slow night

One of the great things about waitressing is that when it's busy, there's no time for reverie. Either you keep moving and don't stop for any reason, or you very quickly find yourself in the weeds. Whatever's bugging you gets hustled to the back of your mind, because you have to remember, like, "Table three: Vodka press, tall, no fruit, two 'kazis with Stoli Vanil and a Bud Light, tab; guy by the pool table: Porter, tab; table six: pitcher PBR, four glasses, Woodford manhattan, chicken nachos, no guac, cash," and there is no room left for "I can't believe he broke up with me."

Conversely, when it's slow, you've got nothing but time to woolgather and, if you're me right now, plot revenge and try not to throw up. The bar is half-empty, and everybody's just sipping their drinks and watching the game, and then it becomes a game of "Okay, what can I do to keep myself busy?" So you clean like there's gonna be a white-glove test later. You bug tables for their empties. You make change in the tip jar. You restock everything. You wander into the fifty-five degree weather outside in your t-shirt and smoke and shiver on the benches. Even when you haven't just been through a nasty, acrimonious final showdown with your ex-boyfriend--which was how I occupied myself Sunday before my shift--it's pretty hellish when it's slow.

I asked the bartender, Monica*, to let me go home early: Most of the customers were regulars who'd come in to watch the Series, and maybe ten seconds after Seth Smith whiffed (heh), they all cleared out. After that, it was either go home, where there is vodka aplenty and Friday Night Lights on the DVR, or stand in the service station like a deer in the headlights, waiting for someone to distract me.