Waiter Rant Read Online Free PDF Page B

Italian newspaper under his arm.
    “Who’s that?” he asks me, pointing to the Russian man.
    “Some guy looking for a job.”
    Caesar puts down his paper and walks up to the man.
    “Are you a Jew?” Caesar asks.
    “Huh?” the Russian replies.
    “Are you a Jew?”
    The Russian man puts down his coffee. He looks confused. “I looking for job,” he says.
    “I knew it,” Caesar says. “I can hear it in your voice. You’re a Jew. A filthy fucking Russian Jew.”
    I stand rooted to the floor in shock.
    “Get out of my restaurant!” Caesar yells. “Get out before I call the cops and tell them you’re stealing.”
    The Russian man makes a quick exit. Caesar watches him go, then walks up to me.
    “Who gave that guy a cup of coffee?” he demands.
    “I did,” I reply.
    “Why’d you let him in here?”
    “He was looking for a job, Caesar.”
    “I DECIDE WHO WORKS HERE!” Caesar screams. “NOT YOU! YOU FUCKING LOSER!”
    “R-relax, Caesar,” I stammer. “You’re gonna give yourself a coronary.”
    “YOU THINK YOU’RE FUNNY?” Caesar shouts. “I’LL FIRE YOU AND YOUR BROTHER.”
    It’s then I realize the gleam in his eyes isn’t the remnants of youthful vigor—it’s hatred. My brother’s in school and needs this job. He can’t afford my telling Caesar to shove it. Come to think of it, I can’t afford it either.
    “Sorry, Caesar,” I mumble.
    “Fucking Jews,” Caesar growls, storming off.
    I stare at the floor. Why am I taking shit from a guy like Caesar? Because I need money, that’s why. I wonder how many people are like me, trapped in jobs they don’t like, afraid to risk their paycheck by confronting a depraved boss.
    When Rizzo comes in, I tell him about the entire exchange.
    “Good old Caesar,” Rizzo sighs. “He won’t be B’nai B’rith’s Man of the Year anytime soon.”
    “How can he run a restaurant and be like that?”
    “Oh, Caesar’s all smiles taking your money. Jew, black, gay, he doesn’t care, just as long as your money’s green.”
    “Jesus,” I mutter.
    “Haven’t you noticed there’re no black or gay waiters here?” Rizzo says. “And if you’re Jewish, don’t advertise.”
    “Why is he like that?”
    “Caesar was born in Italy, but he grew up in Paraguay afterthe war,” Rizzo says. “I think his dad was probably some kind of Mussolini dude.”
    “No way.”
    “Didn’t you see The Boys from Brazil ?” Rizzo snorts. “A lot of those fascist shits moved down there.”
    “If you’re right,” I say, “that’d explain a lot.”
    “Welcome to the restaurant business.”
    Somehow I survive working that crazy sleep-deprived day. As the week progresses another waiter refusing to be shook down by Sammy quits in disgust. I catch a lucky break. The pool of available labor has tightened up. Sammy has no choice but to put me back on the primo dinner shifts. Since I have a good work ethic and show up on time, Sammy has to depend on me now. That keeps his predatory instincts at bay—for a while.
    My first weeks as a waiter go by slowly. Physically and mentally I manage to tough it out. It’s amazing how the threat of poverty helps you acclimate to anything. My feet stop hurting, and I graduate out of the special-ed section Rizzo had me training in. By my sixth Saturday night I beat Rizzo in tips.
    I’m proud of myself. I’m already working Saturday night shifts, and, to my amazement, I’m making more money than I earned at the hospital. Not having medical or vacation is incidental; I dove into a new job and made it work for me. That makes me feel good. As the weeks turn into months my anxiety level dissipates.
    I credit Rizzo for keeping me sane as I learned the waiter ropes. He’s a very strange man who’s led a very interesting life, and I quickly learn he’s never set foot in Vietnam. “The ’Nam?” he confessed to me. “Dude, I smoked so much pot that I don’t remember Nixon’s first term. I was never in the army. I just say that shit