RochelleBilow.com

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

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So as I was saying, I wasn’t popular with everyone at Hidden Forest.  One of my coworkers, a girl my age named Stacia, really had it in for me.  She’d worked at the retirement home with her sister for a few months when I joined the staff.  I don’t know if it was my eagerness to please the management or perhaps my penchant for doing everyone else’s side work that bothered her, but she decided that she very much did not like me. 

To be fair, I didn’t much like her either.  She talked very loudly, made copious use of the word “ain’t” and  picked her teeth all of the time, digging her fingernails into her gums before bringing the residents their dishes.  And the way she flirted with Aaron?  Shameless!

In attempt to make my time at Hidden Forest miserable, she’d hide silverware in her apron pocket as soon as it popped out of the dishwasher.  That way, when it came time to set the tables at the end of the night, she’d have all of the silverware she needed – and I’d have none. Too timid to speak up, I’d wash all of the dining room chairs while I waited for her to leave and deposit her apron in the break room.

You might be clutching your heart in empathy for 16-year old Rochelle, wronged by her coworkers and left to flail.  I do appreciate the sentiment.  Was Stacia in the wrong?  It’s a gray area, really.  True, restaurants run best on teamwork, and true, hoarding isn’t a very nice word – in any context.  But food service is also an eat-or-be-eaten world, and I should have spoken up.

You know what isn’t okay in the restaurant world, though?  Siccing the police on a coworker.

It was a regular Saturday at work; we’d served up dozens of grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches and glasses of Arnold Palmer, fielded advances from Bob, an exceptionally fiesty resident, and wiped down the countertops.  I trotted back to the employee bathroom, changed out of my khaki pants and blue polo shirt, fixed my lip gloss, and waited outside for my father to pick me up.  The rest of the afternoon was uneventful – I actually believe I spent it watching reruns of The Brady Bunch – until I heard my dad outside.  He was speaking with someone whose voice I didn’t recognize, so I went out to investigate.

There, parked in my driveway was a police car, and there, standing on my back porch was a policeman.  Both men turned around as I approached them, and my father stepped back to let the officer brief me.

Stacia had, he explained, lost a $20 bill she’d left in her pants pocket while working at Hidden Forest that afternoon.  She was certain it was safe in her denim, but when she pulled her jeans back on after lunch, the money was nowhere to be found.  Wasn’t it funny, she wanted to know, that with the exception of our supervisor, the two of us were the only waitstaff working that shift?  She was convinced that I was the thief.

Upon hearing this, my eyes welled up with tears.  The only thing I’d ever stolen at Hidden Forest was a kiss!  I hadn’t even known she had money in her pocket – and besides, I wailed, what did it matter if she did?  It wasn’t my money!  I respected people’s property!  I hadn’t stolen it!  Would my boss believe me?  Did the policeman believe me?  Oh my god, was I going to jail!?  At this point, my face was a red and hot mess, and I was shaking.  

Both my father and the policeman implored me to calm down.  My father assured me that he believed my story (well, he’d have to).  The policeman assured me that he found the whole situation to be ridiculous – and that my bosses agreed.  Everyone, they told me, was on my side.

So why did I feel so crummy?  It stinks to lose money, but it’s even worse to be wrongly accused.  Even if no one else believed me, I wanted her to know the truth.  The next day, as I reviewed the dinner specials, I wrung my hands.  I was so nervous – felt so much pressure, that I knew I had to talk about what had happened.  I had to broach the issue with Stacia.

We were scheduled to work together the next week, and I used the interim time to rehearse what I’d say to her.  I’d tell her that I was sorry her money got stolen, (though I wasn’t entirely convinced she didn’t just lose or spend it), that I was even sorrier she thought I was the culprit, but that I respected and liked her (a total lie), and that I hoped we could be friends.  If that didn’t work, I planned on offering to cover a table from her section every night.

I never got a chance to patch things up, though, because she was fired a few days later for throwing a plate onto a resident’s table.

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Which brings me to another point: if dealing with diners is the most difficult part of a server’s job, imagine diners who are hard-of-hearing, insistent on puréed liver, and, well, just a little bit frisky …