CHAPTER 9
"I can't go out there!" Jimmy hissed, peering past the kitchen doors.
The head waiter, a surly man of 37 years, frowned. "Why not? That's your station, James."
Jimmy sank to his knees, running his hand through his once-neat locks. "Jordan, that's my best friend sitting at table 16. He can't know I work here!"
"Get up," Jordan lazily snapped. "Go serve them or get fired. They look too into each other to notice anything else."
Jimmy nodded slowly. "Fine." He didn't want to get fired; he'd worked too hard to get this job already. He picked up a tray of food with shaking hands that table 15 had ordered and braced himself.
His two best friends sat together at table 16, talking softly. Jimmy ran his hand through his hair nervously again, then to avoid having to speak to them yet, he took the tray to the table next to theirs. He silently handed food to the patrons, a fake smile on his face, and then he went over to table 16 where his cover was blown.
"Good evening, my name is James and I'll be your waiter this evening. May I start you two off with anything to drink?"
Jesus and Whatsername glanced up. In disbelief they saw Jimmy, standing there in a white shirt and deep red pants, holding a notepad poised to take orders. His nametag, fancy as it was, read 'James Dirnt', and was positioned perfectly in accordance with his red tie. Whatsername was the first to recover from the shock, and she snickered helplessly. Jesus quickly imitated.
Jimmy stood there, a facial expression reading a mixture of polite annoyance. "Can I get you anything to drink?" he asked again.
"Sure, can we have wine, Jimmy?"
"I'll have to see an ID, sir," Jimmy stated monotonously, as though he didn't recognize his best friend.
Jesus knitted his eyebrows, but then pulled out a driver's permit that clearly stated he was a few years shy of 21. Jimmy glanced at it briefly, and then nodded.
"Wine, coming right up." Jimmy scribbled it down on his notepad and handed his friends menus. "I'll be back in a minute to see if you two have made choices on what to eat, okay?" He dipped his head forward politely and started to walk away.
"Jimmy," Whatsername said suddenly.
Jimmy turned. "Do you have a question or comment, ma'am?"
"Yes," she snickered again. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"I work here, ma'am."
Jesus frowned. "Drop the act, Jim."
"I can't sir, I'd be fired." Jimmy picked up a plate with dedication, then hissed out of the corner of his mouth, "I'll talk to you tomorrow morning, okay?" He quickly went back into the kitchen.
Jesus leaned over the table to talk softly to Whatsername as Jimmy walked away. "Fancy seeing old Jimmy here, eh?"
Whatsername snickered. "Let's be really obnoxious just to piss him off. Like tip over your wine. Do a lot of cruel stuff."
Not one to deny the woman he was trying to impress, Jesus nodded. "It'll be my pleasure."
Jimmy soon reappeared with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm and his trusty notepad. He poured two brimming glasses of red wine, and then just as he was taking Whasername's order, Jesus accidentally-on-purpose tipped his cup. The red staining liquid flew all over with a flourish, all over the midsection of Jimmy's clean white shirt and soaking him thoroughly at the waist. The table made no batter fare, it too was saturated.
"Oh, my god, I'm so sorry!" Jesus cried loudly and flakily. "Here, let me help you clean it up!"
"No, that's alright." Jimmy said stiffly. He took some linen napkins from the table and blotted his shirt with them, then the table.
Jesus and Whatsername were fighting off grins as they watched Jimmy's moral, polite side and his violent, revengeful side battle. Jimmy knew that his friends were teasing him; he wasn't blind, or he'd be dead, but he didn't want to lose his job by arguing with customers. Sighing, he left to go place the orders with the overweight cook in the greasy kitchen.
Jesus and his date were still snickering. They quickly finished off what was left of the wine, even before Jimmy came back with a polite scowl, damp shirt, and two plates.
"Hey, Jimmy, mate!" Jesus gave him a manly slap on the back as he passed that sent him a step forward too fast. Jimmy straightened up.
"Yes, sir?"
"Ah, Jimmy, we love you." Whatsername laughed loudly. "Oh, sorry." She tucked in her foot after sending Jimmy sprawling on the floor with not only wine now, but veal mignon all over his once-clean shirt.
"Clumsy me," he hissed sarcastically, raising himself up on his arms. "Didn't see your foot there, miss." He stood up and his two best friends laughed to see the amount of torture his uniform had gone through. "I'll go get you another plate, sir." Jimmy directed at Jesus holding up the ruined meal with an apologetic face. "Would you like some more wine?"
"Yes!" Whatsername cried, her voice several decibels too loud.
Jimmy frowned and headed back for the kitchen, where he was stopped by his boss.
"Kid, what the hell? Did you roll in the entree?" He demanded.
"Har-de-har-har," said Jimmy dryly. "No, my delightful customers have decided to plaster me with their dinner."
"You mean those folks being loud out there?"
Jimmy nodded in agreement. "Yes, those are my best friends. Why, God, why did they have to come here?"
"Get them to stop disturbing other patrons or kick them out," said the older man, unbuttoning his shirt. "Put my shirt on, you can't go out there with baby deer all over you."
"Cow."
"What?"
"Isn't veal baby cow?" asked Jimmy.
"No," said Jordan assuredly. Jimmy shrugged and switched shirts. As he buttoned up the last button and adjusted his tie over it, a large crash resounded just outside the kitchen. Jimmy yanked the door open to see a once-piled serving cart that had been parked outside the kitchen lying in two parts with plates and food smashed and smeared everywhere.
Jordan leaned over to read the label on the fore-right leg. "Whichever fuckwit waiter left this out here, one more mishap tonight and you're out of my restaurant." He called.
All the waiters and waitresses in the nearby vicinity cringed as Jordan read the name, and then turned to one of them.
"James," he read in a very unammused voice.