Page 9 of On the Line

Jargon that sounds simple but leaves me feeling stupid, like a castaway washed up on a foreign island called Orso.

Front-of-house, four-top, eighty-six, in the weeds.

The words slip so easily from their lips as if it were their mother tongue.

I can’t do this.

I try to keep a permanent smile on my face but inside I’m a nervous wreck.

It’s not as if I’ve never stepped foot in a restaurant before. But it’s as if the staff and guests exist in two different realities while still sharing the same space. The restaurant employees operate within a world invisible to the paying guests. Omniscient entities who understand the guest’s needs before the words are even uttered.

The staff answer prayers. They make the patrons feel chosen.

What I still can’t wrap my head around is how Michelle manages to carry so many plates at the same time, like an acrobat gracefully wowing the crowd.

The kitchen sits at the far end of the restaurant. It’s a closed kitchen, but the pass—the area where the servers and food runners pick up the orders—takes up most of the wall, creating a large empty space where guests can peek through and see the cooks preparing their dishes.

It’s almost voyeuristic. A pleasurable glimpse into a world they’re not supposed to see.

It’s a world filled with direct commands and shouted directives that are meant to be followed and followed fast, paired with a curt ding of the call bell.

Order up! Pick up! Hands!

By the time the kitchen closes at eleven, and the last table has received their orders, I’ve been on my feet for almost eight hours with no break. I’m exhausted, my back hurts, and my brain feels overheated like a low-grade computer on its last legs.

But … I also feel strangely exhilarated.

I feel accomplished, like I’ve spent my whole shift climbing a steep mountain and now I can finally sit down and enjoy the view.

After closing out our last table, Michelle and I tuck ourselves into a corner of the dining room. Taking her dark brown hair out of her hair clip, she shakes it free, fingers on her scalp while letting out a small pleased hum. I watch her intently as if studying her every move will give me key insights on how to fit in. The littlest of things could be what makes or breaks my admittance to this secret club I now desperately want to be part of.

My hands inconspicuously find my high bun and let my hair down too. Then she shows me how to roll up cutlery into white cloth napkins. Her fingers work fast, adept and nimble, while mine fumble through the steps barely managing one to her five.

“So?” Michelle says, her gaze on her task at hand. “What do you do?”

I pause, not sure what she’s asking. Her brown eyes slowly lift to meet mine.

“You must do something other than work here. Most of us do.” She quirks a smile, her eyes falling back to the table.

“Oh. Uh … I’m a student at Damhurst.”

“Cool, my brother goes there. What’s your major?”

“Used to be an econ major. I switched last year.” Her perfectly tweezed eyebrow quirks and I realize I haven’t answered her question—hiding the truth like a dirty little secret. “Fine arts,” I quickly add, “I sketch and paint, mostly. You?”

“Ballerina,” she states while finishing another rolled cutlery. “I study at the Plyscovski Conservatory.”

Noticing my slightly surprised expression, she laughs. “Yeah, you’ll find that a lot of creatives end up here. Flexible hours and the money is half decent too.” She gives me a small shrug, then points her chin toward another server. “For example, Gustavo plays drums in a rockabilly band, and Quinn over there,” referring to the bartender busy cleaning the bar, “They’re an actor. Been in a few local commercials even.”

I nod while surveying the room, yet again another layer of existence peeled back for me to observe. During service, everyone seemed so serious, their personalities somehow enmeshed with the restaurant’s, their own urges and desireswiped clean in order to please and serve. But now that the last of the guests are trickling out, most of their masks are slipping. Smiles and grins seem more genuine. Like a weight has been lifted from the staff’s shoulders. Jokes are flung freely across the dining room. Collars are being unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up to the elbows.

My gaze lands on one of the cooks coming out of the kitchen, drinking out of a clear container that seems to be filled with ice water. It’s the same guy I saw yesterday when I dropped off my resume.

His gait is relaxed while he strides to the side of the bar. Leaning his forearms against the top, he crosses one foot over the other. His white chef jacket is half-unbuttoned, the same rolled bandana tied around his forehead keeping his brown curly hair off his face. He exchanges a few words with Quinn, who then pushes a shot toward him. He grins, his cheek dimpling, and shoots it back.

“What about him, what does he do?” I find myself asking.

Michelle looks over, then chuckles. “Who, Ozzy?” she asks while shaking her head. “Pretty sure Orso is his entire life.”

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