broadway malady really spoke to me. it said "more waiter!brain!" in a tiny little funny voice.
It is not often that you choose to paraphrase the words of Garfield the Cat. He does not often have anything particularly useful to say. The works of those like Jim Davis or Bill Watterson or Charles M. Schulz are, perhaps, (in your opinion, anyway) aimed at the easily amused, for a syndicated, sensible chuckle, something to appreciate on the back of a newspaper on the way to the office that said average, unremarkable person is doubtlessly more than happy to waste their life in. Such is part of the human condition.
On the other hand, you are a waiter.
And you work in the most expensive restaurant in Burbank, if not all of California, the victim of constant unsolicited comments about your appearance (chubby, albinistic, and you don't look good in ties, and oh, aren't you a little small to be a waiter? like nobody's seen a man stand at a comfortable five foot two before) (thanks, guys, because you just adore what that does for your dysphoria) and you've dropped three cups this shift already and the lady over there keeps ordering a metric ton of cocktails and you
really
really
dare you say it? hate Mondays.
(The cups were not your fault. If you die today, you will stand at the reception for Hell and argue this point until they are sick of you. You will ignore the rapidly growing queue behind you, the passive aggression from Rush Limbaugh, and you will ask the Hell Receptionist if they have ever worked hospitality. Perhaps Hell is just... a giant restaurant. You have experienced enough horror that this would not surprise you.)
(Anyway, it's more because people keep bumping into you, but the universe will not allow the average clientele of this particularly damned venue to accept responsibility for their actions, so it's your fault, apparently, for having the forces of gravity act upon you. Shocking. The Hell Receptionist will probably have that in your file.)
A quick look at the kitchen window tells you that table thirteen want olives. Ah, who else but the obnoxious thespian table. God, but you hate theatre kids. You yourself were, at one point in your development, a theatre kid, but that is a part of your life that you have thoroughly repressed, folded, and fit neatly under the bed.
You're not actually supposed to be serving table thirteen, but Katie has in true Katie style swanned off somewhere and left you to do all the work (and boy does she do that a lot) so apparently it's up to you. (You can vaguely hear her, from the bathroom, yelling at some unfortunate soul who, you presume, is on the other end of an equally unfortunate phone call. How she gets away with such a thoroughly unpleasant demeanour during work hours is beyond you, when people constantly say you're grumpy.)
No matter. You decide for the millionth time that day that considering how expensive the menu for this place is, you really, really do not get paid enough. These olives cost more than you do, per hour. How sad. Maybe management want to dress the olives up in a little suit and have them take over. But this will never happen, obviously, so you take the tray, and escort it over to table thirteen, and put it down, wordlessly, deadpan, without any of the stupid "alright-guys-everything-ok-that's-good-enjoy" that comes with this job, or any attempt at faking a Glee! worthy smile. Because who cares? Nobody else is here who could reprimand you for your lack of enthusiasm, and you are not about to prostrate yourself before the kind of people who would actually know what a "Glee! worthy smile" was.
You kind of... slam the tray down, actually. Some of the olives fall over. One of the actresses jumps, a bit.
Alright. First impressions. Not that you're particularly desperate to know about these people, specifically, but anyone who comes here does so for a reason, and really the only excitement you get in this place is some attempt at figuring out why. They're all in suits, and other reasonably fancy attire, but you do notice some flyers on the seat and someone's phone has a photo up.
Ah. Yes, opening night for Mice. The most obnoxious, Lloyd-Webber esque musical since Lloyd-Webber himself. Is he dead? He might be dead. You don't care. You hope he's dead, actually. His stuff is annoyingly samey. You privately think you could do much better.
One of them's staring at you. You stare back. It's to make a point, at first, because it's a little uncomfortable, thanks, but a few moments of raising your eyebrows at him, you find yourself actually evaluating his appearance out of some sort of interest.
Because there's something you recognise in his features. His hair is frizzy, and dyed pink, with little blue or purple spots in places which are evidently just missed spots from the last dye job. Those are some tight curls. You may not have been aware that it was possible to dye hair like that. But what would you know? You've done nothing to your hair since high school, and you're not exactly Shirley Temple yourself. (You have vague childhood memories of your mother attempting ringlets on you. It did not work. This would not be your last failure to meet her terms.)
There's a slight difference in your skin tone, sure, but he's paler than you'd expect. He also appears to have dyed his eyebrows, so they kind of stand out. Oof. You pause for a moment to briefly wonder if you're being racist. It's not for any preconcieved notions of what people should look like, of course, but- you look at how white his hair is, near the roots, and you can't help but think if what you think is going on is actually going on, then-
Because you've never met anyone like you, before.
He's wearing a blue tux and suddenly he smiles and you notice his teeth are awkward.
"Oh, that's lovely!" He says, far more excited than anyone should be about olives. "Thank you!" He sounds like he's about to say something else, but someone jumps in with "Stop giving the poor man bedroom eyes."
And this prompts a laugh, from the whole table.
You manage an equally deadpan "Ha." and then you turn and leave. You try not to look back as you do, so you can't quite tell if your previous object of interest is laughing with them. Do you care? Why do you care. Obnoxious, sophomoric ingrates, the lot of them. Why should it matter to you, after all?
(He had such pretty eyes though?) (But that, actually, can go under the bed with the rest of it.)
Katie comes out of the bathroom, finally, as you head to the kitchen, and you decide the table is her problem now.
Katie did not, in fact, make table thirteen her problem. You don't know why you expected her to, at this point.
Still, eventually, they leave. You ignore them until they're out of the door and then you sigh and make your way over to clean up their table.
There are lemons everywhere. Have they been throwing them? You curse to yourself as you pick up the soggy bits of fruit and drop them on the tray and fucking hell do you hate theatre kids. Sophomoric indeed. You clear the table, take the tray to the kitchen, and then come back for the receipt.
They appear to have tipped you a hundred dollars. Which actually makes you stop, and pause, and consider that. It's far more than you usually get, despite it being just about double the cost for an average main course (and perhaps management would like to dress up the Hereford beef, too?) and a very sweet gesture, actually, and you can almost put up with how irritating they were for that-?
Oh.
Someone's written their phone number on the receipt.
And you, John Norman Brain, are a man of words. Many, many words. Words that nobody ever really requests hearing, and, usually, words that are not in the average person's vocabulary. You like to think that this is because you are inherently better than the average person, but that does feel a bit like eugenics, and life experience has taught you that it's more because you're a sad little nerd.
Despite your formal training at being a walking thesaurus, the closest English translation of the immediate feeling you have, upon seeing said receipt, is something along the lines of "what the fuck".
Heck. Your heart may have sped up.
Alright. So. When emotions fail you (and they do, often) the next best thing is to turn to logic. Usually, the best thing in general is to turn to logic, and sort the emotions later, but- a lot of people think it kind of makes you an asshole. And you're not very good at doing that anyway. Regretfully, you are kind of a- crybaby? To coin a phrase from your adolescance? It's a trait you would burn if you could, but sadly you do not have the ability to reprogram your mind, so until that technology is invented you'll just have to make do, and stop watching movies with other people around.
You are absolutely getting off track. Okay. It's a phone number. It looks like a phone number, for definite. It could quite potentially not be the actual phone number for whoever wrote it down. It could be anything- a sex chatline? A car breakdown service? Jehovah's Witnesses? The possibilities are endless.
Next to the phone number (is it written in eyeliner? Good god.) is the word "narf" and a little smiley face. Like "(:". Sideways and everything. You don't know what a narf is. You don't care to know. You turn it over a few times for any other identifying information, get none, and stand there, for a moment, to ponder what exactly you should do. Your mouth is dry. it could be a joke, you think. It could just be junior prom all over again. Why wouldn't it be? The back of your mind gently reminds you that you are not allowed to have good things.
(This may well have been the end of it, but then Katie comes over to see why you're staring, entranced, at the reciept, and not only do you not want her to know about the number, you also don't want her to know that she missed out on a hundred dollar tip by virtue of being lazy. So you stuff it in your pocket a little too quickly for it to not be suspicious, and just weather the way she rolls her eyes like you're some kind of weirdo.)
(Whatever. You don't care. You don't even have to try not to care, on account you can think of nothing else but Mystery Number for the rest of your shift.)
Usually the door is unlocked for you when you arrive home (though citation needed on that particular definition of it) but there doesn't seem to be anyone in, so you let yourself in, quietly. There's a palpable relief in it, actually. God, but it's just romantic and dramatic enough for dearest Mr and Mrs Ippolito to bombard you with enthusiasm that you do not have the energy for, right now. You shower. You change your clothes. (You pull the receipt out first, obviously, because the last thing you want to do is put it through the washing machine.) You feed the budgies, who you suspect have already been fed, but judging by their indignance anyone would be convinced they were starving, and then you go and sit in your bedroom and turn the receipt over in your hands, a few times, and think about it.
You search the number. The internet helpfully tells you it's a mobile, and you see nothing about sex, cars, or Jehovah, which is equally comforting on all ends. It could still be hostile, but at the very least your contact details probably won't be sold, or your phone hijacked for cryptocurrency mining, so-
You don't call. You send a text. This, bizarrely, feels safer.
[The owner of this number left it on the back of a dining reciept for The Royal in Burbank. If you have concerns about your experience, I am happy to redirect you to the appropriate channels.]
Boring? Perhaps. Impersonal? Definitely, and that is the point. You are not leading with the assumption that it is anything but harmless confusion at best, and a malicious attempt at humiliation at worst, so you send it off. You don't... actually have any Appropriate Channels to redirect them to, but if there was something wrong with their food, you can mention it to the chefs, or- tell them to go on TripAdvisor, or something.
Your phone vibrates back, pretty much immediately.
[is this john? dinner was lovely of course but i wanted to talk to you!]
It's quick enough to make you wonder if the person at the other end was just... staring at their phone, waiting for your attention. It's not particularly comfortable. You supply a succint [For what reason.] in return, and wonder if they would benefit from a gentle reminder not to harass people at their place of work.
The next reply you receive is [zort!], which you ignore. About five or ten minutes pass, before your phone chimes again.
[i mean i thought you were cute AND i read something in cosmo about shooting my shot! giving it the fling or the whirl or the old college try narf BUT i espnt enough time in college and believe me if it was just writing stuff on reciepts i probably would have got better grades LOL poit BUT i was going to ask you out actually.]
...It's a completely incoherent sentence. You read it a good five times over before you start to get any sort of understanding. It's enough to make you take off your glasses, and rub your eyes, for a moment, before putting them back on and trying to think of an appropriate response.
Logic it out, John. Come on.
[Ah, the burgeoning romance of putting a tray of olives on your table|
gets deleted because it sounds a little too mean. As does [Thank god for Cosmo| and also just [Why.| You take off your glasses again, stare into the blurry abyss, for a moment, and will yourself to try a slightly less hostile approach.
[I can't help but question the safety of providing identifying information to someone you met for half an hour in a restaurant.]
It seems nicer, at least. Like you're worried about them.
[you texted me though didn't you?]
And you can't fault that, you suppose you did.
[oh OH but i have your name and you don't have mine )))): you can call me pinky! zort]
You take off your glasses, again. You rub your eyes. You- actually, you hear the front door unlock, downstairs, so you turn out your bedroom light so you can pretend to be asleep. The light from your phone hurts in comparison, and you turn the brightness down, put your glasses back on, and-
You have to ask, at this point. You really do.
[What is a "zort."]
(You type "zort" into a search engine. You do not get many responses. While you pick through them, you get a notification for a text back.)
[it's troz in the mirror!]
(You type "troz" into a search engine. You do not get many responses. You hope you come off as frank, but not curt.)
[I may need you to explain further.]
You hear vague noises that indicate that the budgies are being fed, yet again. Good for them.
[it's a very versatile word! it's got all the makigns of narf or poit or egad but even BETTER because it's got zs in it and nobody uses zs enough i think. wouldn't it be better if we all had our own fun words! OH but don't mind me i mean if]
You wonder if, perhaps, your hypothetical "Pinky!" may have been shot midsentence. Another notification, a minute or two later, tells you evidently not.
[i mean i understand if you dont want to john i dont want to make you uncomfortable ): or maybe i could just keep sending you fun messages i think that would be nice C: narf haha]
Narf haha indeed. You pause for thought.
Perhaps, if the world functioned like a ridiculous, peurile Young Adult Graphic Novel that one might find at the back of a shelf in a particularly gentrified library, you may have automatically accepted this invitation as genuine. As such - as a person who lives a far more realistic version of events - you are aware that there are a lot of variables here to shift through. Is this time to get out the notebook? Or- no, no, this doesn't need notes. You can do this in your head. Okay. Go.
One. Age old possibility of being a serial killer. Sure. There's a vague notion in the back of your mind that helpfully suggests that around- fifteen percent, you want to say? - of homicides are actually committed by those who are a stranger to the victim. Could you meet this person in public? During the day? Could you-
[I may need more information first. An actual name, perhaps.]
With anonymity out of the way- they may be just as likely to murder you as they might have been before you knew their name, actually, but at the very least you feel safer, however placebic it might be. You have no friends who you could text plate numbers to, or any other types of identfying information. And you will die before telling Marita that you are on anything even resembling a date, and that in itself is a promise.
So. Two. This is an elaborate setup and the guy from Candid Camera comes out mid date and calls you a chubby loser. People throw tomatoes at you. You walk yourself home, dejected, only to find that you have gone viral on twitter.
Perhaps you would prefer them to be a serial killer, actually. Still, you've reinvented yourself once already. There's no reason you couldn't do it again. You vaguely consider how you feel about the name Wernher.
Three-
Your phone vibrates.
[ulysses ladybird pinkerton/]
You pause.
[Really.]
It's rude, but it's instinctive, and you press send before you can reconsider your tone. The reply comes almost too quickly. Oops.
[you can look me up narf i've got a log!]
Fine. Even better. You navigate to the Log app. It comes with a little picture of a tree stump and everything. Very cute. A search for the name brings up a profile, and you recognise him immediately as the guy from before, with the blue tuxedo and the pink hair and- he does have nice eyes. There's no tuxedo in this photograph, of course, but a lot of mesh and neon colours and faded black denim.
Is this your type? Are you into that? You did not previously consider yourself Into That, but the rising heat in your face says otherwise. Impulsively, you send a Branch Request. It's an incredibly inane theme for a social network, perhaps, but it's become a rising necessity, it seems, in order to navigate social convention. Even if you do have to stare at the lives of people you haven't spoken to since high school. Or didn't speak to in high school, even. Maybe you should... mute some people, actually, if not remove their branches completely, but that can be a job for later.
You realise, as you recieve another message, that you may have been a little too distracted to reply to the first one.
[POIT oh it's nice to meet you mr brain! (: i like norman hehe it sounds funny narf]
And again, a few seconds later, almost like an afterthought; [can i call you that? can i call you norman]
You do not want to be called Norman.
[I think I liked Mr Brain more.]
(Doctor, some day, perhaps? But you do appreciate the gender-affirming capabilities of your current honourific. A tough call.)
[oh well then that's fine isn't it? narf OH do you know where cube pizza is because i know a cafe above it that does lovely cinnamon teas C: POIT and bagels.]
You are vaguely aware of the co-ordinates of Cube Pizza. You idly wonder how they stay in business.
[I've heard of them.] You say, which is the nicest thing anyone can say about Cube Pizza, and then, impulsively, stupidly, you answer a question that neither of you have asked yet.
[I don't work Fridays.]
The first reply to that is comprised entirely of emojis. You recieve something a little more coherent a minute or two later.
[then it's a date isn't it? :D :D :D :D oooo i'll be there at the square! haha narf!]
You cringe.
[It will not be a date until you finalise your divorce from outdated advertisement campaigns.]
Honestly. Be There At The Square. You're sure they haven't used that in marketing since before you moved here. Instead of being irritated, though, you find the errant reference endearing, and that alone almost horrifies you into paralysis.
[oh done and dusted brain haha NARF i'm finalising the alimony as we speak! our marriage just wasn't the same since that thing with mrs dryer lint ): OH but yes okay! friday! come around lunchish and i'll buy you a bagel!]
He's buying you a bagel. Good heavens. You are not known for such impulsive, reckless action. You drag your hands down your face and knock your glasses off in the process. Hell, and you're never going to find them with the light off.
Never mind.
[Fine.] You manage, not because you're trying to be coy, or rude, but because it's the most you can manage when the world is this blurry, and you ignore the flurry of emojis that come afterwards, and decide instead to eschew your usual journaling in favour of laying around and playing Minesweeper, and trying to reduce the temperature of your face to a slightly more reasonable level. Your cheeks are burning. The rest of you is weirdly cold. You cannot stop thinking about how pretty his face was, if a little awkward, conventionally speaking. There is something seriously wrong with you.
You tell yourself that it is simply a medical fascination. A need to fraternise with others with your... condition, perhaps? That must be it, of course, and you're just nervous, because... it was such... a big thing for you, during your childhood development, being... ostracised, and-
Yes, of course. This makes perfect logical sense. Nice one, Brain. No amount of rationale will ever be too much if it means you can kid yourself out of having feelings. Those are for people who aren't you. People who are- less intelligent, people who are frivilous, and stupid, and care about inane things, and make dumb impulsive decisions like arranging to meet random people they met at work who wrote their phone number on the receipt.
You are royally fucked.
(In the distance, you hear something fall over. Doubtless Flavio has knocked over his chair, again. You decide that Mondays have not moved up in your esteem.)
(Though perhaps some tentative part of you, overrun with guilt for even having such thoughts, is willing to accept this one as an outlier.)
typos are intentional because pinky just be like that.