The things we do for love

As you can see my story nips and weaves, a path strewn with litter and failings. Bending over to pick up the odd object I am mesmerised by my own handiwork though it be trash to another and fall like Alice deep into wonderland my head coming up on occasion, and rising am dizzy and confused.

Where were we?

Ponderous days lie ahead prior to the 2020 election I think it best to stay clear of the more tragic reveries.

My Favourite Murder, a comedy crime podcast, has two offerings: their regular full-length segment on Thursdays, they discuss a murder or two couched in laughter and discussions of mental health. Monday is the "mini-sode" when they read tales of hometown murders, mayhem, and a mish-mosh of stories from fans. I being a fan offered up a celebrity encounter and having sent it off, remembered another.

In Chicago, one of the most common themes in restaurants I worked was the appearance of Micheal Jordan, the famous basketball player if you must know, and his entourage. Ciel Bleu, a frou-frou, five star hotel restaurant was the location I heard it first. " Micheal Jordan is coming for brunch with his whole family!" I did not serve at brunch and had to wait until Monday to discover who rubbed shoulders with whom, what did he drink, wear, sit.

It was a bust, every time, a no-show. The family came, a herd of aunties and uncles, cousins, colleagues but no Mr. Jordan. And on it went for years, the whispery giggles and mannish back slapping, Micheal Jordan Micheal Jordan Micheal Jordan. (eye roll)


Again the rumour caught at my last installation, an artfully designed mediterranean affair, where I was a host and wore heels, mostly low, every evening on a stained concrete floor. "He's coming in tonight!" "Ugh, If Micheal Jordan comes in I will bend over and kiss my own ass", said I, disgusted with the sycophants.


Centered in the room, a special table was dressed, set on a dais away from the regular diners but not hidden. Soft candles aglow, small boutique floral arrangements on each table, the room was a picture of order and quiet luxury. And in walked Micheal Jordan. I took his very long coat, handing it to our tireless coat-check, Maria, and led Mr. Jordan to his table. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my colleagues raring to give me the old razzmatazz. Barely did I make it back to the host stand before I was surrounded by pleas for me to kiss my own ass. I did not, lifting my chin into the air, dismissing the plebeians.

Restaurants are such a haven of gossip. Waiters crowded my host stand when it was not busy, wanting to check their stations, count their guests, asking was I giving precedence to one over another, and gossiping. Please reader, never think you are not being spoken of behind your back when eating out, you are or have been. It's useless to squirm, whether you are the kindest most generous human and tipper, or you are awful and inhumane, no one is left untouched.

During dessert and after-dinner drinks Mr. Jordan and his all-male guests began smoking cigars. At that time in Chicago no restaurant allowed smoking and certainly not cigars. Waiters came to me to complain. Their guests complained to them to please stop the famous basketball star from smoking, it was unfair. And it was unfair. And illegal.

If you've never worked in a restaurant, or service industry, you should. All Americans should be conscripted into some type of service to learn the darker side of humiliation and humanity. Once you've been a server/bartender/barista, it is unlikely that, unless you are a sociopath, you can be anything but human when being served. Though there are always the exceptions.

Powerless to offer justice to the smoked-out guests, the management refused to intervene. They were a pretty miserable group to work for, often hopscotching over less glamorous guests with reservations to offer tables to those more glamorous with no reservations. I stood in the breach.

Another night a large party was to arrive for an early dinner and Maria was not on sight to set up coat-check a floor below. Guests began streaming in, clumps of seven and eight, handing me coats. I had heavy armfuls and turning to the manager asked for his help. "Watch this," he said, and walked away leaving me with a continuous stream of people arriving. With no place to put the coats and unable give out numbers to any individual, I carefully dumped them in the closet behind me telling patrons they could get a number later.

It would be my last night. Once home, I took off my heels.

Two months later my feet finally stopped aching from standing for hours on a concrete floor.

The things we do for love, and money.


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CAPRICORN (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): "By my love and hope I beseech you,"

pleaded philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. "Do not cast away the hero in

your soul! Hold holy your highest hope!" That's always good advice, but

it's extra crucial for you now. You will generate good fortune for yourself

by being in close connection with the part of you that is bravest and

wisest.

The people whose lives you touch will have a special need for you

to express the vitalising power of intelligent hopefulness. More than

maybe ever before, you will be inspired to cultivate your heroic qualities.

-Rob Brezny, Freewill Astrology