Phillip Cabral

November 9, 2010

MOMENT OF ZEN

The name’s Zen. Zen Feelfree. And yes, that is my real name. See, my parents grew up in a
hippie commune during the ’70’s and, well, they continued with the lifestyle even after they moved
to – where else? – San Francisco. Ah, Frisco – the City by the Bay. Home to cable cars, the Village
People, Tony Bennett’s lost heart, and this swanky little bistro I wait tables at called Gut Feelings.
Being a waiter is hard. You have to work long shifts at irregular hours spent bussing tables,
seating people, and pretending like you actually give a crap about them, and all for less than
minimum wage, plus tips (provided you get tips, that is). Now, normally I’m not much of a people
person, and I have no interest whatsoever in food services, but it’s a way to make a buck, and I do
get half off on the cherry cobbler, so I guess it all works out in the end. At least the décor and
ambience are nice, and the customers tend to be really cool people around my age.
Of course, even when the customers aren’t cool, it doesn’t make any difference; waiters are
still expected to be courteous and respectful towards them. Unfortunately, that’s just not always
humanly possible. There are some days when you get a customer who is just so obnoxious and rude
and ungrateful that it’s simply impossible to remain professional. It’s bad, I know, but it happens.
And today it happened to me.
My shift started at five so I had to rush over as soon as class ended to make it in on time.
(I’m studying Theology over at the local community college.) Things are always kinda slow at Gut
on Wednesdays, so for the first hour or so of my shift I didn’t really have much to do besides obsess
over how my “God and the Responsibility of Free Will” professor gave me a C+ on my midterm
paper. I mean, what the fuck? I worked hard on that piece of crap!
So anyway. After wallowing in my own personal sea of self-pity, rage, and cherry cobber
for a while, this older couple walked in. The man was wearing loafers and a tweed suit that
complimented his sparse gray hair and liver spots while the woman, presumably his wife, was
donning a mauve dress and a pair of boots that were completely age inappropriate.
“Hello, and welcome to Gut Feelings. Table for two?”
“Of course we want a table for two! Can’t you count?” the old woman sneered.
“Yes,” I said calmly, “I can. However, it’s possible that you’re expecting more people to
come and join you, in which case you’d need a bigger table.”
“Well, that’s just stupid!” she replied.
I took a deep breath, grabbed two menus from behind the host stand, and walked them over
to a table near the salad bar. “Can I start you off with some drinks?”
“I’ll have a White Russian – dry – and he’ll have a scotch and soda.”
“I’m sorry ma’am, but we don’t actually serve alcohol here as most of our customers are too
young to drink. However, we do offer a wide selection of mocktails if you’re interested.”
“What kind of a restaurant doesn’t carry liquor? It’s entirely ridiculous!” the old woman
complained. “Well, fine then! Just bring us some Roy Rogers and be quick about it!”
“Yes ma’am.” I rolled my eyes and headed for the kitchen. When I came back out with their
drinks, her husband was at the salad bar, piling rose tomatoes and iceberg lettuce onto his plate.
“Here you go.” I set down their drinks. The rosary sunset color of the grenadine and cola
seemed richer in the flickering glow of the intimate little candle we place on every table. Its vanilla
fragrance mixed with the unusual yet strangely familiar perfume the old woman was wearing. “Are
you ready to order?”
 “Hold on.” She turned around in her chair and hollered at her husband. “Harold! Harold!
Come over here right now! We have to order!”
“Then order if you want to, Martha. Salad bar’s enough for me.”
“Martha?” I gasped, suddenly recognizing who the woman was. “Martha Vildsvin?”
“Yes…” she crowed in that prim, half-questioning, half-having a stroke tone of voice.
“Omigosh! Ms. Vildsvin, hi! It’s Zen! Zen Feelfree? Remember me? You were my third
grade library science teacher.”
“Oh… Yes. Of course. Zen. How good to see you again.” Bitch totally didn’t remember me.
“Well, now. I’d like the French onion soup as a starter, and the teriyaki chicken with pineapple
salsa for the main course.”
“Are you sure about that? It’s extremely spicy,” I warned her.
“Of course I’m sure! Do you think just because I’m old I can’t eat spicy food?”
I knew it wasn’t worth it to argue with her so I just apologized and headed for the kitchen.
Ten minutes later I brought out her soup.
“Blergh!” she spat. “This soup is repulsive! I demand you take it back and bring me some
that doesn’t have such a pungent, oniony flavor!”
“That’s the way it’s made. It’s called French onion soup for a reason.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“What? No, it’s just… Never mind. I’ll bring you a new bowl right away.” I trudged back
into the kitchen, explained the situation to the chef, and waited for him to cook some onion-less
French onion soup. I also told him to go easy on the pineapple salsa. After all, if the soup was too
much for her over-the-hill taste buds to handle, how would they react to the teriyaki chicken?
“Here you go,” I said through gritted teeth five minutes later. “Sorry about that… mistake.”
“As you should be. Not that I’d expect a careless child like yourself to get it right.”
“Excuse me?”
“Now Martha,” Harold said soothingly. “There’s no need to get snide. The boy apologized.”
“I suppose.” She slurped up some soup and made a face. “No, no, no! This isn’t right either!
It still tastes awful!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. What’s wrong with it this time?”
“Oh, what does it matter? It’s clear that you idiots are incapable of making soup properly!
Just bring me my chicken already, provided you haven’t managed to ruin that, too!”
I clenched my fists but managed to resist the urge to sock her one. I marched straight into
the kitchen and returned five minutes later with her damn chicken.
“Here you go.” I dropped the plate down in front of her. “And if there’s anything else I can
do for you, please – hesitate to ask. Enjoy!” Just as I was walking away, I was stopped short by the
sound of a very loud, very familiar groan.
“Blergh! This chicken is far too hot and spicy! You there – come back here at once!”
I was in no mood to deal with any more of her crap her at that point. “Ma’am, I already
warned you that the chicken would be extremely spicy. I even told the chef to make it as mild as
possible for you. So, with all due respect, you shouldn’t have ordered it if you were just going to
complain when you got it. I’m sorry, but I can’t and I won’t take it back.”
“How dare you talk to me like that! Your own teacher, no less! It’s not my fault that you
people couldn’t make a decent teriyaki chicken to save your life! Well, one thing’s for sure – we’ll
never eat here again!”
“Well good for you! I’ll go get you your bill!”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind! Not unless you want me to file a complaint against you with
the Board of Health!” she exclaimed triumphantly as she held up a long strand of hair. “This hair
was on my plate. Therefore, this meal – if you can call it that – is free!”
 “Ma’am,” I said calmly, “that’s your own hair. See the color?” I strolled back over to their
table and leaned in towards her. Now, normally I’m a pretty laidback guy, but this bitch had tested
my patience for far too long. “I can guarantee you that none of the people who work here have the
same hideous, menstrual blood-colored hair as you do, you STUPID, UGLY OLD TROLL!”
“What did you just call me?” She looked shocked. Her poor husband just sat there, holding a
forked rose tomato halfway to his gaping mouth.
“You heard me. You’re a troll. A stupid, ugly, vindictive old troll. No, actually, that’s not
true. You’re a BITCH! A fucking dumb-assed, whore-faced, withered old bitch! Ooh, you don’t
know how long I’ve waited to say that to you. You were a BITCH in grade school and you’re an
even BIGGER bitch NOW, if that’s even fucking possible! You’re nothing but a malignant, bitter
old hag, and that’s all you’ve ever been! And, I mean, look at you! God knows no one should ever
have to, but just look at yourself! You’re like nine hundred years old and you’re dressed like a
hooker! Who do you think you are, Dina Lohan? Even she’s not half as dumb a bitch as you are!
And your makeup! Um, RuPaul called. He wanted to let you know you’ve just set drag queens back
40 years! Seriously, if I were you, I’d spend less time injecting myself with insulin and more time
injecting myself with Botox! Not that it really matters. You’ll be getting pumped full of embalming
fluid soon enough, so I guess that’ll take care of those crow’s-feet for you!”
My chest was heaving violently. I was shaking and drenched with sweat. I had never lashed
out at anyone like that before, but it felt so good to vent out all that pent-up anger and frustration. I
knew I’d probably get fired, but I didn’t care. It was totally worth it.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” I shouted at her. But she didn’t say anything.
She never said anything ever again. She merely gasped, clutched her heart (well, the empty space
where a heart should have been, in any case), and keeled over. Dead. Crap.
Mr. Vildsvin just sat there, holding the same forked rose tomato in front of him.
“Umm… Would you like some dessert? I recommend the cherry cobbler.”