Phoning It In

I do a lot of experiments on regular customers. They’re not so very scientific, but I like to see if my level of service changes will it alter my tip, and the answer is always no. Whether I steer customers away from ordering what’s in the bottom of the soup pot, or I serve it to them while pretending that I don’t notice that some hours ago it congealed into something other than food makes no difference at all.

I’ve been at my place of work for a long time now, and there are some patrons that just can’t be pleased, though I find there are perhaps a handful a shift that tell me how glad they are to see me—if only after having one of the other girls spill their beer in their laps and promise to come back with a towel, never to return—their expectations suddenly devastatingly low.

Though one of my coworkers often tells me that her entire Thursday night shift is just people who aren’t pleased to see her. “It’s like, well, we can’t get drunk because tomorrow’s Friday and we have to work, so give us our Virgin Caesar so we can be mad about it,” she tells me shrugging, staring into the empty well of her beer glass.  

I have to admit then that for the last little while I haven’t really noticed people like this, because I’m phoning it in. It’s a method of self-preservation at this point: if you’re going to hate everything anyway, and I can feel my need to cut you off coming on like a sneeze, then I should probably distance myself from the situation and avoid you anyway.

If you find your waitress apathetic to your situation then one of two things has probably happened: a) she recognizes your abusive face, and has deduced that nothing can be done to cheer you up or b) you’re spouting nonsense (I’m talking about you, man that claimed to have found the Avro Arrow first) and she wants to make a clean getaway before you see anything like interest in her eye.

Apathy has become like a sort of self-preservation at this point, the thin line that holds me back from madness. If I care that this is the third time you’ve ordered the lamb burger and it’s still terrible my head might explode as I try to sympathize with you.

If instead I nod pleasantly, meanwhile thinking about something completely different, say the overdose scene from Pulp Fiction, I might just be able to make it through another 35 years of this without attacking you with your fork. It’s a weird limbo to be in, but trust me as you spoon your non-soup into your face, that this is probably the best position for both of us to be in.

Battleford, Saskatchewan. Date Unknown. Taken of Don Hefner's Don't Fence Me In.