A Day in the Life (featuring Crazy Loud Lady)

Nothing unusual happened for the first two hours of my shift.  It was a regular Friday evening at the Scarlet Crustacean.  Actually, it was better than a regular evening; by that point in the night I should have had several ridiculous guest complaints to satisfy and been triple-seated at least once, but my stress barometer still measured low on the scale.  Xandra, one of my coworkers who claims to be 4 feet 10 and a quarter inches (but I'm betting doesn't even hit the 4'9" mark), came in with her usual effervescence and gave me a high-five-hello.

"Hey, Cal!"
"Hi!  How are you?"
"I'm ready to kick some crustacean butt!" she said, an emphatic grin on her face.  If only everyone could manage to walk in with such enthusiasm.  But alas, everyone else would have to be on drugs and that would get them fired.

I started to point out that crustaceans don't really have butts, but quickly changed my mind and just smiled as I carried my tray into the main dining area.  As I progressed through the galley I passed Jack, another coworker.  Jack's a nice young man of about eighteen years who hopes to become a police officer.  He can be pretty funny from time to time.  Like this time.
As I passed him, I noticed he was personalizing his check.  We were recently told that a new policy at the Crustacean involved personalized checks.  Every single time we print a check for a guest, we need to add a personalized message to it.  This is one of the newfangled policies I don't take issue with, because it has been proven to generally increase tips when guests see that their servers have taken a little extra time in getting to know them or in expressing gratitude for their patronage.
Anyway, Jack was personalizing his check, and out of curiosity I casually read the message he was jotting down.

Thanks for comming in...
I didn't read any further.  "Jack.  You spelled "coming" wrong. There's only one "m".  Just wanted to let you know before you dropped that check."
"You're messing with me," he said.  True, sometimes I mess with coworkers in a jovial way.  However, I am an English major in graduate school and one of my goals in life is to improve the world's language mechanics.
"I wouldn't mess about this, Jack.  You'd be presenting our collective ignorance to our guests, and that doesn't help any of us."
"Ha, ha," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.  "You're a funny guy, you know that?"
"Aw, thanks buddy," I replied.  "And that's a really nice pen."  I tend to notice nice pens - another side-effect of being an English major.  This one was gold with black trim and looked like it had a nice heft to it.
"Oh, check it out, Cal.  It has these cool features and a matching pencil, came with a set I got as a gift for--"
"Awesome.  Does the pencil have spellcheck?" I asked.
He laughed and rolled his eyes at me.  "You have something on your--" he called to my back.  The humor of youth, neh?  I continued to my guests.

A new party of two ladies in their late twenties or early thirties had been seated at one of my tables.  I welcomed them in the usual manner and then explained our newest specials.  One of them kept dancing all over me with her eyes.  It was somewhat disconcerting, because I couldn't tell if she was checking me out or if she had an uncontrollable spasm of sight.  When I finished and asked them if they had any menu questions for me, she tucked her oak-brown hair behind her ears and loudly proclaimed, "I WANT THIS CHICKEN PASTA WITH THIS DEAL BUT I WANT SHRIMP NOT CHICKEN.  I CAN DO THAT, RIGHT?"
I'm serious, she really did speak that loudly to me.  At me.  Through me, even.

"I'm sorry, but the promotional special you want to have doesn't include the shrimp alfredo or allow for substitutions.  We do have a shrimp and scallop alfredo if you'd prefer that.  Instead of cajun spices it has tomatoes and garlic."  I smiled my best cheesy (alfredo) smile and waited for her to catch up with me.  It took a minute.


"CAN I GET THAT ONE WITHOUT THE SCALLOPS, THEN?"

I assured her that the kitchen could hold the scallops for her.

"OKAY AND YOU'LL GET EXTRA SHRIMP IN THERE FOR ME, RIGHT?"  she asked.  And winked at me.

"I'll do what I can," I said.  I won't lie to my guests, because I won't lie to anyone on principle.  But I rely on my tips for my wages, and thus I am inclined to dodge questions like a politician at a debate tournament from time to time.  Also, I wanted to get out of earshot.

A little while later I was in the alley getting ready to walk this table's food to them when my VIP service partner Martha came over to tell me she had been scared to death by my guests.
"Cal, you have no idea how rude this woman is."
"What woman?  At table 94?  Brown hair, medium length, wild eyes, loud mouth?"
"How ever did you know?" she responded.  "She's either a horrible person or she's crazy.  Or both.  She just screamed 'BREAD!' across the entire front room at Max the busser."
I have no idea what would make someone think that the bussers are wait staff, so I decided the answer to Martha's question then and there.  "Yeah, I'm pretty sure there's something missing up here."  I made a wavy motion at the side of my head. 
"No, Cal, you don't understand," she continued, "she then yelled at me to come over to her and demanded drink refills.  Not even a hint of a request in her voice, she just waited for me to arrive, looked at me, said 'DIET COKE,' and went back to her conversation as if I hadn't just walked across the room to her table."
By this point I had nearly confirmed in my head that the woman was functionally autistic at some level, probably Asperger's, but as I am not a certified psychologist and simply wanted to make some money off this table, I didn't speculate further.

I did, however, plan mentally for more odd behavior.  Good thing, too.  Some servers would be pretty rattled by this stuff.  I mean, she asked me for extra tartar sauce, then waited until I returned with the tartar to ask for more cocktail sauce, then waited until I brought the cocktail to ask for some hot sauce.  It went on like this for a full 25 minutes, and I did have other tables. 

Later on they asked me to bring their check.  I brought it over.  "I'll be right back with this," I assured them when the loud lady's friend produced a credit card.  Thirty seconds later I returned to their table and explained that they needed to sign the small copy for me, and they could keep the other one.  "Thank you for coming in today.  I hope to see you again soon!"  I smiled, thinking through my teeth that it would be fantastic when I could catch a breath once they were out the door.  When I was precisely three steps away, I heard my name shouted at me from across the dining room.

"CALVIN!"
I turned around and approached the table again.  "What can I do for you?"
"You're gonna hate us," she said with a demonic grin stretched across her pretty face.
Probably, I thought, but it will never show.  I waited for her to continue.
"Is it..." the other woman cut in, "...possible to get this coupon added even though I already paid?"
This is where my honesty comes to bite me in the tuchus.  "Yes, but I'll need your credit card back and you should hold on to my pen, because you're going to need to sign the new slip when it's printed.  And I don't hate you."  I grinned at them again.  I'm just mildly irritated.  Especially since you had me do all of this for a $32.00 check which will now become a $28.00 check after the coupon, and since most people carry their percentage-tip-calculations over even into single-digit bills, I'll be lucky to get six dollars from you.  But I don't hate you, because I can only be saddened by your unfortunate ignorance and I realize you might actually have a medical excuse for it, though I REALLY hope your seemingly normal friend goes beyond my expectations. 
I pulled their previous payment, ran the coupon, ran the card again, and brought them the new slips.  They left.  I silently rejoiced. 

My last table was a breath of fresh air, though.  It was a family of four.  The parents were really, really nice, and their two smiling kids looked to be about four and five years old, a boy and girl.  They were adorable. 
They had a quiet and satisfying meal as a family and joked with me about the snow outside.
The kids both asked very politely for booster seats, so I brought the boosters over and helped them climb in.  I complimented the boy on his awesome Spider Man shirt, and told him about the sweet Superman shirt my sister got me for my birthday (it came with a cape!).  When he heard about the cape, he showed me "just how cool this Spider Man shirt really is."  The thing had a button that, when pushed, caused comic-esque sound effects to emerge from somewhere on the shirt.  I was awed.

Later on they ordered a dessert to share, and the kids got really excited.  The girl seemed especially jealous that her brother's Spider Man shirt was getting all the attention, so she stood up and beckoned for me to listen to her.  "I had DESSERT!"
"Yes, you did.  Did you like it?" I asked, knowing full well that she had just literally licked her plate clean.
"YEAH!  And now..." she beckoned me closer so she could whisper (loudly), "...I'm gonna go home and burp!"  She had the proudest grin on her face.  Her mother gaped in shock and tried to cover the kid's mouth, but it was too late; the girl was on to new thoughts, and I was several steps away trying to cover my own mouth to prevent my laughter from filling the front dining room.

Those kids made my night.