“So I have one Sweet Tea and one Midori Sour,” a spunky bright blond waitress says to Itzal and me. She skips away and I return my glance to Itzal who has a sour look on his face. It couldn’t be the food, we haven’t ordered yet. Granted I already know what I want. I love soup and salad deals for lunch. As much salad and soup for a one time price. Not only that, but the price is more on the line for a lunch value then dinner prices. The portions might not be as big as you would want, but since you can constantly order more food, that doesn’t matter.
“What’s the problem,” I ask Itzal.
“Midori Sour,” he responds. “I know what a Midori Sour is. Its alcohol.”
“Very little. So little in fact, that it’s really like kool-aid.”
“I don’t care how little it has in it, you don’t need it. Remember you told me to tell you not to get any. Ever. I only have a bottle of rum at home, and that’s from a year ago.”
Itzal is my safety blanket for when I’m not thinking. I don’t always want to drink but sometimes, I revert to my old self. Even without thinking.
“You’re right,” I say. “After this one drink, I won’t order anything else.”
“I’m going to tell her to pour it out.”
“Its only one...”
“One Midori Sour and one sweet tea,” the bubbly waitress says with our drinks in hand.
“He made a mistake. Bring him a cola, take the Midori back,” Itzal oozes out. The waitress is clearly confused.
“I thought you said,” she begins while looking at me.
“Take the drink back now. He made a mistake,” Itzal shouts. Conversation, silverware clinging and other ambient noises ceases for a moment and then returns. The waitress swears under her breath and takes my drink away.
“Was that necessary,” I ask. “Yelling at her like that, she was only doing her job.”
“You put her in that situation. You know better.”
“I know better, what am I your kid.”
“No, you’re my friend.” Itzal takes a sip of his sweet tea. “You need to remember something.”
“What’s that?” How did he know I would’ve taken a cola instead? I guess I have been around him as a friend for a while.
“Just like now, with this waitress. The decisions you make will not only affect you, but the people you come in contact with as well.”
The waitress comes over and places my cola on the table. She’s clearly not as happy and asks for our orders. Of course, we order our salads and soups. I make sure to order both helping of the salads. In a way, I’m in a rush. Need to leave soon and pick up Stacey for the doctors. I apologize for Itzal and she seems to leave in better spirits.
“I want to thank you again for coming out earlier. All support is appreciated.”
“Think it’ll help. Do you think people will boycott and maybe it’ll get our jobs back,” I say. Itzal shrugs. He doesn’t know like myself. Granted we both hope for the best but know when it comes to situations like this the company stays overseas and the American workers are forced to change jobs.
What has to be a new waiter in the back of the restaurant accidentally spills lemonade on a table of retirees. They seem in good spirits but the waiter is clearly upset at himself. Itzal and I turn around to see the commotion and can’t believe our eyes when the waiter slips on the lemonade that has now cascade to the floor. He shouts as he bangs his hand against the side of the table.
“There’s something you don’t see everyday,” Itzal comments.
I chuckle but notice a few patrons with their phones recording the mess. As if the poor guy isn’t embarrassed enough, he gets back up, only to slip and fall again. That’s going on the Internet for sure. Two of the waiter’s coworkers come over and help him up. His flushed face and humbled shoulders tells all.
Itzal laughs harder then I do. I’m in the food service industry. In away, I feel for the guy. After all a crazy mistake like that can happen to me or anyone on my team. My team, that’s unbelievable. I’m actually a supervisor again. I should feel happy.
“When we walked in you said you saw your Pastor before coming to the rally.”
“Yeah. It was good.”
“I see,” Itzal pauses, “Stacey?”
“She’s much better. I’m lucky for many of the people in our lives. Pedro being one of them.”
“There you go, messing up a good conversation.”
“I’m not sure why you hate him so much. Is it because he’s Mexican.”
Itzal gives me the strangest look. Crinkled eyes and a furled brow tell it all. “Racist, is that what you think,” Itzal begins to utter. His tone is getting loud, can’t have him to raise his anger.
“No, I just don’t know why you hate...”
“I don’t hate, but I can’t stand disloyalty. Besides Inez is Mexican, you’ve met her before.”
“No, actually I haven’t. She never went to any work parties.” Itzal nods, he forgot she was always a loner. I sip on my cola and feel like an idiot. All this time, I was like everyone else thinking that he might be racist for not liking Pedro. Yet it never dawned on me, until just now, that he was nice to Maria and his own wife is Mexican. So it must be something else.
“You keep saying loyalty. Pedro is gone like us. He has a new job at a temp service.”
“I’m not talking about that, something else he did. I don’t want to get into it, but if I were you, I would keep Stacey away from him. He’s not to be trusted.”
There’s no budge with this man. He’s bent on being secretive at whatever he’s talking about. Never heard him say I need to keep Stacey away. First the Pastor about his own little secret thing and now this. What other information can I possibly learn?
The table where the new or clumsy waiter dropped the lemonade is clean. Of course, the waiter and what has to be the manager apologizes. He will probably offer some type of percent off their meals, aren’t they lucky. Where is our waitress? Probably in the back spitting in our food due to Itzal yelling at her. Why did I say that, I know that’s not true? Working at Shank’s, I know that we actually don’t do that, but its still gets a little hard for me to remember where I work.
“Did your Pastor say anything of significance and where is our waitress,” Itzal says. He squints at some raven hair woman and asks, “Is that her?”
“No our waitress is a blond.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah, I can’t remember what she looks like but I know she was a blond. Had green eyes, big green eyes, and seem tallish. Like a basketball player tall.”
Itzal frowns. He takes another look at the black hair waitress who practically sprints over to another side of the restaurant. She’s headed for the back to get another table’s drink orders. He fixates on her, thinking I have to be lying. Before I can convince him that it’s not her, our waitress comes up with our food with help with the clumsy waiter. Great. That’s all I need is food on my shirt.
“Here comes our food and the Pastor talked about forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness, humph...” Itzal says. “They always say that.”
“You don’t believe in it?”
“Sometimes.” Our food is coming closer. The new guy looks shaky. “When it’s beneficial,” he says.
