I had him right where I wanted him. I was looking for the chance to get him back, and there it was, right in front of me. I was going to pay him back and it was going to be sweet.
A few weeks prior, the late 50s White man sat in my section at the restaurant. He was accompanied by 3 of his late 50s White friends. Judging by their attire, their day was built around golf: either they had just played or they were planning to play later. Perhaps even both. I saw the hostess seat me and I put on my best table-greeting smile.
“How y’all this afternoon?” I asked in my high tenor voice, placing a menu in front of each of them.
“It’s still morning,” he quipped with a sidelong look at his lunch companions.
“You’re so right,” I conceded without looking at my watch. I didn’t care if he was right or not and it was too stupid an issue to argue over. “Well then, good morning to y’all. My name’s BillyJoe and I’ll be taking care of y’all this afternoon. Would you like to hear our specials today?”
“No specials,” he barked.
I turned a little more toward him in deference to his leadership of the table.
“Alright, well that’s alright. Were y’all wantin’ to start off with some drinks?”
“Water,” the leader said while holding up four fingers and without looking up from his menu.
“Alright. I’ll be right back with that for y’all.”
I went to the back of the restaurant to retrieve their drinks. It was a slow lunch shift and I only had the one table. Mandy didn’t have any tables at all, so she felt no need to move from her position leaning against the wall when I saw her.
“Mandy,” I said in greeting.
“BillyJoe,” she returned.
“I don’t know about this table,” I said. “I think they’re in a bad mood.”
“Least you have a table,” she retorted.
I shut up and left with my drinks. I wasn’t trying to rub it in; I was just making conversation.
“Here are y’alls waters,” I said, placing the 4 glasses on the table. I gingerly laid a straw next to each glass, purposely taking my time so the guys wouldn’t feel rushed to order. “Do y’all need a couplea more minutes or do y’all already know what you’re wantin’ to get today?”
“We’ll let you know,” the table leader said with a wave of his hand. He still refused to look up from his menu.
“What’dya think, boys?” I heard the leader say as I turned and walked away. “A little sugar in the tank there?”
The man’s 3 lunch companions tried to suppress their laughter, but they did not try very hard. For my part, I kept walking to the back where I could pretend that didn’t happen and I could keep an eye on them so I’d be ready when they were ready to order.
After a few minutes, the table leader raised his left hand in the air. I took it as a signal of his readiness and returned to the table. He looked up and saw me approach. He looked at his friends, perhaps to make sure they were watching him, then snapped his finger twice and put his hand down.
What am I, a dog!? I wanted to shout. But I maintained my composure and brushed it off.
“You gentlemen ready?”
“Gentlemen?” the table leader asked. “You think we’re gentle?” He looked up at me from his menu. “Well! Do you?” It was all his friends could do to keep from keeling over with laughter.
“Are you ready to order?” I asked, mostly because I wasn’t sure how to respond to his question.
He stared at me for a few more seconds, perhaps to see if I’d crack under the pressure, but he looked at his menu again after realizing that I wasn’t going to budge.
“Yeah, we’re ready. You seen my hand in the air, didn’t ya?” he said. His friends chuckled again but said nothing. “These three will have the country-fried steak with gravy,” he paused. Through my peripheral vision I could see him looking at me as I wrote the order down. “And I’ll have the ribeye, medium rare. You get all that, PeggySue?”
Another pregnant pause.
“What was your name again?” His friends could barely contain their glee as they laughed at his attempts to embarrass me.
“BillyJoe, sir. My name’s BillyJoe. And yes, I have your order. Three orders of country fried steak and one ribeye steak cooked medium rare. Is that correct, sir?”
“No, Billy Clinton it’s not correct. I said country-fried steak with gravy. I didn’t hear you say nothing ‘bout no gravy when you read that back to me now did I?”
He seemed genuinely angry with me, although I was relatively certain that he was still showing off for his friends. I chose to maintain my composure in the face of his antics and I responded calmly instead of trying in turn to embarrass him.
“Well, sir, the country-fried steak automatically comes with gravy. All I have to do is say to the kitchen ‘make me a country-fried steak’ and they’re sure ‘nough gonna put gravy on her.” I nodded to verify my point. “Yes they are. So you see, I don’t have to write that one down ‘cause they already know it.”
I shut up quickly before I gained some momentum and stopped fighting my resolve to engage the man in a battle of the wits, a battle for which he seemed poorly equipped.
I paused long enough to let him respond. When I saw that he was not going to I made sure to speak before the silence became awkward.
“Alright, I’ll get those orders right in for y’all then. You see we’re none too busy, so it shouldn’t be but just a few minutes before y’all are eatin’ those steaks.”
I took the menus that the table leader had stacked near him and walked to the back of the restaurant again to punch in their orders. While at the computer, my mind drifted to all the different ways I could make them pay for what they were doing to me.
I can spit in their food, I thought. Or even better, I can have Julio spit in their food, then tell them our Mexican busboy spit in your food just after they pay. I stuck my hand in my pocket to verify the presence of the tiny bottle of eye drops I usually carried with me. I can sprinkle a few drops of this in their food, I thought, a pleasant daydream beginning to form in my imagination. They’ll have the runs for the rest of the day! That’ll destroy the wonderful day of golf they have planned for themselves.
“Haha!” I laughed out loud at my musings. Of course, I didn’t do any of those things. I had never been the vindictive type, and I didn’t want the reputation spreading around our small town that BillyJoe over at The Grillery was poisoning his guests. My career as a server would be over in no time at all if that were to happen.
I was in the habit of looking around the restaurant to see if any of my co-workers could use any help when things were slow and my tables were taken care of. I emerged from the back of the restaurant with exactly that in mind when –
“Hey PeggySue!” the leader of the demon table shouted. “Where’s my salad?”
I quickly debated whether or not I’d respond to him. I knew he was talking to me, but I considered the value of refusing to respond to a name that was not my own. However, judging by how loudly he yelled, I thought it better to shut him up as quickly as possible. I walked briskly over to the table.
“May I help you, sir?” I asked, the sincerity of my smile having faded long ago.
“Where’s my salad, boy?”
His tablemates were not fighting laughter, which told me that he wasn’t joking. He was genuinely angry because I hadn’t yet brought him the salad that he never ordered. The other fact that was lost on him was that he’d barely given me time to ring the orders in. Even if he had ordered the salad it would have taken longer for it to be ready than the amount of time he’d given me.
“Sir, you ain’t never ordered no salad,” I said calmly.
“Well ain’t it included? Like the gravy on these boys’ country-fried steaks?” he indicated his nodding tablemates with a wave of his hand as he spoke.
“No, sir, it ain’t included. I’d be happy to add a salad to your order if you’d like one.” I felt my patience dissipating and I knew I had to walk away from their table soon, before my anger boiled over and I did something irrational.
“No I don’t want no salad if I gotta pay for it.”
Cheap bastard, I thought as I walked away.
I retreated again to the back of the restaurant, having lost all will to help any of my shiftmates who might have needed assistance. I looked for Mandy briefly, but she wasn’t in the back of the restaurant. I the back door of the restaurant, but she wasn’t taking a smoke break either. I broke one of my own rules and sat down, waiting for my food to come up. I thought regaining the composure I needed to refrain from choking one of my customers was worth whatever consequences would befall me for sitting down.
I sat for a few minutes, intentionally thinking of nothing. I didn’t pay attention to the warmth of my face because I knew that if I did I would have no choice but to think of the reason I was angry in the first place. I didn’t think it would be beneficial in my attempt to calm down, so I just sat on a stool, stared at the wall and waited.
“Order up!” Reggie shouted, sliding 3 orders of country-fried steak into the window.
“Order up!” Lindsey shouted almost immediately after, producing a ribeye steak.
Is Lindsey on grill now? I asked myself.
“Since when are you on grill?” I asked her as I loaded my four plates onto a serving tray. I tried not to think about the fact that I was merely delaying the inevitable by speaking to her brifly.
“Today’s my first day!” she beamed. She had an infectious smile that helped immeasurably. I felt my heart warm a little as I turned toward the door to the front of The Grillery.
“Steak looks great!” I said. Honestly, I’d seen better but I felt as though I owed her one for helping me out with that smile.
I held the tray high in the air, over my left shoulder, as I walked back toward my table.
My table.
My table in my restaurant.
Who do these guys think they’re fooling with? I thought. You can’t come in my house and kick my dog and expect no retribution. I’m a man! They will pay for this!
Despite the inner turmoil, I kept my visage pleasant. I smiled as I sat a plate in front of each of the country-fried steak recipients. I served the ribeye last out of habit. He was sitting in the seat that was closer to me on my right side of the booth. It was position 4 at a 4-top table.
“Of course you serve me last,” he grumbled. He didn’t direct the comment at me, but he obviously wanted me to hear the complaint.
“Will there be anything else for y’all right now?” I asked, praying that he’d say no.
“No, that’ll be all, PeggieSue.”
I walked away quickly as the whole table exploded in boisterous laughter. I resumed my previous position, sitting on a stool in the back of the restaurant. I waited a decent interval, 8 minutes or so, before checking on my table again. I didn’t want to go back out there until they were finished. I didn’t think it would take them very long to finish because the other 3 men at the table had yet to utter a word. It didn’t seem to me that it was a table that would waste time conversing while they ate. Before I went back out there I printed their check, put it in a book, and stuck it in my apron. I also picked up a pitcher of ice water, in case someone needed a refill.
“How are we all doin’?” I asked, pouring water for two of the silent guys.
“We’ll take a check from ya,” the leader said.
I placed it on the table right in front of him, avoiding his eyes as he peered at me.
“How was everything?” I asked, intentionally looking only at the three men from whom I’d heard nothing. Still, they refused my silent invitation to speak.
“Everything’s fine,” he looked at the check and reached into his pocket. I watched as he pulled out two 20-dollar bills and a five. “You have a good day, PeggieSue.” The group got up and walked out of the restaurant.
I looked at their total again before cleaning the table.
$43.12, I said in my head. They tipped me less than 2 dollars.
Since bad guests came with the territory of being a restaurant server, I put the experience in the back of my mind, but not out of my head completely. A few weeks later I was sitting in one of the night classes I attended at the local community college when who else walked in but the very gentleman who had been my terribly rude guest that day. I remembered him instantly and watched him as he sat in the very center of the front row.
Oh, you will pay, I thought. I don’t know how yet, but you will pay.
As a rule, I took very good notes in class. I always brought my laptop to class, and each day I opened a new document for that day’s notes. My notes were spectacularly organized, by both date and subject matter, and since I typed them all I was able to catch nearly everything the professor said. I was a great typist, perhaps because my handwriting was so bad and I almost had to type things to know what I had written.
I made it a point to tell the members of every class that I attended that I had no problem emailing them the notes from a given day if they were absent or if they misplaced their own notes. I told them that I didn’t want to print the notes because of the cost factors involved, but I’d email as many sets of notes as they wanted. The professors of our community college always passed out a roster sheet to every person registered for class that included their first and last name as well as their email address. Thus, everyone had my email address and could simply write me if they wanted my notes.
I had to know his name, the man who deserved my retribution, so I paid close attention when the role was called for a few days to make sure I knew who he was.
Edward Potts. I took out a highlighter and marked his name on my roster sheet so there would be no confusing it. I was ready. All he had to do was put himself in a position where he needed my help and I would get him back.
Everyday I watched closely to see where he might need me. His attendance was good and he seemed to follow the lectures pretty well. I began to grow a little dismayed, thinking that perhaps the golden opportunity to execute payback would pass me by.
Then one day, to my sheer delight, Edward Potts was absent from class. I made sure to take extra careful notes that day, not missing a single point of importance from the lips of our able-minded professor. I created graphics and charts to coincide with the information being conveyed. I laid the notes out in the most vibrant, colorful way I knew how, making it not only extraordinarily informative, but also quite pleasing to read. It was the best set of notes I’d ever taken.
Later that night, after class, I checked my email. Sure enough, there was a message from Edward Potts. It read:
To BillyJoe:
I’m Edward. I sit in the front row of your class. I didn’t come to class today, so I wanted to get your notes from you. Could you please email them to this address? Thank you for your help.
Edward Potts.
My response was direct, right to the point:
No.
BillyJoe.
I slept like a baby that night.
The next evening after class, Edward Potts approached me.
“Hi, BillyJoe? I’m Edward Potts. I sent an email to you last night…”
“Yes?” I said, not looking up from my computer.
“Maybe you didn’t understand. I didn’t want you to print the notes, just to email them.”
“Oh, no, I understood,” I said, intentionally talking too loud so the other students in class could hear me. “I know what you want and I’m not helping you.” I look up on the last word and spat it at him, as though the very concept of him was detestable to me.
“I don’t understand…” he said, genuinely bewildered.
“Oh, do you not remember me?” I asked, any ounce of sophistication I may have had completely lost in the sweetness of the victory I was experiencing. I stood and extended the drawl on nearly all of my words as I jeered him. “You came to my restaurant, The Grillery, a few weeks ago with your 3 little old man friends, and you sat in my section, and you were just so rude to me that I didn’t know what to do with myself, and you treated me like a piece of crap, and you tipped me a dollar 88 on a 40 dollar ticket, and you called me PeggySue the whole time, and now you want my help? I’M NOT HELPING YOU!!”
I paused to revel in the moment, relishing the anguished realization on his embarrassed face.
“Maybe next time you’ll be nice to the little people because a little person in one situation can be pretty big in another.”
I was breathing hard after my rant and I stood there, defying him to speak, while I caught my breath.
He looked at me for a few seconds before a light went off behind his eyes. He recognized me. Realizing that his case was hopeless, he turned on his heel and walked out of the classroom.
The next night the teacher asked the class to draw a line through his name on our rosters. He was so embarrassed that he had dropped the class the week before the final exam.
It was a victory for mistreated servers everywhere.
