Page 24 of DadBod

Rule one. Never sit at the front table at staff meetings. It’s his fault, though. He got here last. Live and learn.

Rome stops him before he can finish. “Simple, Gabe.” Rome is staring down at the kid. “If you can’t find an empty one, help the dishwasher by unloading it.”

“Right. Yeah.” Gabe nods frantically. “Great idea, Mr. James. Th-Thank you.”

Rome moves on to the kitchen staff. Good thing, because I’m pretty sure Gabe would have kept right on thanking Rome. “Kitchen.” The three tables filled with kitchen staff perk up at the mention of their role here. “Pick up the pace. People shouldn’t have to wait thirty minutes for lasagna.” Again, Rome is correct, since lasagna is prepared earlier in the day. “We’re losing money with these extended wait times.”

I glance back at Antony and see him scowling. I get it. The guy works hard back there, but they are kind of slow.

“Waitstaff.”

Uh-oh. Here we go. I find myself mimicking Malone’s move, sliding down in my seat, hoping Rome won’t use me as an example.

“I’m getting complaints…”

* * *

“Can you believe that bullshit?”Jeriann’s voice is low and close to my ear.

“Yes.” The complaints that Rome referred to in the meeting this afternoon were about, well, me. About favoritism. “They’ve been gunning for me since Rome got back.” The fact that he said it was two separate complaints reinforced the fact that Jackie and Monica really dislike me.

“At least he didn’t mention your name.”

“He didn’t have to.”

“Sure. We all knew who he was talking about, but still. He could have thrown you under the bus.”

“Agreed.” What Jeriann doesn’t know and I’m not about to tell her is that Rome sent me a text message after the meeting. Rome: We need to talk.

I quickly responded with OK.When?

After a very long wait, I got his reply. Thirty minutes of me biting my nails. Thirty minutes of stomach flip-flopping around in my belly. It was hell. After work. I’ll let you know where later.

OK. At least it’s Sunday night. After work means after eleven instead of after one or two in the morning. Still, it means I’m going to spend my entire shift nervous and worried what he’s going to say to me. Will he fire me? I don’t think that’s necessary or deserved. The big question… will he cut my hours? That’s worse that getting fired, in a way. It means I’ll have to quit, but only after finding another job. I suppose there are other restaurants out there. The big question is, if I have to find a new job, will he give me a recommendation?

Doubtful.

“What the hell, honey bun?” I blink and stare down at the salad dressing. I was attempting to refill the large container of our house dressing, but my imagination took over and now that creamy white stuff has run out of the dispenser, all over the counter. I glance at my feet and see it’s also dripping off the countertop. I jump back and frown at my garlic-parmesan-covered Converse. “Great.” Just great.

The night got progressively worse from there. I delivered the wrong food to my tables three separate times. I spilled two beers and one manhattan onto the floor. I dropped a dish of marinara dipping sauce, and it splattered all over the back of a man in a white shirt. Rome was forced to comp their meal, and he offered to buy that customer a new shirt. All the while he was glaring daggers at me.

I was tempted to tell him it was his fault for asking to speak to me after shift. He knows I’m a worrier.

I guess my only consolation is the fact that the special had no baby-animal meat. It was his mom’s favorite, tuscan salmon. It looked amazing; I’m not surprised we sold out fast.

“Your six-top is asking for you,” Jackie said snidely. “Again.”

“What is up that woman’s ass lately?” Jeriann asks as she sidles up to me.

“No idea.” I race to the door that we use to exit into the dining room from the kitchen. We’ve got an “in” door too. It helps keep us from crashing into each other when we’re rushing around. Holding a large tray filled with salads, I turn and push the “out” door with my ass, turning as soon as I’m through, but I’m stopped when I run smack-dab into Rome, who was about to come in the “out” door. The tray filled with salads and two bread baskets ends up all over the floor around us.

“Jesus, Elizabeth. What the f––hell?”

I don’t bother explaining that it was his fault, I race back into the kitchen to remake the salads.

“How’d you do tonight?” Jeriann’s referring to my tips. I reach into my apron pocket and pull out a handful of one-dollar bills and a lot of change. “Not good.” I feel the burn of tears behind my eyes and do everything I can to stop from stress crying, but the quivering lower lip is on its own. She sees it.

We’re the last two servers in the place. Everyone else finished their closing work and left. At least there’s that. She wraps her arm over my shoulder and pulls me into a hug. “We all have days like that, honey bun. We all have times when everything goes wrong.”