My life at Miceli's, Part 1 (11/08/06)

My life at Miceli's is pretty much divided into two types of nights; the night where my two work wives are scheduled and those they are not. I relish in the former, endure the later. When they work my night is filled with a number of wonderful incidents, little happenings and physical contact that both please me and make the night more enjoyable. Suffice to say I enjoy them. Last night was such a night.
Those unfamiliar to my work environs, it goes like this; I work in a restaurant where every waiter is a singer, they actually have to audition to be there. We have a pianist who plays and when the singers have an opportunity, they sing; jazz, opera and/or Broadway, it’s a great place to work. Also, those unfamiliar to where my talents lay, it goes something like this; I don’t sing very well. But I do play half ass piano, half ass trumpet and having since worked at Miceli’s, learned to play half ass drums. So I am the drummer/manager to the singing/waiter. It’s a fun atmosphere.
Last night, a Tuesday, a typically slow night, was not really that slow at all. When a Monday or a Tuesday get busy it is usually more hectic than a busy Friday or Saturday because; a) we are mentally prepared for a more easy going night b) we are staffed for a more easy going night. After one of these unexpected Mon or Tues rushes I usually feel a little more drained, a little more sapped of energy. And it was at the end of this type of night, with the fun of my two work wives mixed in, that I came across Jill.
Jill was a woman at the bar who was drunk. As I was with one of the wives at the front desk Jill drops the entirety of her bag on the floor in front of the bar. I heard the disruptive clamor. I looked over and saw Jill hunched over the contents. Then I heard Jill plop on the ground. “Here we go…” I thought to myself. “I’ve got to deal with THIS now. I’m spent and enjoying time with my wives and now, when the night’s nearly over, I’ve got to play manager.”
I walk over to the woman and kindly ask, “ma’am, can I help you out? Can I help you collect your things?” There was a small, child like, inaudible whisper. “Ma’am, can I help you gather your things together” I persisted. “No,” was the soft reply. I responded with a soft, “ok, let me know if you need my help” and headed back to the front desk with the thought that I’d let her manage herself since she was inebriated and probably didn’t want any assistance, (as most drunks folks don’t.)
I was hoping that Jill would soon be on her feet and gather together back at the bar stool hopefully sobering up so that I could call her a cab but the pace at which she was moving didn’t suggest that that was the course of events to unfold. After some time I walked back over, knelt down beside her and said kindly, “ma’am, I’d like to help you gather your things if that’s alright with you.” I believed I heard a faint answer in the affirmative so I squatted down beside her and gathered her things together placing them back into her bag.
I then began a campaign to get Jill up and over to a nearby bench. Ten to fifteen minutes later, after gaining her trust, talking with her, consoling her, investing in her, and in some way connecting with her I got her over to the bench with a couple of hot rolls and a strong cup of coffee. I urged her to drink and eat so that she’d feel better. I found out that she was staying at a nearby motel (fleabag) which she insisted on walking back to. I knew she wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom let alone two blocks away to the motel. I insisted on finding her a way there even if that meant I had to drive her myself.
During this time the wives had left to go to Mexicali, a joint five minutes away that we frequent after work. They had been calling me repeatedly expressing that they a) wanted me to get my but over there, b) wanted updates on the situation and c) warned me not to drive Jill myself because she could be crazy and pull a knife on me. The wives threatened to call the police to handle the situation if I didn’t do it myself. I told them that I would be there as soon as I could.
I didn’t want to call the police on Jill. She was a woman who was clearly in a bad spot. I knew she was drunk but the meds that spilled out on the ground when she dropped her purse made me think that her incoherence was not solely an affect of alcohol. I really felt for her. She wasn’t someone I could dismiss so easily as I might a homeless woman or someone who is beyond my ability to help in any way. I at least felt, as a fellow human being, as a child of God, that I could make sure she got back to her motel.
I urged her to drink the coffee and eat a roll as I quickly went through my restaurant closing procedures. I rushed around the place helping out Bill the bus man clear the tables of cheese shakers, wine glasses and dirty plates. I shut off long strings of Christmas lights. I turned off the piped in loungey swing classics. I close the lid to the piano. And as I was talking with Robb, one of my waiters, he lets out a jarring, “OH SHIT!” looking over my shoulder in the direction of the bar. It was at that moment that I heard a horrible sound.
The sound I heard was a crack, a slap, a crunch, a smack and a thud all rolled into one. It was the sound of Jill falling face first into the Italian burgundy tiles that line our floors. They’re not very forgiving. I rushed over and stood over her, aghast at the sight of her face down, directly into the floor, legs and arms sprawled about, green Bic lighter firmly grasped in hand.
I rushed over the phone and dialed 911 as Robb and a kind customer rushed over to her and rolled her over. I had a hard time looking at Jill but once I did I had a hard time looking away. Her face was fucked up. And there was a small pool of dark blood that had gathered where she had landed. I think she busted teeth, split lips and cracked nose. I’d be surprised if she didn’t. Using your face as a cushion for the falling weight of your body might result in few bruises.
In the proceeding moments an ambulance arrived, callously asked her questions, roughly strapped her in and briskly took her away snatching her bag of meds, microwave popcorn, Marlboro lights and a snack sized pack of Milanos leaving only the small pool of dark blood to remember the incident by. Before I knew it, Raul came by without me asking and had mopped that up too. I was grateful.
I went about the rest of my closing duties in a strange stupor. I was obviously affected by this whole episode. It all ended so abruptly. The wives had gotten their wish in a weird sort of way. And after driving to Mexicali and relaying the story they were not happy about Jill’s fate but felt better that I had not gotten shanked.
In the retelling of the evening’s events I lit a much needed cigarette and promptly began speaking with my hands. And in doing this I promptly pressed the red hot cherry of my Nat Sherman classic king sized cigarette into the exposed back of the girl sitting to my right. And SHE promptly let out a squeal that was equal parts, surprise, pain and terror.
(story continued on next blog…)