Free Waiter Rant by Steve Dublanica Page A

the ass all year long. I want more .
    I look into the man’s drunken eyes and unleash my thousand-yard waiter stare. Over the years I’ve improved on Rizzo’s version. Already a Bistro legend, my gaze has been known to frighten kitchen staff, scare waiters, silence screaming children, and cause movie stars to stutter. This guy has no chance.
    “No,” I say. “I don’t like it.”
    The man stares at me openmouthed. After a few seconds he asks for the check holder, crosses out the old tip, and writes in a new one.
    “Here ya go,” he says.
    “Thank you, sir,” I reply.
    “You’re welcome, kid.”
    “Madam,” I say, turning to the hooker, “have a happy and healthy New Year.”
    “Thanks, sweetie,” the prostitute says.
    “Yeah,” the trader blurts. “Happy New Year’s.”
    I walk to the back and open the check holder. The new tip? $500.
    “Look at this,” I say, showing the check to Louis.
    “Holy shit,” he exclaims. “How’d you do that?”
    I smile cannily. “I’m not above rolling the occasional drunk.”
    “You’re bad.”
    “The guy’s a pain in the ass all year. Maybe it’s his way of making up for it.”
    “You might be right.”
    “Now I’ve got to divvy up my tips with Inez,” I sigh. “I’ve made, like, twelve hundred dollars. What’s she at?”
    “About five hundred,” Louis says.
    “Bitch.”
    Finally, The Bistro’s empty. Because I earned the most tips I sit on my ass and drink champagne while watching the other servers do the postshift cleanup. I see to it that Inez works extra hard. By the time everyone finishes and gets his or her tips from Fluvio, I’m half in the bag. Despite the drag Inez put on my earning potential, I still made a ton of money. After Fluvio locks up we head over to a nearby nightclub to continue the New Year’s festivities. Inez and I, forgetting our earlier rancor, cha-cha on the nightclub’s afterthought of a dance floor. That’s the nice thing about being a waiter—what happens at work usually stays at work. Too bad I can’t dance for shit.
    “So what you gonna do this new year?” Inez asks me as we flop down at the bar for another martini.
    “I have no idea,” I reply.
    “What about your Web site?” she asks. “How’s that going?”
    “Waiter Rant?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I enjoy writing it,” I reply. “It’s cheaper than psychotherapy.”
    Inez laughs. “Every waiter should have their head examined.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “So,” Inez asks, “you think the Web site will lead to something else?”
    “Something else?”
    Inez leans in close to me, her body suddenly resonating seriousness.
    “I’ve read your stuff,” she says. “You’re a good writer.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Maybe you should think about writing as a career. It could be your ticket out of here.”
    “Maybe,” I reply quietly.
    Inez squeezes my arm. “Stop waiting tables! You’ve got to do something else with that big brain of yours.”
    “Well,” I reply, trying to change the subject, “all this big brain wants to do now is get drunk.”
    “Promise me you’ll try,” Inez says. “Stop working for Fluvio; he doesn’t appreciate you.”
    “C’mon. Fluvio’s not that bad.”
    “Promise me you’ll write a book one day.”
    “I will.”
    The bartender sets drinks down in front of us.
    “Salud,” Inez says. “To my friend, the writer.”
    “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
    The night drags on. I drink myself stupid. By the time I stumble home it’s almost morning. As I creep through my sleeping building the rattling of my key in the lock echoes through the empty hallway like the tattling cry of a small child. As I step inside my apartment the only sound that greets me is the whistle of steam escaping from the release valve of an ancient radiator. The apartment is empty. My ex-girlfriend Allie lived here until she left me two years ago. We still share joint custody of our dog, Buster. He’s not here tonight either. Trudging through