Beware: Old People Crossing

Perhaps you have noticed that patience is not my strength. I want people to be quick, concise and to the point. I need them to get out of my way when I am trying to work and let me do my job. If someone calls me over to their table to order and it is clear that they are no where close to being ready to order, my attitude towards them will drop a few hundred points. When I see something that needs to be done, I do it. For example, last night when I noticed that my home supply of tequila was low, a trip to the liquor store happened immediately. No wasting of time.

There was show last week at work that must have had an AARP discount because the entire audience was full of people who were born at the beginning of time Most of them could probably recall the day they first rode in the Ford Model-T or what it was like when fire was discovered. They were old. Like I think one lady was the daughter of Betsy Ross. Between their age, their walkers, their canes and hearing aids, it made it right near impossible for me to serve them. They meandered around the room before the show started leaving me no place to walk with my tray. At one point, a man who was at least as old as paper was standing in the middle of the one aisle and yammering away about how when he was a kid he had to walk ten miles uphill in the snow just to get to school. I politely said, "Excuse me" but he didn't hear me. I said it again. And again. I was getting very frustrated and couldn't help but picture him in his living room on his rug saying "I've fallen and I can't get up." I tried again. "Excuse me, sir, but if I could just slide right by you..." Nothing. I looked at a woman who was watching the whole thing transpire. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. "I am talking, aren't I? You can hear me, right?" She confirmed that my vocal chords were in fact operating. Visions of elder abuse danced in my head and I pushed them out of my thoughts. I finally gave up and went over to the stage to cross it so I could get to the other side of the room.

Coming back, Grandpa Joe was still in the aisle talking about what it was like for him to deliver mail for the Pony Express. I noticed he had a hearing aid. He had a sweet smile and kind eyes and the people he was talking to were looking at him with love and affection. I assumed they were family members. He saw me this time and said, "Oh I'm so sorry. Am I in your way?" I smiled back at him and simply said, "No, sir. You're fine." He finished his story and then went back to his seat as I patiently waited. He patted me on the shoulder when he walked by and smiled at me again. I thought about my Mamo Rita and how slowly she moved sometimes when she had to use her walker. I hoped that no waiter was ever frustrated with her and that no one ever mistreated her just because she was old. Grandpa Joe gave me a lesson in patience that day and he didn't even know it. I guess that's what our elders do for us. They teach us things. Even if it's something as simple as "let the old man finish his story" it's a good lesson to learn.

As of today, I am on vacation. As you read this, my ass will be in a plane going to Miami to soak up some sun and vodka. This post was a new one, but don't be surprised if you see some tired ass repeats over the next few days. -BW

Tweet

Click here to follow The Bitchy Waiter on Twitter.
Click here to find The Bitchy Waiter on Facebook.

Old People: Can't Live With 'Em, Can't Remember Shit

Over the course of time while working at one place, you get accustomed to seeing some of the same faces over and over again. These regulars are sometimes welcome sights and sometimes not so much. Admittedly, I am not the best at remembering people who sit in my station more than once. It's not that I don't have the ability to recall that Suzie Side Of Mayo sat in my station two weeks ago, it's more that I just don't give a shit. Eventually though I will recognize if someone's a regular. On the other hand, I certainly don't expect customers to remember me. Most of the time.

A few weeks ago I had a couple come in that I knew from another job. The man and his wife are really old and somewhat famous. He's a songwriter who wrote some really big hits for Frank Sinatra and wrote a couple of Broadway shows. I met them about five years ago when I was doing a revival of one of his shows and got to know him then. He was at rehearsal with me everyday for three weeks and then watched every performance for two weeks after we opened. When I saw them come in, I went up to say hello. Seeing that he's 91 years old, I didn't expect him or his wife to remember me. His wife must be about his age but she doesn't look a day over 106. Her face is pulled so tight that she makes Joan Rivers look like a fresh clean daisy. Seriously, her lips are practically above her eyebrows now. I reintroduced myself and saw the flicker of recognition come into their eyes as they placed me from their past. It was sorta like a light bulb went off and they should know what that looks like because I'm pretty sure they were close personal friends of Thomas Edison. They were very happy to see me and raved about how great I was in the play. They went on to say that I stole the show and that I should have been the lead because I sing like an angel. (They may or may not have said that last little bit, but they did remember me.)

A few days ago, they were back in the club and again sitting in my station. Seeing that it had only been two weeks since I last saw them I greeted them warmly and told them it was nice to see them again. I saw a tumble weed blow through his head as a cricket chirped in hers. They had no idea who I was. Again. Granted the man is older than rocks and she's had so many face lifts that her brain may now be in her shoulder blades, but I figured they would at least think I was familiar. Nope. I got their hot teas and moved on. At the end of the night after they had paid, the husband asked me where his credit card was. I told him I had given it back to him at the table but he assured me he did not have it. I found his wife in the lobby and asked her if she had it and she freaked out. "Oh my God, I don't have it. Did I lose it? Oh my God, he's gonna kill me. Oh my God, we have to find it." I half looked in the trash can and around the table knowing it wasn't going to be there. By this time, the Mrs. had a flashlight at the table and was fearing for life. I think she still lives in the 50's where the man rules the roost and he was kind enough to let her touch the credit card and now that she lost it her privileges would be revoked and she would be back to a $10 a week allowance. I quit looking because, I had already been paid and tipped.

Five minutes later, the husband burps out that he found it in his pocket. Old people. Their minds are as mushy as the Ovaltine they eat for breakfast. Gotta love 'em.