65 Year Tantrum

As any normal day at Orem's Diner, especially during the holiday season, large parties have a tendency to come into the restaurant. This bright and shining day, mostly because of the sunlight reflecting on the marble flooring at 8:30am, gives a very nice effect actually, a party of seven came in, mostly made up of children. The only table available for such a large party was a round booth in the far corner on the right hand side of the door. Perfect. Except for the fact that there was a leather jacket and a baseball cap and a folder of some kind in the booth.

"Hey Dee? Any one over at table 20?"
"No, there isn't."
"Alright."

Thus I proceed to gather the items, muttering to myself about forgetful people when an old man comes out of the restrooms. The orange shirt struck me first, followed by a stereotypical neck piece a Texan would wear, before I even got to his face. My eyes blinked a few times, taking in the sight before me. All I could think was; 'Holy Christ. You are bright.'

"Those are my things."
"Oh, well I was unaware that you were sitting here. How many are you going to be sir?"
"We're going to be four."
"Uh, no, then you can't sit here. This table is for five or more and I have a party of seven."

Here, the man snatches, quite angrily from my hands, his leather coat, which he folded up, and grabbed his folder of some kind and said to me in a very angry and annoyed voice.

"Well, then, where do you suggest I go?"
"Any other booth you want."

So, he sits in the booth next to the round table, and this is what he did before he sat down. He THROWS his jacket into the corner of the booth and SLAMS the folder onto the table before sitting down with a huff and a grumble. Walking away calmly, I rolled my eyes while my back was turned, left some menus on his table and had the party of seven settle in. In the end, he and his business partner ended up staying in that booth for two and a half hours talking business. They were lucky we weren't busy today.

Just goes to show you that even men of age SIXTY-FIVE can throw hissy fits and tantrums. Go fucking figure.

Common Sense Ye Be Lacking

from December Twenty - Third, Two Thousand and Seven

It never ceases to amaze me. Every time I come back to work at the diner, I am reminded of how much I hate the people that come in and the common sense that they lack. Sure, maybe that does sound a little harsh, and maybe my view on people is a little skewed. I'm willing to admit that. This time of year always makes me angry when working. I thought it was the holiday of good will towards men. I suppose not.

A woman (I hope that you read this one day and realize what a royal pain you are) called the diner asking if it was possible for us to reserve a few table for her and a party of ten people. Mind you this is in the middle of the lunch hour. I told her, I am sorry but we do not take reservations. However, AT THIS MOMENT we are not busy so if you WANT to come in, it should not be a problem. Said what was needed to be said and hung up on her, politely. Getting busy at that point tends to put things out of your mind.

Lo and behold about ten minutes later, the large part shows up and the woman starts LECTURING me that what I said on the phone was not nice and that they have elderly and children in their group who are hungry and they come to the diner all the time. Now, not only is this woman reiterating what she originally began with when she first started, but she is also trying to guilt trip me. No offense people, but that shit doesn't work on me. Youngest in my family and I have a lot of small cousins. I dare you to try it. They got seated within two minutes of coming in, but unfortunately they believed to be the only people in the diner. Common sense, come on people, is it that hard to apply??

Father Dearest

from December Twenty Second, Two Thousand and Seven

There seems to be an interesting sort of feeling that goes on in the entirety of this place. Despite the fact that I stand behind the register, not really being able to move, I keep a watchful eye on my father. He is the most fascinating individual here in the restaurant. His eyes are always moving. You have to really look for those blue crystals that he uses to look out at the world with. They lay hidden beneath the folds of his lids, buried under thick bush brows, that he has a bad habit of trimming with the scissors. I tell him that they will just get worse that way.

I often wonder what he is thinking about. What exactly goes on in that mind of his? For forty years my father has been in this country. He came here in the seventies with little money in his pocket, wanting a better existence, better life, for the family he was to create with my mother. I sometimes think that he lets his memory manifest, giving himself a moment to just breath and remember. Does he think about the first day he landed here in America? About the men who stole his car and he chased after them to get his papers back? About his mother? And father? About the drama going on in the family with my brother? His heart? But the breathe comes short. It's back to reality. Back to the grind of running, working, burning.

His hands, old and scarred, are, wrinkled yet smooth. Veins pop slightly from his boning hands, fingers continually moving. Before I learned to drive, I would watch my father during the car ride home. He always keeps one hand on the stick. Constantly his fingers moved, as if pointing to something. Whenever I asked what it was he was doing, he had no idea what I was talking about; seems that he was having an important conversation in his head to the point where he didnt even remember I was in the car. His fingers dance across his heart as well. I worry when I see him do that. The movement must be subconscious, more than likely a constant reminder that he is not as young as he used to be. When a man that you care for deeply tells your brother to call an ambulance, when he never goes to the doctor unless really pushed, it puts some thing into perspective for you.

When that happened, daddy took a moment to look at everything in the house that we owned. The movement was slow, thoughtful, old eyes examining things he took for granted, if he did. That year, for the first time, he helped us decorate the tree. My mother and I looked at one another.

I had never been so frightened in my life.

Beginning of a Beginning...

or something along those lines.

I suddenly feel as if the world that I had been working for and in and around, came shattering down like a cascade of ice particles playing in the wind. Maybe I wasn't supposed to be in art school. Now, here, at the end of a beginning, or a beginning of an end, I find myself being geared in a direction that has the visual world a secondary thing. My emotions are reeling all over the place and I want to focus more on my writing aspect than anything else. I wonder if that is selfish of me at all.