Call Me When You Get There

I’m just a few minutes late, but I know the new manager is going to give me shit when I walk in. He’s the fourth one in the past year, another one of these twenty-five-year-old whiz kids fresh from corporate training and gung-ho to push the “No Rules – Just Right” agenda like it’s a spiritual awakening. It’s just a restaurant for Christ’s sake. We serve food. And believe me, there’re plenty of fucking rules. The past managers have moved on to bigger and better places—meaning anywhere other than South Jersey—and I’m ready for this one to move on too. He wouldn’t even let me take Angela to her college orientation. “We’re too busy, Sal,” he told me. “We need all hands on deck.” As if it were a goddamn battleship or something.

This is her first time traveling alone—all the way up to Boston. She got this full scholarship at a private women’s college because she’s the smartest one in her class—maybe even the whole school. I wanted to go up with her for the orientation, but the best I could do was drop her at the train at Market Street to get her to the airport. We made sure last night she had all her shampoo and stuff in a Ziploc bag, and that she wore shoes she could take off easy for the airport security but that were still good for walking because they’ll have a tour of the campus and they’ll have to walk around. I got her a straight flight from Philly International to Logan and tickets on the MBTA (one bus and one train), and then she walks across the campus to the check-in place at registration. They have temporary roommates for them, older students to stay with overnight (she’s staying with a girl named Jessica) and they eat in the cafeteria. I wish I could’ve gone up there to help her get around.

I would’ve been exactly on time for work today if I didn’t get stuck behind some idiot talking on their phone while eating a footlong hero sandwich. And they make us park way in the back of the lot, so that was another three- or four-minute walk, but I wasn’t going to run and get all sweaty before the shift.

Her mom could’ve taken her up to Boston, but she’s not any help—hasn’t been since she left us when Angela was three. Fifteen years on our own and literally not one ounce of help from her own goddamn mother. She said she was “too busy” to go up with Angela—doing what, I don’t know. She hasn’t done anything since I met her, but she found a guy who doesn’t seem to care about that. “She’s old enough to travel by herself,” she told me. Angela’s only ever been on one trip without me: to the Smithsonian with her class last year. They slept in the museum with sleeping bags—in with all the dinosaurs. She said it was cool and she wasn’t scared at all and that she slept just fine. I didn’t. I was up most of the night. I kept looking in her room, sitting on her bed.

She got the scholarship mostly because she’s a math whiz. Not sure where that came from, certainly not her mother, but Angela and I have worked hard to make sure it paid off. She did extra tutoring at school, and we made about a million sets of flash cards. I fed her right—lots of vegetables—and made sure she went to bed on time and only watched TV for an hour a day. She’s the president of the Math Club and the lead oboist in the school orchestra. Colleges love when you have extra-curricular activities like that. She writes plays, too, which are okay, but they’re mostly about these old-timey maidens who get swept away by knights in shining armor and whatnot.

I come in the back door of the restaurant—the kitchen door by the dumpster—hoping no one notices me, but when I get to the floor and I’m tying my apron, the manager finds me.

“Where’ve you been, Sal? It’s not like you to be late.”

“Yeah, I had to drop my kid off at the train station.”

“Where’s she going?” Did he actually forget, or is he trying to catch me in a lie? I should’ve kept the receipt for her fare.

“I told you she has that a college orientation thing, up in—.”

“Great. The rest of the gang’s getting their sections ready,” he says. “And we’ve got all the opening sidework to do.”

I go out to my section and check it over. Section five tonight. It’s where the two big tops are, along with a few deuces. It’s where they put the families. “The Baby-Sitting Section” we call it. You spend most of your time trying to find crayons that aren’t broken or chewed up, and heating up baby bottles, and cleaning up soggy Cheerios and macaroni off the floor.

The “rest of the gang” that the manager mentioned, is a collection of real slackers. College kids who probably don’t even need the job. The ringleader, Grace, walks around like some kind of princess. I think she works here for fun—her jeans alone would cost a week’s tips (I know because Angela asked for a pair of them once). And then there’s the college boys, the Hipsters I call them, that follow her around like a swarm of little ducklings.

And the “we” that will be doing the opening sidework means “me.” The Hipsters and the Princess will stand around and talk about what they did last night and what they’re going to do tonight while I restock paper goods and roll up silverware and make sure the sugar caddies have six each of sugar, raw sugar, stevia, and Equal, which is fine, because at least I know it will get done.

I hear one of the Hipsters say, “We saw Vanilla Chocolate at the Chicken Box last night. They were awesome.”

Then another one says, “I thought Strawberry Peppermint was way better at the Broccoli Stand last week.”

I may not have the names right; I don’t really listen, but I swear that’s how they talk. Everything’s “awesome,” and they spend most of their time criticizing stuff they couldn’t even begin to accomplish. They have no idea what it takes to become proficient with a musical instrument. Just look at all the work Angela’s put into her oboe.

Grace comes in when I’m putting away the last of the sugar caddies. “Did Angela get off okay?” she asks.

I must’ve mentioned something about the trip, or she overheard me asking manager-boy for the time off.

“Yeah, she’s on her way to the airport.” I look at my watch: her train should be just pulling into the airport. I told Angela how they sometimes change the gates, so she should double-check on the big screens when she gets there.

“That’s exciting. Going to college and all. I wish I could’ve stuck it out.” Grace smooths out her apron. “She’ll do great.”

“Yeah,” I say. “She’ll do great.”

“What section do you have?”

“Five.”

“Well, maybe you’ll get a big table of rich businessmen with pockets full of cash,” she says with a smile.

We’re supposed to leave our cell phones in the locker room, or in our cars, but I’ve never done that. A long time ago I worked out a system in case Angela needed to get ahold of me. When my phone is on silent, it vibrates four times when I get a call, then it goes to voicemail. I told Angela to call me twice if she needs me, so if it goes through two cycles of four buzzes, then I’ll get somewhere private, like the back side of the coffee machine in the waitstation or the employee locker room or the restroom, and call her back. I’ve worked here five years and she’s never had an emergency.

My phone vibrates twice, meaning I got a text. It’s Angela.

at airport cant find gate

I look around for the manager and text her back.

Look for the big screens with the flights listed

I hold the phone, staring at the screen, watching the three little dots.

got it

The dining room opens just about the time her flight is supposed to leave. We’re supposed to give off this “friendly neighborhood feel”—just like the other eight restaurants that surround the mall are trying to do, but nobody lives in this neighborhood. And it turns out I don’t get a table of rich businessmen with pockets full of cash. Instead, on table eleven, I get a family that should have their own reality TV show. There’s a little girl that keeps walking back and forth across everyone’s laps in the semicircular booth. No one seems to mind—or even notice. I can’t make out specifically who’s responsible for the kid.

They order a couple of pitchers of domestic, and I feel my phone vibrate again. Another text. When I go to type their order in at the waitstation, I sneak a peek at my phone.

about to board

I put the phone down on the far side of the computer, away from where anyone could see it, and use my left hand to respond.

text when you land

I get another family on twelve: a mother with three kids who, much to my astonishment, all stay in their seats, even the little one. And on twenty-three, one of the deuces, I get a couple from California who are visiting relatives here in Jersey. They make it clear to me that they couldn’t find a trendy, independently owned ethnic restaurant, so they had to settle for this one. They tell me they are gluten-free, dairy-free, egg-free, and sugar-free, and that they need to limit their carbs, and they don’t eat beef (it’s a steakhouse for Christ’s sake – says it on the sign) because of the hormones and the destruction of the grasslands and the methane (presumably from cow farts) that’s destroying the ozone layer. They order plain chicken breasts (which, when they ask, I tell them are free-range) and salad and bottled water and the first of several martinis each (lemon twists, hold the vermouth).

“Are the lemons organic?” the man asks me.

“Absolutely.”

“Good,” says the woman.

My phone double-buzzes and I step into the dish station and turn my back to the door, holding my phone against my chest like a baby chick.

in boston going to bus station

It’s 6:30 and she’s right on schedule.

Call me when you get to the college

I have this all mapped out for her. I have a copy of the map and the timetable in my apron pocket, folded into quarters. She’ll take a bus from the airport to the train, then the train drops her off at the edge of the college and she’ll walk across campus to where they have the check-in. The whole trip, including the walk, shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half.

My section is full now. People eat early in this town because there’s nothing else to do. The California couple is pretty looped after three martinis and they tell me they want to split a Chocolate Thunder, which is a brownie topped with ice cream and chocolate sauce, and I tell them that it contains large amounts of gluten, dairy, eggs, sugar, and carbs.

“Cake and ice cream don’t count,” the woman tells me, giggling.

The big family is done, but they order another pitcher of beer. The little girl is still walking back and forth across people, and as she crosses over one of the men—the father or an uncle or whoever—he grabs her by the arm, shakes her once and pushes her down onto the bench.

She shows no emotion, just sits there like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I get an older couple on table twenty-one who wants to split everything—even a glass of wine. On twenty-four, there are two middle-aged women, one with short hair and glasses and the other one, skeletally thin, with a shaved head and a pink silk ball cap, both wearing white button-down shirts like they just came from the same job.

“G’day ladies,” I say. “Would either of you like to try our special Huckleberry Moonshine Cocktail?” They make us say stuff like that, but I usually only do it if the manager is around.

“Ladies?” the bald one says to her friend. “Really? I told you—.”

“What kind of beer do you have?” says the other one.

“The beer list is right here. I recommend the Foster’s.” I point to the table tent. “Would you two like a minute? Can I start you off with a Bloomin’ Onion?”

“Like I could even eat that shit,” the bald one says to her friend.

“Give us a minute.”

My phone buzzes again at 7:00, and I go into the employee locker room and look at the screen.

i think i got on the wrong train

My face begins to flush and my armpits heat up. Those trains could go anywhere; they could just keep going and going. I text, What train are you on?

I’m just about to call her when she texts, no this is it

Call me when you get there

When I get back on the floor, the manager has delivered the food to table twenty-one, the older couple, but I forgot to put “split” on the ticket, so he had to take it back to the kitchen so they could put it on two plates.

“Where were you?” he asks me.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll run that back out. Sorry.”

“Remember to use those modifiers, Sal,” he tells me. “We’re a team here, but we can’t help each other unless we communicate.”

A young couple is seated on twenty-two. They’re nervous as hell, like they’re on a first date or this is their first time in a restaurant.

“G’day. Can I bring you something to drink?”

The young man says to the young woman, “What do you want to drink? Do you want something?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “What are you going to have? Are you having something?”

“I was thinking maybe a beer. Do you want a beer or something?’

“Not a beer,” she says. “Maybe a wine.”

My phone vibrates four times in my pocket.

“Yeah,” says the young man, “you could get a wine.” Then he looks up at me. “What kind of wines do you have?”

They’re probably underage, but if anyone asks, I’ll say they looked twenty-five to me. I touch the young woman’s menu where the wines are listed. “We have a very nice selection here. Do you like red or white?”

“White, I think.”

I point to the White Zinfandel. “This one’s a blush. It’s pink. Nice and fruity and tiny bit sweet and it goes with everything.”

“Okay.”

My phone vibrates four more times.

“And you look like a man who’d appreciate a nice cold Foster’s Lager.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“I’ll be right back with those.”

I duck into the locker room. I call Angela and she answers on the first ring.

“I think I got turned around.”

“Where are you?” I pull the map out of my pocket and unfold it.

“I got off the train at the stop, but I think I went the wrong way. The street signs don’t match the ones on the map.”

“Can you go back to the train stop?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Ask someone at the train stop.”

“Okay, but they don’t really have anybody there.”

“Is there a security person, or a cop or something? Someone in a uniform?”

“I don’t know. I’ll check when I get there.”

“Call me back if you need help. Text if you get good directions, but call me if you need help.”

“Okay.”

My palms are sweaty. I wipe them on my apron. The walking part is eight-tenths of a mile. She should be at the college in about twenty minutes—maybe longer if she has to backtrack. It would take me five hours to drive there. I should have gone with her.

Twenty minutes later I’m at the bar waiting for a drink order. I pull out my phone and check it.

“Hey, Sal,” the manager comes up from behind, like a leopard, “you know the rules about cell phones. Help me out here, will you?”

“Sorry.”

I take out the drinks and get another family on eleven: mom, dad, four kids. Before I go out there, I head into the locker room. Grace is in there with the manager.

“I don’t give a shit,” she says to him, fists on her hips.

“Hey. Come on,” he says. “Don’t be like that. We can work this out.”

I turn around and go into the restroom.

Are you there?

No answer. I need to get an order from the new table. When I come out of the restroom, Grace storms past. I get the family’s order, put it in, and go out back by the dumpster to call Angela. Grace is out there already, sitting on a couple of stacked milk crates, legs crossed, smoking a cigarette.

Angela’s phone rings and rings and then goes to voicemail. I call back. Voicemail again. It’s starting to get dark, both here and in Boston, and my breathing is up high in my chest. On the map in my pocket there is also a list of phone numbers: the airline, the college admission desk, and the Boston Police Department. I call the admissions desk.

“Admissions,” a young voice says.

“My daughter, Angela Volante, is supposed to be there for orientation. Can you see if she’s checked in yet?”

“Let me see. I’m going to put you on hold for a second.”

Grace drops her cigarette and steps on it. She smooths out her apron and starts walking my way.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“Hello?” the young voice says.

“I’m here,” I say.

“She hasn’t checked in yet.”

“Can you ask her to call her father when she gets there? She’s traveling alone and—”

“Sure. I’ll make a note.”

I call Angela’s phone again. No answer. The back door of the restaurant opens, and the manager walks out.

“Sal? What are you doing out here? Have you seen Grace?” He’s looking at the phone in my hand.

“My daughter…,” I say.

“We’ve got a full restaurant, Sal. I need you in here.”

I look at the phone and walk toward the door.

“Maybe I’d better hold onto that,” he says.

“No.”

Inside, I grab a pitcher of water and check my section. Waiting tables is mostly a visual thing: everything registers as a part of a bigger picture. You look for anomalies, almost unconsciously: someone’s glass is nearly empty, or someone isn’t eating their food, or they’ve put down their silverware or their napkin, or they’re looking around, trying to catch someone’s eye. You automatically react, updating a changing list of priorities, staying ahead of the requests. It becomes second nature, and I’m good at it. It’s possibly the thing that I’m best at. But I’m having trouble focusing right now.

“We’re ready to order.”

“Can we get some more bread?”

“What do you have for dessert?”

“I’d like some more iced tea.”

“We’re ready for our check.”

“How’s that food coming?”

And then my phone buzzes twice and I go straight into the restroom and into the big, handicapped stall and shut the door.

sorry i didn’t answer i was getting checked in the people are really nice

I sit down on the toilet and type I’m glad and hit send and stare at her message on the screen. I picture Angela’s face: the round little tip of her nose and the tiny mole on her chin, her beautifully white teeth, perfectly straight from three years of braces, her pink-framed glasses—she had to have pink, wouldn’t wear them if they weren’t pink—and her long, dark hair like her mother’s. And then I picture her room in our little house half an hour away: the pink desk and chair that I painted for her, the music stand next to her oboe case, the National Geographic map of the world on her wall, and all the stuffed animals, mostly bunnies, on her dresser. And I think about how I’ll go home and flip on the light in her room and sit on the edge of her bed, on the lace-trimmed quilt that we got at Walmart. And something moves inside me there in the stall, like a tiny eruption that starts in my toes and rises up like tremors of heat through my legs and my belly and my chest, and it spreads along my neck and my cheeks and passes up and out the top of my head like a steamy breath and it’s gone, leaving behind an empty shiver.

And then I remember that table eleven is ready to order, and twenty-two needs more bread, and twenty-four wants a tea refill, and twenty-one needs dessert menus, and twenty-three wants their check, and I need to check on the entrees for twelve.