The Waitress

No doubt she felt compromised by agreeably entering my little game. I liked her smile. I am ashamed to say I do not know her name, even though she was wearing a name badge.

I had finished with my burger and slid the empty dish to the edge of the table. The waitress walked past and, with a swift experienced motion, started to sweep the plate back into the kitchen. She came to a quick stop, however, when I reached out and held onto the plate. She looked confused. She tugged the plate, but I tugged back. Then she looked at me and presented that wonderful smile. She recognized my actions as a game.

"I have to take your plate," she said.

"Well, that's not fair," I told her.

"It's called pre-bussing."

"I don't care what it's called," I said, "You are always taking my plate. If you would stop doing that, I would have a handsome collection of plates at home."

"Sorry," she said, "It's my job." Her smile disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived. Once again, she appeared to be the hurried, tortured woman she was.

I wish I remembered her name. I know I saw it on her name badge. I wish my memory were stronger. Then again, if she were not so pretty, maybe I would have remembered her name. I remember Stacy’s name. They work at the same diner which I frequent at least twice a week.

But Lisa... Maybe that was her name! I think it was! Lisa was an astonishingly good looking woman. She had long dark hair and mystery filled her eyes. Her face was thin but not anemic. She had high cheek bones and a rather distinctive nose. Her flesh was pure as a beaujoulais. She wore a large white blouse which was tucked in her black, tight fitting polyester pants at the waist. I must admit, I wondered if I put my arms around her if the inside of my left arm would have felt the inside of my right arm. I know I could have grasped myself at each elbow. I wanted to lay my head on her breast -- not for any sexual purpose, you understand. But her breasts were so welcoming, so appealing.

I tried to suppress such thoughts. I was trying to be a 90's kind of guy, respect women for who they were, and all that. Still, there is a God in heaven, and God made men and women with different, complementary attributes. And damn if God did not make them fall together well on Lisa. When she was designed, God was having a particularly good day.

But I tried to look her in the eyes and, if we would ever get into any extended discussion, confine my remarks to respectable discourse. I promised myself that with Lisa, or any other woman I was acquainted with, I would be concerned with their interests, not the accidental ampleness of their anatomy. I would be concerned with their hopes and dreams, not the overlays and accessories which they used to highlight or hide pieces of themselves. I was concerned to respect the whole person, not just the interesting parts. Occasionally I am a failure.

I felt a tinge of guilt, supposing my little game had made Lisa smile. She was elegant when she smiled. Her pale face lit into a rainbow. But it was not long before I understood why she was concerned that her features be as crisp and efficient as her manners.

A man two tables to my left was calling her, "Honey, do you have a menu."

What a stupid question. Do you have a menu? To begin such an ignorant sentence with so derogatory a term simply defined the man as ridiculous. It was only after defining himself so that I noticed how poorly he was dressed. Perhaps it is not the case -- I do not think it was the case -- that the loud-mouth called attention to himself and, compelling me to look at him, allowed me to notice how ill-fitting and rumpled his shirt was. Rather, I think he may have been elegantly dressed, but his behavior made me see his garments as sloppy, worn, and stained. The man makes the clothes. His shoes were unkempt. That was not my imagination.

"I'll bring one right to you, sir."

Lisa took three brisk steps to the counter, turned on the flats of her feet, and was handing the laminated list of meals to the man before the echo of her words had completely consigned themselves to the inaudible rung.

"What's good today?" he asked, his greasy eyes moving from her ear to her shoulder, along her breasts to her hips.

"We have a special on veal cutlets with Caesar salad," Lisa told him.

"Special, huh." He pasted his eyes to the menu but was soon taking quick glances from the list to her thigh.

"Yes, sir," she said, standing at attention.

"What's this here?" he asked, pointing to the menu. I do not know if he did it on purpose, but Lisa leaned over to see what he was pointing at. He unabashedly stared to see if there was a show of cleavage. She caught his eyes and frowned, but in the midst of the frown she emerged a model of delicateness.

"That is our appetizer of potato skins. They're quite good. They're topped with melted cheese and chives. We can cook them without the chives, if you like."

Without any intention of using it, I reached for my knife. I do not know what use I could have had for a knife; all I had spread before me was my coffee with cream and sugar already added, and a pack of cigarettes. Then the thought occurred: This man should die. I tried to tell myself it was not a mean thought, not a malicious wish. Rather, it was the calm assessment of the situation. I let the knife slide back to the table, buffered by the napkin which was soaking up coffee spills and dyed with ashes from a my cigarette.

"No, I don't like," he said, "just give me this sirloin and some french fries."

"Yes, sir," she said, "right away, sir."

Lisa turned, gently extracted the menu, asked if he wanted something to drink with his order, began walking away, placed a straw for the iced tea he requested, and wrote his order. It was one elegant motion, one well-rehearsed, well seasoned ballet. As she glided toward the order wheel, the man looked beneath his arm to assess the sway of her hips. In spite of myself, I watched the object of his attention.

Lisa returned with one swift, technically neat motion, placing her other customer's drink in front of him, swooping up to my table and saying, "Anything else for you today? Some dessert, perhaps?"

"No, thank you," I said, "But thanks." Apology came out in the form of politeness.

"Okay. Then I'll just leave this with you, and you can part when you're ready. I'll take it up for you."

"Thank you," I said, adding a smile to my quest for forgiveness.

Lisa walked back to the kitchen, her back straight and her stride confident. The man at the other table was looking at me. He smiled and nodded. I felt a wave of nausea rinse behind my eyes and lit a fresh cigarette, hoping to smoke it away.

By the time I finished with the cigarette, the man had been served his food, my money had been placed on the table, with a better than my average tip, and I had heard the other diner smacking his lips and slurping his drink. He disgusted me. I found it difficult to believe he and I were of the same species but, again, there were much worse than he.

I gathered my belongings and left. I paused outside the restaurant to light another cigarette. Through the window, I saw Lisa, if that was her name, clearing the mess I had left her. The coffee cup disappeared into the deep plastic container. The coffee spills and ashes were swept along with the spoon and napkin. Her one hand seemed to have accomplished the disposal with a single graceful sweep and scrub while her other hand laid a place-mat and separated clean fork, spoon and knife with long white fingers. The sweeping hand gathered the sheets of bills and loose change.

No smiled played upon her face. No beautiful ring of happiness or joy came out of her during this brief moment of reprieve between hungry, demanding customers. She was a working girl. Her life was tough. I wondered where she went at night, what her pleasures were. I wondered whether she was working her way through college, or was forced to work because her husband had left her, or genuinely enjoyed her work. Perhaps she was a novelist acting as a waitress until her first success. Perhaps she was a drifter, way-laid in town because she could not afford to fix her car. Perhaps she played cello in the orchestra. Perhaps she was deciding what to do with her life.

There was so much I did not know about her, but I blushed with the certain knowledge that my little game previously was now perceived as simply one more seduction. I had behaved equally as bad as the man who had cannibalized her with his eyes. I was ashamed, and as soon as I had named my sorrow she looked out the window. She caught me staring at her. I knew she would not understand. I knew she would find me a cousin of the ape who was even now staring at her behind while calling her to him.

Then her face moved: one half in a dreary grimace, the other in a moment of pleasure or friendship. I smiled back, and felt a shimmering, raising ring of sadness and joy welter through me. She turned to go, and I turned to leave. The oceans turned to mist. I stepped lively down the street, knowing she would not return to the window to look after me. There was no reason for her to do so. Nevertheless, I did not want to be there when she did.

As I became conscious of the fact that it had started raining, I thought, "If she were not so damned beautiful, I could have remembered her name."

The End.

© G. David Schwartz

Bio: He is the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue, and coauthor, with Jacqueline Winston, of Parables In Black and White. Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores or can be ordered at www.amazon.com/gp/product/1418489565/104-8454011-6722310?n=28315