"I asked Leslie if she was f---ing Jason," was the first thing that assaulted my ears as I walked into work last weekend. Allie couldn't resist the gossip. Or the drama. I wasn't surprised she was the one to ask Leslie. In some ways, you had to respect the courage. In others you had to cringe because it was Allie.
Allie is what they call a full-timer. Someone who became a permanent waitress at the fresh young age of 16, right after she dropped out of school, and just a year before she got pregnant, married her boyfriend, and resigned herself to a full-time life of waiting tables. Some decisions were her own. Other things that happened were the result of some unfortunate fate. Her boyfriend turned out to be a deadbeat who stole her tips from her as she was sleeping, and then snuck out to buy drugs, and slept the days away, "caring" for their child, while she worked doubles to make ends meet.
But that was decades ago. And Allie was now a hardened forty-year-old, who looked about 15 years older. Her latest boyfriend (whom she sometimes referred to as her husband - we weren't quite sure which he was -- or maybe she had both.) was a professional workingman's compensation angler. He would work somewhere just long enough to get just hurt enough so that he could sue for disability. He was decent at this trick, but also liked to supplement his income with a few odd scams here and there. His most famous one was having Allie call her waitress friends and ask them to deposit checks in their bank accounts, and give Allie the cash, claiming she and Brad didn't have their own bank accounts.
Besides questionable financial habits, Allie and her boyfriend also had a fondness for prescription pain killers. So much so, that when Allie heard that Gina , another waitress, had called in sick because she slipped a disk, Allie went to visit her the next day and beg for a couple pills because she, too, had slipped a disk, and didn't have the insurance to go to a doctor to get treated.
Gina was so surprised to see Allie, and was caught so off guard, that she did give her a couple pills. That was all the encouragement Allie needed, because for the next week, she must have called Gina four more times to ask for more. Gina cut her off after the first visit, and finally stopped answering her phone altogether. Apparently, Allie was still getting her stash from some other connection, because one night last month, she was so doped up while working, that two waitresses had to hold her up, dab her forehead with cold compresses, and do all her work for her, hoping that Jason wouldn't notice she was spending an awful lot of time in the back room.
Yes, even though Allie drove them all crazy, the camaraderie of the women at Brady's overcomes the judgement and disgust that we all often have for Allie. We know she's had a tough life -- and it started with those first mistakes in her teenage years. Since then, she has had one more child of her own, and married into being a mother of 3 more. She tells stories about them -- each one sadder and more heart-tugging than the next. One's missing at war in Iraq, one ran away, the other is getting kicked out of high school. Oh, and add to those miserable details the fact that she has had 3 different kinds of cancer, is now married to (or girlfriend of) a disabled man ("He's not THAT disabled" she never hesitates to share with us), and living with her "in-laws," and one can't help but feel terrible for Allie.
But wait. She fooled me with all of these sob stories when I was one weekend into my first month at Brady's. Since then I have come to know that the "soldier in Iraq" is a mechanic on an Army Base in South Carolina; the "run-away" is in boarding school in Connecticut, and the one flunking out of high school is actually a normal, well-adjusted teenager (as normal as one can be as a by-product of Allie). And no, she has never had cancer of any sort.
And now I don't believe her when she tells me she is 5 months pregnant; is leaving her husband after the holidays; or is depressed because her mother-in-law passed away last night in her arms. Because, she will then turn around, tell Rodrigo, the very proper waiter, as she grabs him from behind, that she loves his "Italian ass" and that she is so horny because she hasn't had "any ass" whatsoever in 9 months. Allie, in a nutshell.
So when it was she telling me that she had confronted Leslie about the rumored affair with Jason, I didn't know what to say. Really, I try not to talk to her at all, as I do not want to be associated with that kind of crazy. But she was dying to talk, so, making sure that Chris, the bar back was there to overhear the whole thing, so that later, when she changes her story, he can corroborate, I did what every other waitress (or patron) tries so hard to avoid -- I engaged her in conversation. Must be the bartender in me.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Banana Nights
Leslie wasn't in on Saturday. And, as expected, the banana did not appear. The banana had come to represent the existence of their extramarital affair with each other -- Jason's extra mojo builder to get him over the late-night-hump so he would be able to keep up with someone half his age, once the stragglers were kicked out and Brady's was finally closed for the night.
On Banana Nights, the entire staff, ex-Leslie, would cash out and head next door to Charters, a dive bar that served cheap drinks and was open much later than Jason liked to keep Brady's open. Most of waitresses made this a weekend tradition -- the only requirement being that they made at least ten times more than they were planning to spend at Charters. (For most, that threshold was $150, but the number would go down, relative to the amount of frustrations and obnoxious patrons they dealt with at Brady's. And yes, the place is that cheap, where the girls could gossip for an hour or two, have 2 or 3 drinks, and still manage to drop only $15 each with tip included.)
And on these Banana Nights, when the girls would wrap up for the night and escort each other past Brady's to their cars, they would always notice Jason's office lights still on. Jason was not one to stick around, working the numbers or ordering inventory into the wee hours of the night, like some restaurant owners did. In his perfect world, Brady's would be closed up and he would be home every night by 10:30. He seemed bothered anytime he was forced to stay open to cater to any late arrivers, especially those that ended up nursing their glass of wine past 11:00.
He has been known to flick lights, noisily remove the cash register drawer, mop up floors around such patrons and explosively turn the music up deafeningly loud for half an instant, and then turn it off -- all in hopes that the late-night revelers would abandon their drinks and head out. Sometimes he would even offer up Charters next door - though he would never be caught dead in there himself.
This is how badly Jason hated being at Brady's too late. If he could meet these hopeful women at the door, that would have come in for the too-late-night-cap, he would, and say quite gruffly, "We're closed." They didn't want to eat, they would say. Just have a quick drink. Then he would stare, not say anything, until they changed their minds and left for friendlier places. As they left, he would pleasantly call after them, "Come back next week at 9...!"
He was so mad at me one night for letting some late-night women come in for their "quick drink" that he lectured me on what to do next time for the entire time they were there, explaining to me," If I wanted to listen to male bashing [which is what they were doing, and it was quite funny] I would just go home and talk to Sarah." Yikes. I bet Leslie doesn't male-bash...
And then the waitresses would notice Leslie's car still in the parking lot, too - and it was quite clear what they both were doing together at 1 in the morning, while their respective spouses waited at home for them to return from a "busy night" at Brady's.
But something happened to suddenly halt the affair for more than 6 months. Leslie left one day, mid-shift, throwing around allegations of sexual harassment on her way out the door to whomever would listen. (We're women -- we all listened!) But we weren't sure whether Leslie was telling the truth, or if she was feeling like a scorned woman and was lashing out to punish Jason for staying with his wife.
The week before Leslie's husband had come into Brady's with a few colleagues. Jason, it was reported, was acting like a jealous boyfriend the whole time, and kept sending for Leslie to see him in his office for made-up "emergencies" like scheduling conflicts and new drink menus. And then, before Leslie's husband ended his business dinner, he quietly stepped into Jason's office himself, closed the door, and spoke to him "man-to-man," Leslie told us.
No one was able to corroborate her story, since Leslie was the only waitress on the floor that night, handling both the bar and the dining room. Something probably happened, but the extent of the drama and intrigue is unknown. What we did all find out is that Leslie is a delusional, crazy, ego-maniac. And Jason isn't too much better for getting wrapped up in her drama-filled life. But from all accounts, he did seem to like her plenty.
And then suddenly, the same weekend that Jaques, Jason's star chef was gone, Leslie was back. Jason had plenty of things to worry about -- but Saturday night, a banana was not one of them. He must have given her the night off so he only had to deal with one crisis at a time. We thought.
On Banana Nights, the entire staff, ex-Leslie, would cash out and head next door to Charters, a dive bar that served cheap drinks and was open much later than Jason liked to keep Brady's open. Most of waitresses made this a weekend tradition -- the only requirement being that they made at least ten times more than they were planning to spend at Charters. (For most, that threshold was $150, but the number would go down, relative to the amount of frustrations and obnoxious patrons they dealt with at Brady's. And yes, the place is that cheap, where the girls could gossip for an hour or two, have 2 or 3 drinks, and still manage to drop only $15 each with tip included.)
And on these Banana Nights, when the girls would wrap up for the night and escort each other past Brady's to their cars, they would always notice Jason's office lights still on. Jason was not one to stick around, working the numbers or ordering inventory into the wee hours of the night, like some restaurant owners did. In his perfect world, Brady's would be closed up and he would be home every night by 10:30. He seemed bothered anytime he was forced to stay open to cater to any late arrivers, especially those that ended up nursing their glass of wine past 11:00.
He has been known to flick lights, noisily remove the cash register drawer, mop up floors around such patrons and explosively turn the music up deafeningly loud for half an instant, and then turn it off -- all in hopes that the late-night revelers would abandon their drinks and head out. Sometimes he would even offer up Charters next door - though he would never be caught dead in there himself.
This is how badly Jason hated being at Brady's too late. If he could meet these hopeful women at the door, that would have come in for the too-late-night-cap, he would, and say quite gruffly, "We're closed." They didn't want to eat, they would say. Just have a quick drink. Then he would stare, not say anything, until they changed their minds and left for friendlier places. As they left, he would pleasantly call after them, "Come back next week at 9...!"
He was so mad at me one night for letting some late-night women come in for their "quick drink" that he lectured me on what to do next time for the entire time they were there, explaining to me," If I wanted to listen to male bashing [which is what they were doing, and it was quite funny] I would just go home and talk to Sarah." Yikes. I bet Leslie doesn't male-bash...
And then the waitresses would notice Leslie's car still in the parking lot, too - and it was quite clear what they both were doing together at 1 in the morning, while their respective spouses waited at home for them to return from a "busy night" at Brady's.
But something happened to suddenly halt the affair for more than 6 months. Leslie left one day, mid-shift, throwing around allegations of sexual harassment on her way out the door to whomever would listen. (We're women -- we all listened!) But we weren't sure whether Leslie was telling the truth, or if she was feeling like a scorned woman and was lashing out to punish Jason for staying with his wife.
The week before Leslie's husband had come into Brady's with a few colleagues. Jason, it was reported, was acting like a jealous boyfriend the whole time, and kept sending for Leslie to see him in his office for made-up "emergencies" like scheduling conflicts and new drink menus. And then, before Leslie's husband ended his business dinner, he quietly stepped into Jason's office himself, closed the door, and spoke to him "man-to-man," Leslie told us.
No one was able to corroborate her story, since Leslie was the only waitress on the floor that night, handling both the bar and the dining room. Something probably happened, but the extent of the drama and intrigue is unknown. What we did all find out is that Leslie is a delusional, crazy, ego-maniac. And Jason isn't too much better for getting wrapped up in her drama-filled life. But from all accounts, he did seem to like her plenty.
And then suddenly, the same weekend that Jaques, Jason's star chef was gone, Leslie was back. Jason had plenty of things to worry about -- but Saturday night, a banana was not one of them. He must have given her the night off so he only had to deal with one crisis at a time. We thought.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Mystery and Drama -- On the Inside
Wow, do I wish I had more time before heading back into the insanity that is work these days. And no, I don't mean the Insanity with a capital "I" that I have started subjecting myself to on a daily basis. Now that P90X is just a fond (yeah, right) distant memory, a crazy, jacked, (dare-I-say "hot") former track and field star named Shawn T (well, actually he goes by Sean but I like the way Shaawwwwwn sounds so much better.) has been kicking my ass into cardio shape.
He promises 1 year of results in just 60 days of exercise. The way my attention span falters, I figured it was a sure thing. You are not sure if you watching a Saturday Night Live skit when he says things like "You see this leg?" with his slightly-flamboyant mannerisms and less than masculine voice. "You are gonna pick this leg up. Oh, yeah, look at me pickin' this leg up, ya'll!" But hey, he's cute, sweaty and if I can get abs even close to the hot chicks that run suicides and mountain climbers behind him in the basketball court, then I am more than thrilled to have signed up.
No, the insanity of which I am speaking is the predicted sure demise of a once-great bar and restaurant. Well, maybe that's an overstatement - an exaggeration of sorts. But things, they are a changin'.
Last night, for instance, after walking into work after only being gone for 5 short days (love those 2-day work weeks! Especially on Sundays when the work "week" is over...), I learn that the award-winning, much-beloved chef is no longer running Brady's. Hmm, odd - wasn't I just dancing with him at the Club next door not 5 nights ago, blowing off after-work steam, and NOT TALKING about how it was his last night? Hmmph. I guess he didn't want to ruin the celebratory mood or our late-night buzzes, happy to finally enjoy them after a crazy night of relentless service. We were enjoying being the ones to say "Blah blah blah, in a tall glass, with crushed - not cubed - ice, 4 olives, cryogenically cold, and really strong". (Oh, right - that was snobby, bum-hip, elbow-patched navy blue blazer... not US).
Anyway, Chef Jacques was gone. But the lines were still forming, people still clamoring to get seats at the bar before the people ahead of them who lingered just a second too long at the hostess stand did. (Oh, and these seat-stealers always come prepared to defend their brazenness to those whose seats they "stole". "It's a free country" they say. I always hate that reasoning. And it's always met with "Well, we were ahead of you." Another equally compelling defense. And then it always moves along to "As long as you buy us a drink, we'll LET you have our seats." I try to mediate, wanting everyone to sit, to enjoy, to tip... So I interject when I should, stay quiet when I can, and use my bartender ESP to solve everything, like "Hey, these people are leaving soon; you can have their seats - they're a better angle to the TV and basketball scores anyway," I manage with a side-nod and a wide-eye connection to the offended party. Usually works.)
But, back to the missing chef. It doesn't really affect my night, because bar-sitters come first for the atmosphere (okay, "Bartender"), second for the drinks, and a distant third for the chef's reputation. As long as one and two on their priority list are covered, I am sure they will overlook the fact that the sous-chef has quietly assumed the top duties. And yes, the kitchen is open, so it is really their fault for not noticing themselves that the celebrity is no longer back there concocting their orders with his notorious flair.
No matter, really, because their backs are to the kitchen; their attention being paid to the Celtics, the bartender, and sometimes even their date. So crisis averted. LAST NIGHT.
But will tonight be different, I wonder. Will the word spread as it does in the close-knit fine-dining environment, enough by tonight that people will actually ask, interested in the imagined (or not) drama that surrounded this surprising exit??
Or will tonight simply be a retrodden version of LAST night? Where people worry more about the obnoxious drunk in the corner, who called the classy bartender "the girl with the pipes" who he would want on his side if there were ever a fight in the bar (wishful thinking on his part on both counts); or that Chris, the Bar Back is so dejected over the sudden break-up of his still-in-college sweetheart that he wanted to punch the guy because he referred to him as the "kid" he would "forget about", not wanting him on his side in the fight.
Or maybe the mysterious "banana" will reappear again tonight (which can only mean that Jason the owner is trying to increase his late-night stamina later before he goes to visit his rumored ex-mistress, whom he recently hired back to the restaurant.) The Banana was back last night, a silent and sudden fixture on his office desk, that hadn't been there for over 6 months -- the same amount of time as Leslie's hiatus from Brady's. And, as a coincidence, wife Sarah was absent. Had she taken off with Jacques to make a fresh start in this gossip-riddled, tawdry food industry?
Time will tell. Tonight the bartender will be just as interested in the interworkings of the staff and management as she will be in the blind dates, drunken shenanigans and embarrassing moments usually reserved for just the patrons. Can't wait to go in: T minus 2 hours!
He promises 1 year of results in just 60 days of exercise. The way my attention span falters, I figured it was a sure thing. You are not sure if you watching a Saturday Night Live skit when he says things like "You see this leg?" with his slightly-flamboyant mannerisms and less than masculine voice. "You are gonna pick this leg up. Oh, yeah, look at me pickin' this leg up, ya'll!" But hey, he's cute, sweaty and if I can get abs even close to the hot chicks that run suicides and mountain climbers behind him in the basketball court, then I am more than thrilled to have signed up.
No, the insanity of which I am speaking is the predicted sure demise of a once-great bar and restaurant. Well, maybe that's an overstatement - an exaggeration of sorts. But things, they are a changin'.
Last night, for instance, after walking into work after only being gone for 5 short days (love those 2-day work weeks! Especially on Sundays when the work "week" is over...), I learn that the award-winning, much-beloved chef is no longer running Brady's. Hmm, odd - wasn't I just dancing with him at the Club next door not 5 nights ago, blowing off after-work steam, and NOT TALKING about how it was his last night? Hmmph. I guess he didn't want to ruin the celebratory mood or our late-night buzzes, happy to finally enjoy them after a crazy night of relentless service. We were enjoying being the ones to say "Blah blah blah, in a tall glass, with crushed - not cubed - ice, 4 olives, cryogenically cold, and really strong". (Oh, right - that was snobby, bum-hip, elbow-patched navy blue blazer... not US).
Anyway, Chef Jacques was gone. But the lines were still forming, people still clamoring to get seats at the bar before the people ahead of them who lingered just a second too long at the hostess stand did. (Oh, and these seat-stealers always come prepared to defend their brazenness to those whose seats they "stole". "It's a free country" they say. I always hate that reasoning. And it's always met with "Well, we were ahead of you." Another equally compelling defense. And then it always moves along to "As long as you buy us a drink, we'll LET you have our seats." I try to mediate, wanting everyone to sit, to enjoy, to tip... So I interject when I should, stay quiet when I can, and use my bartender ESP to solve everything, like "Hey, these people are leaving soon; you can have their seats - they're a better angle to the TV and basketball scores anyway," I manage with a side-nod and a wide-eye connection to the offended party. Usually works.)
But, back to the missing chef. It doesn't really affect my night, because bar-sitters come first for the atmosphere (okay, "Bartender"), second for the drinks, and a distant third for the chef's reputation. As long as one and two on their priority list are covered, I am sure they will overlook the fact that the sous-chef has quietly assumed the top duties. And yes, the kitchen is open, so it is really their fault for not noticing themselves that the celebrity is no longer back there concocting their orders with his notorious flair.
No matter, really, because their backs are to the kitchen; their attention being paid to the Celtics, the bartender, and sometimes even their date. So crisis averted. LAST NIGHT.
But will tonight be different, I wonder. Will the word spread as it does in the close-knit fine-dining environment, enough by tonight that people will actually ask, interested in the imagined (or not) drama that surrounded this surprising exit??
Or will tonight simply be a retrodden version of LAST night? Where people worry more about the obnoxious drunk in the corner, who called the classy bartender "the girl with the pipes" who he would want on his side if there were ever a fight in the bar (wishful thinking on his part on both counts); or that Chris, the Bar Back is so dejected over the sudden break-up of his still-in-college sweetheart that he wanted to punch the guy because he referred to him as the "kid" he would "forget about", not wanting him on his side in the fight.
Or maybe the mysterious "banana" will reappear again tonight (which can only mean that Jason the owner is trying to increase his late-night stamina later before he goes to visit his rumored ex-mistress, whom he recently hired back to the restaurant.) The Banana was back last night, a silent and sudden fixture on his office desk, that hadn't been there for over 6 months -- the same amount of time as Leslie's hiatus from Brady's. And, as a coincidence, wife Sarah was absent. Had she taken off with Jacques to make a fresh start in this gossip-riddled, tawdry food industry?
Time will tell. Tonight the bartender will be just as interested in the interworkings of the staff and management as she will be in the blind dates, drunken shenanigans and embarrassing moments usually reserved for just the patrons. Can't wait to go in: T minus 2 hours!
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Bartender Jackpot: Blind Date Part 4: A Gawky Goodnight
"Say it isn't so!" I scream on the inside. Not that I am judging Jane in any way for once weighing in at 400 pounds. She looks great now, and her diet or exercise or surgical experience has certainly done the trick.
No, the problem I have now is that respectable Jane is being somewhat drawn into Mitch's "allure". She must feel a camaraderie with this until-now nothing-special blind date.
And then I realize why Jane, who looked so put together, needed a blind date. She still feels insecure about the old Jane, the obese one that was left in the corner while guys talked to her thinner, more attractive friends. These were not my observations, but Mitch's, as the night went on, and he decided he would go in for the empathetic route back to her place later, he desperately hoped.
Nice, Mitch. Not only is he saying these things, in hopes to connect with her, and tell her that he, too used to be (not ANYMORE???) the left-out hefty teenager, and the relentlessly-teased awkward athlete. But he is choosing his moments wisely - like after her second extra-strong martini, or when she is about to take a phone call from her ex-husband. You gotta give him some degree of credit - using his survival skills and scrappiness when he needs them the most.
They had both had gastric bypass surgery, they told each other. When I heard that, I understood their reluctance to order -- or do anything -- without the other's agreement -- each needing the other's approval in some degree. "Would you like to order an appetizer?" "Hmm, do you want one?," he would ask her. "I don't care - do you?" This dance happened all night - dinner order, sparkling water or regular water, even with the next drink order... It was getting old fast.
At one point, Mitch DID manage to get to the men's room, leaving an empty wine glass before he got up. So I say to Jane, fully expecting an affirmative answer, "Should we get him another one while he's gone?" She nods reflexively, then must think better, and instead says, "We should probably ask him. I don't want to be presumptuous, and then he'll think I want him to get drunk, and....." Gotcha. So now I am even more confused. But it's time for the bartender to play a little - this is after all, the extent of my entertainment on this Saturday night. Everyone else is drinking and eating without much fanfare, and I DO have a blog to write.
So when Mitch gets back, I say, jokingly, "We were trying to guess whether or not you'd get another Pinot Grigio, but then I told Jane you'd want something more manly - to impress us - right?"
He goofily attempts to play along. "Oh, right." "Well I DID invent my own drink." I think to myself, that this is way too easy, and maybe I shouldn't have exploited his pompousness, self-consciousness and loneliness after all. But it WAS Saturday night. So I ask, "What's it named?"
Now at this point, Jane is looking expectantly, thinking this guy might be cool after all. He likes to drink - and not just Pinot Grigio. And he is giving me all sorts of attention. Maybe it will work out. And then Mitch goes and sabotages himself:
"The Mitch-inator," he announces with such authority that my friends at the opposite end of the bar, whom I have let in on the fact that a blind date is happening at the other end, and there may be some entertainment if they listen carefully, practically spit out their martinis, and look at me like "STOP IT! You can't encourage this guy anymore because we are all way too embarrassed for him."
Not as embarrassed as Jane apparently. And then Mitch adds, "You know like the Terminator, but it's the Mitch-inator."
And the guy sitting next to Mitch, who has remained stoic all night, devoted instead to a Saturday night baseball game, can't even ignore this one, and says to Jane," That must be because it ends all his dates." At this moment, Jason passes by as if coming from nowhere (we know that he sees and hears everything in the whole restaurant even though he may not fill us in on it til the next week, a la his White Board observations.) But with the history between these two, Jason can't resist a real-time comment. He slaps Mitch on the back and with dripping sardonic empathy:"SOOOO good to have you back, ole buddy."
Mitch tries to score some clever points with Jane by asking, "Hey Jason - didn't I see you driving a black Porsche last week? It's a Boxster, right?"
"Ahh, no. It's a 9-11." Jason would normally check this type of ostentatiousness, but can't help himself, due to the fact that the very last time these two were together, Mitch practically spat in his face while telling him he would never return to Brady's. "So what brings you back here, Mitch? It's been awhile?" he asks, trying to take the high road now.
"Just meeting someone special," he purrs as he strokes Jane's shoulder.
Ewww. Ewww. Ewww. Bartender Swoop-in: "So, Jane - shall I make you a Mitch-inator?" She politely declines without even asking again what's in it, and then comments to no one in particular that it's getting late anyway, while glancing at her watch.
Just then Mitch takes her hand in his, turns it over, and slips off her watch. Baseball game-watcher, my friends, and almost everyone else, exchange ashamed looks as if all in on a really bad, really private joke. Mitch, of course, is unflinching and unapologetic.
They debate for the next few minutes on the trajectory of the rest of the date: Go next door and listen to music; stay for another drink; call it a night. I interject that a really great band is playing next door - both to get them out of my sight because I can't take this fumbling, and because I know they cannot make a decision on their own.
At this point, the rest of the bar has totally cleared out, and I am left to clean and re-clean, and find lots of different ways to signify how late it is, including turning the surrounding lights off, blowing out the bar-rail candles, and wondering aloud who's on Letterman tonight.
Finally they take the hint -- or Mitch maybe get his own individualized hint that this date isn't going anywhere else. Though he has tried many different angles, including offering to keep an extra car key for her when she mentions, only because she is looking for something to talk about, that she sometimes misplaces her Minivan keys.
He defeatedly walks her out of the restaurant, I assume to her car to end the date with one last chance at a continuance. But no such luck. Mitch reappears not three minutes later, and actually has the nerve to say:
"You say that band is really good? Wanna grab a drink and talk P90X? I've got lots of pointers."
Somehow, Mitch, I think that is one thing you don't have enough of...
No, the problem I have now is that respectable Jane is being somewhat drawn into Mitch's "allure". She must feel a camaraderie with this until-now nothing-special blind date.
And then I realize why Jane, who looked so put together, needed a blind date. She still feels insecure about the old Jane, the obese one that was left in the corner while guys talked to her thinner, more attractive friends. These were not my observations, but Mitch's, as the night went on, and he decided he would go in for the empathetic route back to her place later, he desperately hoped.
Nice, Mitch. Not only is he saying these things, in hopes to connect with her, and tell her that he, too used to be (not ANYMORE???) the left-out hefty teenager, and the relentlessly-teased awkward athlete. But he is choosing his moments wisely - like after her second extra-strong martini, or when she is about to take a phone call from her ex-husband. You gotta give him some degree of credit - using his survival skills and scrappiness when he needs them the most.
They had both had gastric bypass surgery, they told each other. When I heard that, I understood their reluctance to order -- or do anything -- without the other's agreement -- each needing the other's approval in some degree. "Would you like to order an appetizer?" "Hmm, do you want one?," he would ask her. "I don't care - do you?" This dance happened all night - dinner order, sparkling water or regular water, even with the next drink order... It was getting old fast.
At one point, Mitch DID manage to get to the men's room, leaving an empty wine glass before he got up. So I say to Jane, fully expecting an affirmative answer, "Should we get him another one while he's gone?" She nods reflexively, then must think better, and instead says, "We should probably ask him. I don't want to be presumptuous, and then he'll think I want him to get drunk, and....." Gotcha. So now I am even more confused. But it's time for the bartender to play a little - this is after all, the extent of my entertainment on this Saturday night. Everyone else is drinking and eating without much fanfare, and I DO have a blog to write.
So when Mitch gets back, I say, jokingly, "We were trying to guess whether or not you'd get another Pinot Grigio, but then I told Jane you'd want something more manly - to impress us - right?"
He goofily attempts to play along. "Oh, right." "Well I DID invent my own drink." I think to myself, that this is way too easy, and maybe I shouldn't have exploited his pompousness, self-consciousness and loneliness after all. But it WAS Saturday night. So I ask, "What's it named?"
Now at this point, Jane is looking expectantly, thinking this guy might be cool after all. He likes to drink - and not just Pinot Grigio. And he is giving me all sorts of attention. Maybe it will work out. And then Mitch goes and sabotages himself:
"The Mitch-inator," he announces with such authority that my friends at the opposite end of the bar, whom I have let in on the fact that a blind date is happening at the other end, and there may be some entertainment if they listen carefully, practically spit out their martinis, and look at me like "STOP IT! You can't encourage this guy anymore because we are all way too embarrassed for him."
Not as embarrassed as Jane apparently. And then Mitch adds, "You know like the Terminator, but it's the Mitch-inator."
And the guy sitting next to Mitch, who has remained stoic all night, devoted instead to a Saturday night baseball game, can't even ignore this one, and says to Jane," That must be because it ends all his dates." At this moment, Jason passes by as if coming from nowhere (we know that he sees and hears everything in the whole restaurant even though he may not fill us in on it til the next week, a la his White Board observations.) But with the history between these two, Jason can't resist a real-time comment. He slaps Mitch on the back and with dripping sardonic empathy:"SOOOO good to have you back, ole buddy."
Mitch tries to score some clever points with Jane by asking, "Hey Jason - didn't I see you driving a black Porsche last week? It's a Boxster, right?"
"Ahh, no. It's a 9-11." Jason would normally check this type of ostentatiousness, but can't help himself, due to the fact that the very last time these two were together, Mitch practically spat in his face while telling him he would never return to Brady's. "So what brings you back here, Mitch? It's been awhile?" he asks, trying to take the high road now.
"Just meeting someone special," he purrs as he strokes Jane's shoulder.
Ewww. Ewww. Ewww. Bartender Swoop-in: "So, Jane - shall I make you a Mitch-inator?" She politely declines without even asking again what's in it, and then comments to no one in particular that it's getting late anyway, while glancing at her watch.
Just then Mitch takes her hand in his, turns it over, and slips off her watch. Baseball game-watcher, my friends, and almost everyone else, exchange ashamed looks as if all in on a really bad, really private joke. Mitch, of course, is unflinching and unapologetic.
They debate for the next few minutes on the trajectory of the rest of the date: Go next door and listen to music; stay for another drink; call it a night. I interject that a really great band is playing next door - both to get them out of my sight because I can't take this fumbling, and because I know they cannot make a decision on their own.
At this point, the rest of the bar has totally cleared out, and I am left to clean and re-clean, and find lots of different ways to signify how late it is, including turning the surrounding lights off, blowing out the bar-rail candles, and wondering aloud who's on Letterman tonight.
Finally they take the hint -- or Mitch maybe get his own individualized hint that this date isn't going anywhere else. Though he has tried many different angles, including offering to keep an extra car key for her when she mentions, only because she is looking for something to talk about, that she sometimes misplaces her Minivan keys.
He defeatedly walks her out of the restaurant, I assume to her car to end the date with one last chance at a continuance. But no such luck. Mitch reappears not three minutes later, and actually has the nerve to say:
"You say that band is really good? Wanna grab a drink and talk P90X? I've got lots of pointers."
Somehow, Mitch, I think that is one thing you don't have enough of...
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