Top Of The Table

K-Lee

Aug. 19, 2001

Here an Ass, There an Ass, Everywhere a Grabass

It's Friday night. Sweat is collecting in the small of my back and contemplates a trail south to a very dark place. My voice is elevated, my arms flail about, and I am literally standing on my toes. My hair, which upon arrival onto the scene was kind of cute, is now plastered to my forehead where I am sure a new family of zits is thinking of making a home. People crowd around, watching, gawking, and almost mocking my feverish activity. Bodies writhe in a twisted blur of frenzied panic. The smell is practically embedded in the skin around my fingernails. As a matter of fact, some of it is even under my fingernails. It will stay until later, when at home, over a glass of merlot, surrounded by fragrant bubbles, with Fiona Apple in the other room, I will dig it and all it's despicable, funky friends from my nail beds, my skin, and raise my feet to ease the throbbing.

Tonight, I was the expo.

It was madness, as always. God, I am a glutton for abuse! I can't quite reach the top pass out counter, so my night is spent mostly on my toes. I am not upset though, because now I have nice calves. My shoulders ache from reaching, pulling, passing off… my head echoes with,
"Do you need a runner?" and
"I have a minute, what do you need?" or
"K-Lee, what the hell is Francesca's `see server'?"

My throat is now dry and hoarse from shouting above the din, and I soothe it with the deep, murky, beauty of my glass of wine. The nailbrush can't scrub hard enough to remove the odor of onions, food, grease and the grains of salt that have nested in my hands for the night. While I contemplate the night, a smile spreads across my face, but I am also confused.

Ribs, burgers, steaks, fifty ways to dress the same chicken breast to make it a different dish, and fajitas- Damn! Those are the worst! Runners come either all at once or as you call for the third time for a runner, you turn around to discover the entire kitchen has emptied out and you are left alone with windows full of food and not a soul in sight. Your last
"May I have a runner?"
sounds off the empty walls as if you were in a ghost town. Chanting erupts from out in the dinning room, starting like a slow, rhythmic, distant locomotive.

"Where's our food, where's our food, Where's Our Food, WHERE'S OUR FOOD?"
the customers chant in unison. In the heat of it all, and it is fucking hot in that window my friends, I feel the familiar, loving touch of Toni's hand on my right buttock. A little squeeze follows and I know the night is gonna be o.k. Back in the tub, reminiscing about the night and remembering little Antonia's hand cupping my bottom, I begin to remember all ass-grabbing that takes place in the restaurant business.

Whether it is a friendly football player pat,
"Hey, thanks for running my food",
a little stress reliever at a hectic time (Thanks Toni), or a little grabass in the walk-in, the booty seems a popular destination for many hands when you brave the hectic world of food service. Why is this I wonder? In an age of sue-happy employees, sexual harassment suits, and hostile work environments, it seems the restaurant game of grabass lives on.

Now, I am not complaining nor am I admitting to participation in such lewd activities, but what is it that sees to the survival of this rather cavemanesque method of thanking a co-worker? With improved work ethics sweeping corporations, how does the stress relief of an ass squeeze live on? Why in the hell did I grab Curt's ass while he was taking table 27's order?

It begins as a joke. Stephanie is pissed that 54 stiffed her,she has just been triple sat, table 50's food needs a re-cook because it was well done when it should have been medium, and she is sweating. I bustle past her in the middle of her spiel, my arms laden with dishware to disguise what I am about to deliver, and I give her cheek a little rub. As I round the corner into the kitchen, I cast a backward glance and see a smile creep across her face. I have just released her tension.

Nick is at table 39, all puffed up to look his most buff. He has a slick grin on his face while he persuades the cute sorority chicks at his table to indulge in some margaritas. Through the course of their pleasant experience with Nick, one of the young ladies bolsters up to give him her number. As she approaches him in the drink well, Amber comes around and delivers a nice, soft, loving squeeze to his derriere. The girl instead asks where the restroom is and the joke is on Nick.

Once, I was even told a story by my good friend John of a grabass adventure he would rather not relive. He was busying about his shift in a new place of employ when he felt the strange sensation of a hand on his rump.
"Wow, what a welcome place this is where the chicks come up and grab your-HEY! Wait a minute!"

That was no chick, rather a guy he worked with at this new place! In his heavy Brooklyn accent John made it very clear to the young man offering the rump rub that,
"If you evah fuckin' do dat again, I'll punch ya in da fuckin' jaw."

So, be it a tension reliever by Toni, a joke by Amber, or a flirtatious maneuver by an amorous co-worker, the grabass game lives on unless someone decides to
"…punch ya in da fuckin' jaw,"
which is a risk you may not want to take!