're afraid for no reason, they're not the reason I'm going and I find their insecurity pathetic and strange.
He offers to adjust my schedule, but at the moment that isn't a solution, the schedule he needs me for is the same one my child needs me for and to accept a better deal is to put the other waiters at a disadvantage and so I decline.
And for this, the last 2 weeks, it's life as normal.
The bosses nephew, he comes in every day late, leaves to buy cigarettes and scratch lottery tickets, his meagre tips spent in the hopes of a big win, drinking espresso and scratching each ticket at the bar, smoking his cigarettes, before finally getting out the vacuum and making the appearances of going to work.
The owner meets with customers, regulars who come to him before and after the shift for advice on faltering marriages and divorces, the owner is something of a legend in this department having been married 3 times himself.
And the owner's son, not taking his meds, tells me he's going to miss me but he's acting strangely again, talking about Jesus and the Bible and not only is he not taking his medications but he's not taking his Omega supplements, he's trying to quit smoking, it's a recipe for disaster and I muse abstractly on the relationship between religion and mental illness ....
There's a couple of new faces in the kitchen, a somewhat pretty Italian girl - imported, here on a trial, her name is Valentina. And there's a prep chef, blonde, french, he's been around a couple of weeks and I don't know his name and so I check with the dishwasher and she doesn't know it either. And so I check with the boys in the front, but none of them knows it. Now I know the reason I don't know it, it's because for the first week or two there's some doubt as to how long people will last and so we don't invest in them the time or effort to remember their name. But I'm surprised that the other dishwasher doesn't know it, and I'm even more surprised that no one in the front of house has learned it. I check with the bosses son, he doesn't know it, I check with the old Italian ladies who help with the prep, neither of them knows it, I check with Carmellina, and she's embarassed to admit but she doesn't know it either and finally I check with the owner and he looks at me, looks up from his card playing and says "Ulysses".
That's an easy name to remember, there will be no forgetting it, but I'm amused that he's been here 2 weeks and no one other than the owner knows his name, the new Italian girl, Valentina, she's been here 2 days and everyone knows her name...
Franco's jealous I'm going. He tells me at every opportunity, he'd like to go too, he wants to spend more time with his kids, but the owner wouldn't understand, not for him. If I hadn't given my notice he'd have given his, he's upset with me. And G, he'll be sad I'm gone as well, I should just hang around until Christmas....
Valentina is being taught to drive. The owner, he has a surplus of vehicles and rides with her as a passenger, she'll need to know how to drive if she's to immigrate here. And Dave, the owner's son, watching them pull away, the new Italian chef getting the driving lessons from his pa that he never had, he tells us that he's never learned to drive. Never even got his learners license. But when he was 11 years old, he tells us, he was at the go-cart track and someone cut him off so he sped past them and cut them off and they spun out of control..."That's what happens when you cut off an Italian Driver" he explains....
He's taken up with old friends, bible-thumpers who meet him after work at the restaurant. He cooks meals from them, offers to cook us meals as well but no one ever accepts, it's not that he's a bad cook, but there's an inate, primitive fear that his illness, his stupidity is somehow contagious, and so no one ever eats anything that his hands have come near.
Waiter Envy
I'm suffering waiter envy. How many days are left? The end is near, we're interviewing new waiters to fill my position, trying them out. I've said goodbye to some of the regular customers, the owner has told them I'm leaving and they're courteous, wish me well, best of luck and so forth, they respect my reasons, they've seen enough people come and go here in any event that they've not grown too attached and my personality is not such that anyone will miss me, I'm not the friendliest waiter in the city by a long shot....
And I look at the tables that come in, spend money and enjoy each others company and imagine that one day I'll be eating out too, having a bottle of wine and enjoy being served, not like now, where dining out is a necessity brought about by a grueling schedule but when dining out is a pleasure, a treat, an occasion. I envy people their regular lives and schedules but I've given my notice and it won't be long now....
We're trying out Thomas, an older waiter from Edmonton. Coincidentally he knows many of the same people there that I do, odd that I don't know him, but he likes to talk and so fills me in as to all the details and gossip. He knows Milan and Sarka from the Bistro and so tells me about what they've been up to, he talks of other waiters, too, whom I don't know but he presumes upon the first mutual acquaintance to fill me in on many others. He talks of fast cars and his many girlfriends, all in the past, he's in his late 50's, very conservative looking but he's talking as if to persuade me that he's lived well in his time. When pretty girls come into the restaurant he notices them, points them out to Franco and G, loudly and without discretion and I think there must be something wrong with him, what's he trying to prove? But I overlook it, he's to be my replacement and I want him to work out, he has to work out, he's going to work out....
Days off I spend making lists of the countless things I'll have to do with my unemployment. I need to put away boxes, replace the toilet, I need to clean the toilet as inside it appears as if it's grown a carpet of fur and I've ignored it in the belief that the 12 seconds cleaning it would be better spent replacing it, 4 hours I've had this argument with myself; I need to organize my art supplies, make peace with the cats, hang pictures, make lists of ongoing projects (literary and others), need to make lists of courses to take and then take them, need to blog, need to work on some outstanding websites.
For a break I go to the Restore and look at the tile and hardwood, see what's available, watch videos on You Tube on how to install it all...
Saturday is to be my last day. I've said goodbye to staff, to customers, Thomas is trained and ready to take over for me, then Franco tells me I won't be leaving, not just yet, I should work out the rest of my pay period first and so I agree.
Tuesday will be my last day.
Franco is jealous. He misses no opportunity to chide me for leaving, to remind me of the financial desperation that will be mine, the lost income, possibilities, to bitterly denounce my treachery in leaving when he was planning on giving his own notice, I am patient, I apologize again and again, he knows my reasons for going, I'm going to find my life.
I work Monday and Tuesday. Regulars, whom I've told I'm leaving, express their surprise at seeing me there, I explain that I misunderstood, that Tuesday will be my last day and we leave it at that.
Tuesday afternoon when everyone has left I lie on the chairs and try to sleep, I can't, it's my last day and the flies from the bar buzz about my face, crawling upon my lips and up my nose and in my ears, not yet dead but they can't wait.
Tuesday night is slow. For a moment or two it's busy, a few tables all at once, then it happens. It has to happen. The owner has a blowout in the kitchen, loud swearing audible to all the tables, cursing like a sailor, the smashing of pans and plates, Italian broken with "You fucking idiot...you're trying to destroy me....".
His nephew and I, we work without noticing, approaching tables and try to glaze over the raucous in the background as if we can't hear it, Franco sees an opportunity and goes to confront him.
More swearing, now we can hear both Franco and the owner exchanging curses, the nephew and I exchanging glances, the tables making a distinct effort to ignore it all but it's impossible to ignore, and then it's quiet.
Tables are waiting to order. Franco takes the orders, it's always been this way, and so I apologize for the delay, we wait for Franco to return from the kitchen, 10 minutes, 20 minutes, no one comes from the kitchen and checking with the owner we discover that Franco has left.
I take the orders, a table leaves, others stay blankly as if to ignore the events is to state that they never happen.
Franco has left, and so I'm now stuck training a new replacement, not just mine but his and my annoyance at his leaving is beyond bounds.
The tables, none of them stay late, the owner, he's tired, resigned, he tells me he'd had enough of Franco and I as well have had enough but I'll stay, only until someone new and capable is trained up to take over his role.
The Worst Day in the World
Wednesday, my day off, the first day of the rest of my life and I pop into work to make everything is going to be OK. It's a slow day, the owner has begun interviewing again for Franco's position, Franco hasn't come into work, it appears he's done, he's left behind his mother, his sister, his aunt to bear the brunt of the owner's wrath.
They don't need me, and so I use the day to run my errands.
1st - I have to pay insurance, some $1300.00 from a car accident in the US over the summer vacation. Not my accident, but somehow I've inherited this debt all the same.
And coming back from this payment I run into a speed trap on 10 St, $150.00 speeding ticket (playground zone). A rude and morally superior police officer.
Annoyed, very annoyed, then home.
2 Bills related to my drive through incident, an ambulance bill for $300 and another medicenter bill for $300.
A $2000 day off.
And tomorrow, Thursday, I'm back to work.
The Hotel California
New trainees. 3 new ones, a younger girl, a couple more career waiters, 1 in his 60's, the other in his 30's. The one in his 30's is afflicted with a gaudy tie worn badly on a black shirt, has various odd sniffles and facial tics and twitches, he talks a lot about all the great places he's worked, about how well off he is, his investments and investment properties, maybe he's telling the truth but there's the scent of bullshit in the air. I'm not sure I trust him but I'm going to make him work.
G is still here, and I'm a bit surprised, thought he might have disappeared when Franco left, but he's still coming to work and now he's picking up the slack, filling in the gaps and doing the ordering and chores that Franco used to do. The new chef, the Italian trainee, she's vanished as well and quietly from the kitchen I find out that she was let go with Franco, sent back to Italy, it was a bad night to be in the restaurant.
The regulars, we've all said goodbye, they're surprised to see me, again, and I joke that the restaurant, this restaurant, is the Hotel California, and they like it, they laugh, they've been coming here long enough to see the truth in my jest....
Monkey Business
Thomas, he's talking to me, he's always done this, the restaurant thing, except for "12 years of Monkey Business", and I ask him what he means, think it was another business, marketing perhaps, but he tells me it was credit card fraud, made himself $3 Million dollars and spent it all on fast women and drugs, but it's just between him and me ....
On Thin Ice
We're all on thin ice since Franco left. The cheques are due, the owner's having blowouts again, upset about the tip cheques, they appear to be too large, something isn't right and we all give him a wide berth. With all the trainees our tip cheques are going to suffer but I don't care, I'm just trying to leave. It's suggested again that I might want to stay, just until the end of Christmas, but I can't and more and more I feel the need to get out of here, get on with things, the lists are growing, not shrinking...
The owner's son, the dishwasher, he's been acting odd. He freely confesses to not taking his medications, and on Saturday night he disappears. He says goodbye to us, each of us separately outside the restaurant, saying that he'll miss us, but we don't put it together, then he disappears.
On Monday we speak to the doctor at the hospital, he's checked himself in, we worried a bit that he might be suicidal but it's a good thing that he's there....his father sums it up...…”He likes it there...they cook for him, he can watch movies….”
More new trainees, more kitchen staff, there's a standing joke now that Franco and Dave are off somewhere playing cards in a room with the others that have left the restaurant in similar circumstances, somewhere conspiring to overthrow us, it's the gallows humour.
G isn't liking his new work load. The bosses nephew, he's dreading my departure, hasn't warmed to the new staff.
Passing The Torch
On Tuesday lunch I need a lighter, G passes me his, he doesn't smoke, strange, I offer to bring it back but he declines, G, he gives nothing away for free but I don't question it. Tuesday night he doesn't return to the restaurant, we call him, he's not answering the phone, he's joined the missing.
The owner is furious, suspects that they - Franco and G, are trying to sabotage him, I know nothing, but somehow doubt that they have that foresight or strategy....
Buddy can you spare a dime?
These new waiters, these trainees, they're a hard lot. They all smoke, but none of them bring their own cigarettes. I start each day with a fresh pack and then split it between us. The younger waiter needs money, the wealthy one, he's mislaid his wallet, and so I spot him $20.00, he asks about the policy regarding drinking during shift, the next night he returns it, borrowing it again before he leaves. The older waiter, he's less concerned with paying me back, borrows $20.00, enquires when I'm leaving then reassures me that we'll run into each other again, sometime, someplace.
Still the owner is interviewing for the positions, more career waiters, some drunk and showing up for interviews, the owner's ranting, can't sleep, leave the restaurant, things aren't smooth at the moment and he hates that....
The Final Meal
Thursday is my last day. I've trained, told the new staff, some of the less astute were surprised that I'd be leaving them. The owner, he says nonsense, I'll be back next week to help with a big party and I agree, but this weekend, this weekend I'll spend with the boy, my time from here forward will be my own. He offers me a last meal, I decline, I've been fed and the last meal, it seems somewhat ominous. The night passes slowly, a very few tables, the new waiters take advantage of the slowness to leave, the last chance for some while I imagine.
And finally the evening's done.
It's unbelievable, really, in a year at the restaurant I'm the only waiter to leave on good terms, to not walk out or be fired, but I've somehow pulled it off.