DARK GREY

I trot into the restaurant late, again.  Droplets of rain roll off my hair and coat, onto the tiled floor of the ‘Golden unagi’, the sushi restaurant I finally found that had a host spot open.  My fourth shift and I’m already getting a bit too comfortable.  Profanity lights up my imagination at memory of the entitled driver of the Honda Civic that took up 2 lanes of the five miles of backroads I unfortunately decided to take due to the rain.  I look at my watch reading 20 minutes past the hour, and I’m just glad the owner isn’t a stickler for the rules.  I cross the shimmering bar, glass shelves and a mirror on the back wall bounce back light from the mini chandeliers that hang from the exposed concrete ceiling.  It’s my first time working in a place of such polished nature. It makes me wonder why I didn’t move to this area a long time ago.  Makes me wonder what I have been doing all this time, but my serving days are long behind me.

A quick glance at the seating chart tells me only 3 tables are in use.  I leave the tablet on the host stand and clock in at a computer.  James walks by as I pick up my clock in slip, incomprehensible Thai spoken very emphatically into his phone, he throws a wink my way as he brushes past me.  A strange male hello I have never really understood.  From the wrong person, it especially sends chills down my spine, and not the sexy way.  But so far, he’s proved harmless, just a big ball of energy and loves making jokes. He’s been more than helpful to my transition, training me and showing guidance as I integrate and a helpful translator when communicating with the owner; a language barrier makes a rush a lot more difficult to manage.  Right as I walk into the kitchen, her slender frame nearly collides with me, the blind spot getting me once again.

         “You ok? You clock in?” she asks, recovering.

         “I’m good,” I say, “Yes, I’ve clocked in.

         “Ok ok.  Did you eat?  You want fried rice?” She starts for the stove, and I grab her arm.

         “No, no, I’ll eat later.  I’m fine,” pleading, the idea of stomping around with a full belly and a packed reservation list on a Saturday night sounds dreadful.

I grab the broom and get to my prep, needing to make up time.  Sweep the front, wipe the menus, wipe the glass table, and light the candles.  I am thorough in my laundry list and by the time the next guest arrives, I’m already behind the host stand, ready at my station for the rest of the shift.

I like to be prepared for any job I do, but I absolutely hate the restaurant industry. I hate feeling fake, talking all day everyday about topics I feign knowledge about, and to people I don’t care about and feeling random bouts of rage when my colleagues mess up.  It always felt like I’m  killing a piece of myself with every shift, and when serving didn’t get me the money I needed, I stopped.  I thought I had finally retired from this work, but a totaled car set me back months and I can’t afford to be picky.  Especially on a visa, my options are limited enough, and I wince at the image of rage quitting the last Korean place I worked, only to fall into a dead restaurant, American food, after not being able to afford rent.  I was there for eight months and made $4000.

I look out the window at the Marriot across the street.  Always very brightly lit so I can see what type of luggage they have from my place by the window.  The sun set beyond the horizon half an hour ago, and the lobby shines from the overhead lights, the tall metal columns giving the illusion of it being a very extravagant and clean place.  There’s something appealing about people watching, and in this case, I look at the life I dream of having. The ability to just go away to a different city for business or pleasure and stay in such a nice hotel.  Along with that, my daily dose of entertainment comes from watching a family’s suitcase roll down the entryway to the parking lot, an argument between a couple not paying attention to their child who wanders too close to the main road, the valet saving her before she jumped over the divider.  Now, I watch a man in a fitted suit exit a car and a lady dressed in all white and stilettos, slip and fall throwing her purse far back and into the rain.  I watch valet who rescued the child jump into the rain and back with her bag only to be ignored, all attention on her ruined white fabric and the expensive nature of the leather no doubt, and the man she is with doing his best to console her.  I hold in a laugh, feeling sympathy for her but at the same time, all-white is a horrible choice for a rainy day and frowning at how she treated the valet.

Behind me, light steps approach and I shiver, turning my neck to look at Junior hovering a little too close, again.  Fully turned, I look down at him, his small frame, small belly ballooning against the fabric of his uniform.  His wrinkled skin tells of his age, yellow tinted teeth poke past his lips and a small, slightly creepy smile graces his face as he mumbles something.

         “Hmm?”

         “You need to check the chart,” he points at the tablet with the seating rotation.

         “Why, did your table leave?” my finger already hovering over the screen.

         “No, check for the table,” he points again.

         I blink, “Huh?”

         He points, again.

         “What are you trying to tell me?”

         He takes a step toward me, and another, and so do I backward until I’m pressed into the corner as this tiny man encroaches my personal space to poke around the colors on the screen.  I silently curse placing it close to the wall as my body curves away from his bent arm.  I slither out and to his other side and somehow, he has 5 tables less than he did a second ago.

         “You did it wrong.  I only have 5 today.”

         “I got here late, you already had some tables by then.  I don’t know what this is about.”

         “Oh.  But I only have 5.”

         “Ok, but you have to tell me, so I know how to fix it myself. show me how which wasn’t yours.”

He pokes around the screen again and he again reduces the tables by 2.

“Bro, what? At least explain why and how to do this because everyone will come to me complaining and I still don’t know what’s going on,” I scroll around his chart.

         “Look, Jay, 7. I get 5, and James gets 9.  So, give me 2,” he says, and my frustration grows.

         “I get that,” I pinch my nose, “I just asking why.  Like show me.  So I can learn.”

         “Yes, yes.  Table get busy, and I get 5 but you put 10,” he points at the screen, again.

         “Ok?  And like I said, you had tables before I got here.  I gave you the rest,” my hands come up in surrender, emphasizing my point, and he smiles his weird smile again.  We stand there staring at each other for 5 seconds more than is proper before I drop my hands and walk away.

“Talk to James about that,” I throw over my shoulder, my favorite line to get rid of them, and any encounter with Junior is too long the second it starts.  A sticky feeling stays with me every time I talk to him.

Around 7 o’clock, the dinner rush is in full swing.  My watch buzzes in completing my steps for the day and I am managing clearing space and merging tables for multiple large groups of reservations.  The rush of it all is what I enjoy, everything must be done at once. Be at the front to welcome guests, but also get the to go orders from the kitchen, check on the servers so they’re not overwhelmed, buss down empty tables.  My procrastination doesn’t get a second to kick in and when it comes to wind down, my feet are throbbing, and a few new stains coat my black shirt and jeans. For a few moments, I sit and breathe, wishing a good night on full bellied guests as they disappear into the night, but every time they open the door, the lower my body temperature gets.

I retreat to the kitchen a while for some warmth, then take a lap around the restaurant, see if what tables are open, who’s about to leave and head back to my station, thankfully, Junior free.  Another guest leaves and I make a note to wear a blazer next shift.  I glance around, bored, and out of habit.  I notice a man sat at the corner edge of the bar.  Unsure of why I notice him, I keep him in the corner of my vision.  Movement again, his head turns, and he angles his shoulders to face my direction.  I stab a look at the other end of the bar, at the edge of the mirror, catching his side profile and his eyes firmly placed on me. Wait me? oh, Oh!  Flustered, I quickly look down at the menus.  Then I mentally slap myself.  What am I doing?  This is nothing but another Saturday evening.  I look up at the door, another guest. He looks up again and I smile.  As I walk past him, I stop myself when I begin to strut to the table.

I walk back to my station and keep my eyes down, but my senses fully focused on him.  I take in his athletic build, large frame, tall and his large well-kept beard parts as his goes to taste his old fashioned.  I have zero interest in this moment the attention makes me blush.  Relationships have always been difficult for me.  A broken home may be the orchestrator of this narrative but the thought of being alone forever crossed my mind and I take a pause, imagining what that would be like.  While I love cats, the thought of being the resident cat lady does not appeal.  My beautiful obsidian cat comes to mind, along with the sadness that follows when I had to give him up to a better home.

But I’m surprised to be strangely alright with the idea.  That thought itself incites a smidgen of panic inside me and I tuck that in another drawer for later.  Remembering my visa status is my biggest conflict in any life plan I make and that also puts a damper on my mood. I look up at the man and he is now grinning hard with someone on the phone, done with all things to do with me, our attention span sure is short.

Another guest comes in.

This time a lady in white blouse and black slacks, modest and I guess a solo date.  She requests a seat at the bar, and I have to do a bit of legwork to clear a place and multiple trips of dirty dishes and she takes her seat. Not one glance my way from the man again, and by the time I come out one last time, he is gone.  I remind myself being delusional is never the solution as I walk back to my post. A blast of cold air once again makes me shiver as a tall man walks in and all thoughts of my disappointment fade away.  Oozing confidence in dark green hoodie and sweatpants, the most handsome man I have ever seen walks in and puts in a to go order, his low rumble of a voice sending goosebumps over my skin.  With a last order of gin and tonic as he waits, he takes a seat in the same spot as the man earlier who sent me curious stares and I notice he is noticeably older, like fine wine.  As I walk about, I notice the lady from earlier repeatedly starts a conversation with him.

She smiles, blushes and when he leaves for the bathroom, she looks to her reflection to straighten her appearance.  I smile, chuckling to myself.  He receives his order while in the bathroom, but he orders one more drink and chats her up some more.  I immediately amend my earlier sentiment and decide being delusional in situations outside myself can’t hurt.  Nothing like a real-life romance story.  Is it really that easy for everyone else?  The thought of being alone now looks different in this light. And I wonder what that feels like.  I think back to my own parents back home, spending more time not speaking to each other living under the same roof.  I think about how much easier life would be if I could support myself and not rely on another person.  I look at them again.  Enamored by him, she goes on about the Super Bowl and work, lost to the world.

Soon he leaves, leaving me a healthy tip and my opinion of him rises higher.  So I sit at the host stand, wiping down menus, blowing out candles, and a magnitude of questions flowing through my mind. I smile dreaming up fake scenarios with my made-up couple, what the ideal world would be like for the two of them and then I wonder what their actual lives look like. They might have someone at home or maybe everything is in shambles.  Dusting the waiting area, I think of how everything is unfair for everybody and its not all milk and honey.  I think of what they might’ve gone through and then I think of what I have been through.  The pain of losing friends and family.  A gust of wind chills my back and I hold back a tear.  Instead, I smile, calm my heart and reach for the menus and look up at the 2 people in front of me, “Hi, table for 2?”At The Host Stand

I trot into the restaurant late, again.  Droplets of rain roll off my hair and coat, onto the tiled floor of the ‘Golden unagi’, the sushi restaurant I finally found that had a host spot open.  My fourth shift and I’m already getting a bit too comfortable.  Profanity lights up my imagination at memory of the entitled driver of the Honda Civic that took up 2 lanes of the five miles of backroads I unfortunately decided to take due to the rain.  I look at my watch reading 20 minutes past the hour, and I’m just glad the owner isn’t a stickler for the rules.  I cross the shimmering bar, glass shelves and a mirror on the back wall bounce back light from the mini chandeliers that hang from the exposed concrete ceiling.  It’s my first time working in a place of such polished nature. It makes me wonder why I didn’t move to this area a long time ago.  Makes me wonder what I have been doing all this time, but my serving days are long behind me.

A quick glance at the seating chart tells me only 3 tables are in use.  I leave the tablet on the host stand and clock in at a computer.  James walks by as I pick up my clock in slip, incomprehensible Thai spoken very emphatically into his phone, he throws a wink my way as he brushes past me.  A strange male hello I have never really understood.  From the wrong person, it especially sends chills down my spine, and not the sexy way.  But so far, he’s proved harmless, just a big ball of energy and loves making jokes. He’s been more than helpful to my transition, training me and showing guidance as I integrate and a helpful translator when communicating with the owner; a language barrier makes a rush a lot more difficult to manage.  Right as I walk into the kitchen, her slender frame nearly collides with me, the blind spot getting me once again.

         “You ok? You clock in?” she asks, recovering.

         “I’m good,” I say, “Yes, I’ve clocked in.

         “Ok ok.  Did you eat?  You want fried rice?” She starts for the stove, and I grab her arm.

         “No, no, I’ll eat later.  I’m fine,” pleading, the idea of stomping around with a full belly and a packed reservation list on a Saturday night sounds dreadful.

I grab the broom and get to my prep, needing to make up time.  Sweep the front, wipe the menus, wipe the glass table, and light the candles.  I am thorough in my laundry list and by the time the next guest arrives, I’m already behind the host stand, ready at my station for the rest of the shift.

I like to be prepared for any job I do, but I absolutely hate the restaurant industry. I hate feeling fake, talking all day everyday about topics I feign knowledge about, and to people I don’t care about and feeling random bouts of rage when my colleagues mess up.  It always felt like I’m  killing a piece of myself with every shift, and when serving didn’t get me the money I needed, I stopped.  I thought I had finally retired from this work, but a totaled car set me back months and I can’t afford to be picky.  Especially on a visa, my options are limited enough, and I wince at the image of rage quitting the last Korean place I worked, only to fall into a dead restaurant, American food, after not being able to afford rent.  I was there for eight months and made $4000.

I look out the window at the Marriot across the street.  Always very brightly lit so I can see what type of luggage they have from my place by the window.  The sun set beyond the horizon half an hour ago, and the lobby shines from the overhead lights, the tall metal columns giving the illusion of it being a very extravagant and clean place.  There’s something appealing about people watching, and in this case, I look at the life I dream of having. The ability to just go away to a different city for business or pleasure and stay in such a nice hotel.  Along with that, my daily dose of entertainment comes from watching a family’s suitcase roll down the entryway to the parking lot, an argument between a couple not paying attention to their child who wanders too close to the main road, the valet saving her before she jumped over the divider.  Now, I watch a man in a fitted suit exit a car and a lady dressed in all white and stilettos, slip and fall throwing her purse far back and into the rain.  I watch valet who rescued the child jump into the rain and back with her bag only to be ignored, all attention on her ruined white fabric and the expensive nature of the leather no doubt, and the man she is with doing his best to console her.  I hold in a laugh, feeling sympathy for her but at the same time, all-white is a horrible choice for a rainy day and frowning at how she treated the valet.

Behind me, light steps approach and I shiver, turning my neck to look at Junior hovering a little too close, again.  Fully turned, I look down at him, his small frame, small belly ballooning against the fabric of his uniform.  His wrinkled skin tells of his age, yellow tinted teeth poke past his lips and a small, slightly creepy smile graces his face as he mumbles something.

         “Hmm?”

         “You need to check the chart,” he points at the tablet with the seating rotation.

         “Why, did your table leave?” my finger already hovering over the screen.

         “No, check for the table,” he points again.

         I blink, “Huh?”

         He points, again.

         “What are you trying to tell me?”

         He takes a step toward me, and another, and so do I backward until I’m pressed into the corner as this tiny man encroaches my personal space to poke around the colors on the screen.  I silently curse placing it close to the wall as my body curves away from his bent arm.  I slither out and to his other side and somehow, he has 5 tables less than he did a second ago.

         “You did it wrong.  I only have 5 today.”

         “I got here late, you already had some tables by then.  I don’t know what this is about.”

         “Oh.  But I only have 5.”

         “Ok, but you have to tell me, so I know how to fix it myself. show me how which wasn’t yours.”

He pokes around the screen again and he again reduces the tables by 2.

“Bro, what? At least explain why and how to do this because everyone will come to me complaining and I still don’t know what’s going on,” I scroll around his chart.

         “Look, Jay, 7. I get 5, and James gets 9.  So, give me 2,” he says, and my frustration grows.

         “I get that,” I pinch my nose, “I just asking why.  Like show me.  So I can learn.”

         “Yes, yes.  Table get busy, and I get 5 but you put 10,” he points at the screen, again.

         “Ok?  And like I said, you had tables before I got here.  I gave you the rest,” my hands come up in surrender, emphasizing my point, and he smiles his weird smile again.  We stand there staring at each other for 5 seconds more than is proper before I drop my hands and walk away.

“Talk to James about that,” I throw over my shoulder, my favorite line to get rid of them, and any encounter with Junior is too long the second it starts.  A sticky feeling stays with me every time I talk to him.

Around 7 o’clock, the dinner rush is in full swing.  My watch buzzes in completing my steps for the day and I am managing clearing space and merging tables for multiple large groups of reservations.  The rush of it all is what I enjoy, everything must be done at once. Be at the front to welcome guests, but also get the to go orders from the kitchen, check on the servers so they’re not overwhelmed, buss down empty tables.  My procrastination doesn’t get a second to kick in and when it comes to wind down, my feet are throbbing, and a few new stains coat my black shirt and jeans. For a few moments, I sit and breathe, wishing a good night on full bellied guests as they disappear into the night, but every time they open the door, the lower my body temperature gets.

I retreat to the kitchen a while for some warmth, then take a lap around the restaurant, see if what tables are open, who’s about to leave and head back to my station, thankfully, Junior free.  Another guest leaves and I make a note to wear a blazer next shift.  I glance around, bored, and out of habit.  I notice a man sat at the corner edge of the bar.  Unsure of why I notice him, I keep him in the corner of my vision.  Movement again, his head turns, and he angles his shoulders to face my direction.  I stab a look at the other end of the bar, at the edge of the mirror, catching his side profile and his eyes firmly placed on me. Wait me? oh, Oh!  Flustered, I quickly look down at the menus.  Then I mentally slap myself.  What am I doing?  This is nothing but another Saturday evening.  I look up at the door, another guest. He looks up again and I smile.  As I walk past him, I stop myself when I begin to strut to the table.

I walk back to my station and keep my eyes down, but my senses fully focused on him.  I take in his athletic build, large frame, tall and his large well-kept beard parts as his goes to taste his old fashioned.  I have zero interest in this moment the attention makes me blush.  Relationships have always been difficult for me.  A broken home may be the orchestrator of this narrative but the thought of being alone forever crossed my mind and I take a pause, imagining what that would be like.  While I love cats, the thought of being the resident cat lady does not appeal.  My beautiful obsidian cat comes to mind, along with the sadness that follows when I had to give him up to a better home.

But I’m surprised to be strangely alright with the idea.  That thought itself incites a smidgen of panic inside me and I tuck that in another drawer for later.  Remembering my visa status is my biggest conflict in any life plan I make and that also puts a damper on my mood. I look up at the man and he is now grinning hard with someone on the phone, done with all things to do with me, our attention span sure is short.

Another guest comes in.

This time a lady in white blouse and black slacks, modest and I guess a solo date.  She requests a seat at the bar, and I have to do a bit of legwork to clear a place and multiple trips of dirty dishes and she takes her seat. Not one glance my way from the man again, and by the time I come out one last time, he is gone.  I remind myself being delusional is never the solution as I walk back to my post. A blast of cold air once again makes me shiver as a tall man walks in and all thoughts of my disappointment fade away.  Oozing confidence in dark green hoodie and sweatpants, the most handsome man I have ever seen walks in and puts in a to go order, his low rumble of a voice sending goosebumps over my skin.  With a last order of gin and tonic as he waits, he takes a seat in the same spot as the man earlier who sent me curious stares and I notice he is noticeably older, like fine wine.  As I walk about, I notice the lady from earlier repeatedly starts a conversation with him.

She smiles, blushes and when he leaves for the bathroom, she looks to her reflection to straighten her appearance.  I smile, chuckling to myself.  He receives his order while in the bathroom, but he orders one more drink and chats her up some more.  I immediately amend my earlier sentiment and decide being delusional in situations outside myself can’t hurt.  Nothing like a real-life romance story.  Is it really that easy for everyone else?  The thought of being alone now looks different in this light. And I wonder what that feels like.  I think back to my own parents back home, spending more time not speaking to each other living under the same roof.  I think about how much easier life would be if I could support myself and not rely on another person.  I look at them again.  Enamored by him, she goes on about the Super Bowl and work, lost to the world.

Soon he leaves, leaving me a healthy tip and my opinion of him rises higher.  So I sit at the host stand, wiping down menus, blowing out candles, and a magnitude of questions flowing through my mind. I smile dreaming up fake scenarios with my made-up couple, what the ideal world would be like for the two of them and then I wonder what their actual lives look like. They might have someone at home or maybe everything is in shambles.  Dusting the waiting area, I think of how everything is unfair for everybody and its not all milk and honey.  I think of what they might’ve gone through and then I think of what I have been through.  The pain of losing friends and family.  A gust of wind chills my back and I hold back a tear.  Instead, I smile, calm my heart and reach for the menus and look up at the 2 people in front of me, “Hi, table for 2?”