(dramatic music)
- It's 8:00 AM.
Smack in the middle of the breakfast rush
I'm juggling three booths, an eight-top round,
four twos, and three four tops.
Table two is low on water, booth six needs a new fork,
five needs coffee for the 67th time,
four actually finished their food yesterday,
now they're just chatting,
and seven's been waiting too long.
We're out of syrup so I have to run down to dry storage
when the front door opens.
And he stalks in, his jaw clenched so tight,
you can hear his teeth cracking from the pressure.
He picks my last open six top booth by himself.
And I'd like to offer to pull up a couple of spare tables
so he can really spread out.
But as he bellows, "Can I get some service over here?"
I gather sarcastic comments might not fly
with this audience so I secretly nickname him Cranky
'cause, well, if the shoe fits.
Now, two starts waving their half empty water glasses
and sevens food's up.
So I load my arms with plates
I swear the cooks baked in the kiln moments before.
Drop off food, they want Tabasco, bring Tabasco.
They want OJ, bring OJ.
They want extra napkins, bring napkins.
They want another side of bacon.
Consider offering table four pillows and blankets
to make their stay here more comfortable.
Coffee table five for the 68th time.
And as I'm expecting to see one of their arteries
actually burst through their skin,
I hear the unmistakable rapid staccato clink
of fork against plate.
Cranky, stabbing his breakfast,
like it's a venomous spider that just won't die.
There seems to be something viciously wrong with his food.
I steel myself for the worst.
"Is everything alright, sir?"
- "Well, these potatoes are like leather.
The coffee's just awful.
My toast is burnt and these eggs are hardly poached soft.
Did you not hear me say soft?"
- "I'm sorry.
Did they not cook that quite right?
Did you want me to maybe have your mom come in
and cut your toast into little bunny shapes?
Would that help?
Perhaps I could get your father on the phone
to finally tell you he loves you.
Could I get you a raise?
Would that make it better?
Or maybe I should just supplicate myself before you
so you can whip me with your menu.
If I got my boss over here to fire me in front of you
would you sleep better tonight?
Would you like to see me led out in handcuffs?
'Cause it's not really about the food here, is it?
Let's get to the point.
You just want someone, anyone,
to have a shittier day and a shittier life than you.
So if I just crumple to the floor in tears,
can we bypass all this breakfast bullshit
so I can get that table their fricking water?
Dear God, look at them.
Their cheeks are caving in from dehydration.
You know, if you people hadn't gotten so drunk last night,
you wouldn't be this thirsty.
Is this going to affect my tip?
Because I've seen you before,
you always leave a shiny quarter
and I was really hoping to get that gumball today.
Now I realize the fact that I'm working here
must mean I can barely spell the word egg.
Spend my off time watching soap operas
and clipping coupons from the Sunday shopper.
And if aliens came down
to take the finest of our species back to their planet
to breed a super human race, they'd take you,
but I'm not here to prove my intelligence.
I'm here to take your order, bring it,
and drop off your check.
You're here to eat, pay, leave me the quarter and scram.
And at the end of the day,
I'm doing a poetry show that unfortunately doesn't quite yet
cut my financial mustard.
So, let's cut through the crap and finish this transaction,
cause I got orders to take."
(bell dings)
(dramatic music)