The barman is left isolated and alone at the end of the night.  Five straight, including two of live jazz, and one complementary wine tasting...  And then, the day off.  I'm talking on the phone with my brother about holiday and travel plans, and work calls, leaving a message, call me back.  So, when things are wrapped up, I call work, the manager on duty, L.  Do they need me for Saturday, maybe.  But it's not about that.  On the tip sheet, I left a question mark on the tip out amount for the busser.  At the last meeting, I'm pretty sure, the agreement was, one busboy for up and down, 20 percent from server tips up and down.  A busy night, even the waitress admitted we could have used a busboy for our own floor.  Well, L. is not happy about the question mark I left.  The previous jazz Wednesday from last week, the musicians excruciatingly loud, yes, I quipped a lonely little remark on the reservation list as I turned the paperwork in, I thought in good enough humor, the simple word, "disaster."  I guess it was not taken well.  I have hurt some people, deeply enough, with said habit, my lonely late night isolated comment upon the night's affairs, as I eat my veal cheeks with the pasta, not the vegetable, as I have tried to, but not the way the dish was intended to be enjoyed.  Five nights, I've engaged a lot of people, many strangers more or less, with my good humor.  But yeah, maybe before I leave, after running around just so, hungry, I have a bit too much wine.  "It has to stop.  Your comments are deeply offensive."  Well, yes, I agree, a meeting would be good for morale (where we can talk about these things, with less embarrassment.)

Yes, I guess it added up for them.  M. leaves at 8 in the evening and still gets a point (credit for a shift) when I am there hustling, working 'til midnight.

The call ends.  Oh.  Great.  I was looking forward to a useful evening, but, coming from work, where I carry my weight, so I think anyway, this is not a good set up for a Zen evening.  And yeah, in light of the phone call's words, it all seems to look kind of futile, the effort I make.  And then having been an asshole and hurt people on top of that, to add shame.  I poured myself an early glass of Beaujolais.  You're cut out for bigger and better things, mom says.

I talk to mom.  You do more than your fair share, there, she says.  That must gall you some.

When I went to dinner down at old friends, pork butt and beans from the Creuset, I didn't bother mentioning it.  But work had always been a place I earned my keep, worked hard, engaged, politely greeting up, talking to them, what kind of wine they liked, a little explanation of the menu, not just a blank "do you have a reservation..."  So, if one in my position were to feel less comfortable, then the gains are not as rewarding for that simple sense of satisfaction, deeper down, of doing the job the way I thought it should be done, as such jobs are open to interpretation and wit.   Like remembering the guy who came in months ago.

Nothing like friends to help you see your own craziness.  And at the end of it, I get on my bike, stop for a couple of burgers at Shake Shack, giving one to the homeless guy across the street, even though he's not making so nice with everyone with his rant, and still hungry, McDonalds.  Sleep, and then getting up late, as usual, moving to the couch by the window from the bed, but still falling into dreams that by now I have forgotten about in my unease to start the day late.  On my work schedule.


Down in Bladgen Alley the young people are like ghosts.  Or I am a ghost to them.  Arriving, I see a tall young man with everything that is the look, long beard, short hair, tall black combat boots, blazer over black tee shirt, black jeans, the attitude as he waits for his young woman to retrieve her bicycle.   But ghosts they are, used to being in close quarters with other people but engaging anonymously, only with their own group.  Pods of people from agricultural units joined in an agreed upon collective without word, cell phones out.


In the end, a night off, I get a kind a kind text from L., with the boss's blessing to have an extra busboy on jazz nights.  I feel like a pain for having been the trouble to behind it all, but the waitress had the same thought as me.  I feel bad enough not being around to help my mom, up there alone where she's retired.  That big sense of not having figured things out, as one should, as an adult.  Health insurance is going up significantly.


And then the clocks change.  Getting ready for work, I scout out the television for the weather, but the Weather Channel on Sunday afternoon is playing Why Planes Crash, and on the news, another mass shooting with many deaths, at a church somewhere in Texas.  The extra hour is merciful, to the body starting the work week, but soon, as the wine bar opens, it will be dark.  I turn off the television.  Human made systems will fail, be they aeroplanes, or guns and gun laws, and even churches.



Wednesday, a week later, there is a busser for the main dining room downstairs, and there is one for us up to, for jazz night.  It turns out to be a very busy night for all of us.  And at the end of all, I see the two servers have dipped out their busser twenty five percent, just as we do upstairs.  That's the agreement, as far as I know.  The question mark I put on the tip sheet was precisely about that, the agreement that both downstairs and upstairs will tip out twenty percent when the busser is shared between two floors.