An Old "Play" (2011)

 I wrote this 11 years ago and I actually remember it quite fondly. It's based on a real experience my family had at Nunzi's in Erie (which has since closed). 

I don't reflect on much of my older writing with fondness so this is always fun to revisit. And I wanted to preserve this in here ... so see below. :) 

THE WAITRESS

SCENE:  RESTAURANT

There are three people at a restaurant. A middle-aged man, a middle-aged woman, and a teenaged daughter. They are at an Italian restaurant with laminated menus. They have never been here before. The restaurant has a very cozy, 1950s-ish feel about it.

THE MAN:  Wow, the lambchops on this menu sound great.

THE WOMAN:  We’re at an Italian restaurant and you want to order lampchops?

THE MAN:  What’s wrong with that? Everyone knows if you want real Italian, you go to the Olive Garden.

THE WOMAN:  *looks at her daughter and shakes her head*

THE DAUGHTER:  *holds menu up above her face and doesn’t acknowledge anything*

All of a sudden, the Waitress appears. She is middle-aged, with short gray hair, kind of dumpy looking….but mostly she seems sad. In fact, she seems about on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Her head is down, her bottom lip trembles and she is obviously choking back tears.

THE MAN:  Oh wow, I guess this is our waitress!

THE DAUGHTER:  No, Dad. It’s an astronaut.

THE WAITRESS: H-how can I help you guys tonight? *looks down at nametag* My name is Wanda, by the way. *whispers* Not that it matters.

THE DAUGHTER:  It doesn’t.

THE WOMAN:  Jessica!

THE MAN:  Are the lampchops here good, Whitney?

THE WAITRESS:  Wanda. And I don’t know. I guess. Maybe. Sometimes.

THE WOMAN:  I think it’s silly to get Italian and order lampchops. Wouldn’t you agree, Wendy?

THE WAITRESS:  I THINK I MIGHT HAVE CANCER.

There is a moment of reckoning where she sticks her head in her hand and chokes back sobs.

THE WAITRESS:  So our special is the manicotti.

The woman just stares, astounded. The daughter, behind the menu, snickers at the awkwardness of the situation. The man however is very nonplussed.

THE MAN:  It’s not like I asked for teriyaki!

THE DAUGHTER:  I’ll have a Caesar salad.

THE WAITRESS:  Okay.

THE DAUGHTER:  Don’t put anything on it.

THE WAITRESS:  Okay.

THE DAUGHTER:  I mean it. Otherwise I will leave my spit as a tip.

THE WOMAN:  Um, okay. I think I’ll get the chicken parmesan. Is that all right? 

THE WAITRESS:  Nothing will be all right, ever. Especially when you’re dying.

THE MAN:  I’m going to get the lamb chops.

His wife glares at him.

THE MAN:  Yes, the lamb chops.

THE WIFE:  You never want to order the right food at the right place. When we went to the Indian place, you ordered A HOT DOG.

THE WAITRESS:  How much is chemo, you guys? I hear it’s pretty expensive.

Silence befalls our scene.

THE WAITRESS:  So that’s everything. Does anyone want breadsticks?

THE MAN (muted):  Uh. Sure.

*she goes to get them*

THE DAUGHTER:  This is just like Disneyworld 2007 all over again.

THE WOMAN:  Oh, but Johnny from Epcot had ME and that’s different.

THE DAUGHTER:  … *sighs*

THE MAN:  I think lamb chops were a good choice tonight.

The waitress reappears with breadsticks and glasses of water. She tediously sets them down.

THE WAITRESS:  This requires a lot of energy. I don’t have a lot of energy.

THE DAUGHTER:  Do you do meth?

THE WAITRESS:  I wish. Instead, I’m dying. Slowly. *beat* Painfully.

THE DAUGHTER:  Cool.

THE WOMAN:  Will you take our drink orders? I could use a white zin.

THE MAN:  I’ll have a pint of Coors Lite!

THE DAUGHTER:  Sprite.

THE WAITRESS:  Can you guys please repeat? I have to write this all down. With my aching hands. Have I mentioned the chemo?

THE MAN:  Coors Lite is smart with lambchops, I think.

THE WOMAN:  White Zin for me!

THE DAUGHTER: Spr. Ite.

THE WAITRESS:  Okay. It will take me a little longer than you might be, well, used to. Walking is a chore, these days.

*shuffles off, humming “These Days” by Jackson Browne*

THE MAN:  She’s charming, in a creepy way.

THE WOMAN:  I need that white zin. Fast.

THE DAUGHTER:  I should have ordered alcohol.

THE MAN:  You’re 16.

THE DAUGHTER:  So what? In Europe that’s totally cool.

THE WOMAN:  In Europe so is gay marriage!

The waitress, looking as despondent as ever, makes her re-appearance.

THE WAITRESS (her hands are shaking, visibly):  These are your drinks. *she puts them down, spilling a little* I’m sorry about my shakiness. Over that, I have no control.

The waitress then leaves, but not before taking a prolonged glance at each one of her customers at this table. They all look down when she focuses her demented gaze on them. Soon, she’s off.

THE MAN:  Coors Light! Lambchops soon! Best night ever!

THE DAUGHTER: I wish I could divorce you.

THE WOMAN:  *just drinks* 

Several moments pass….

There’s a nearby elderly couple, sharing a polite romantic dinner. They are paying for their meal together with the waitress. She is engaging them in her version of cordial conversation.

THE WAITRESS:  …and so then, I said, I have no ovaries left. What more do you want from me?

THE OLD MAN:  Will you take my Mastercard, please?

THE WAITRESS:  Why don’t you just evict me from my apartment and leave me to die on the street? Without my ovaries?

THE OLD MAN:  My Mastercard, please?

THE OLD WOMAN:  *burst into tears* I miss Fluffy St. Charles. He was simply the most darling cat ever.

THE WAITRESS:  How did the cat die? Slowly? Painfully?

THE OLD WOMAN:  It was old age. He was 32 and two moons.

THE WAITRESS:  That must be nice….to die…of old age. I wouldn’t know.

She goes off, returning the card. Meanwhile, the family at table 32 observes and says nothing, as status quo goes.

They look as nothing has happened. They sit in silence until their food happily arrives. Then, the happiest and most uplifting waitress who has ever graced this Earth comes back.

THE WAITRESS:  I have food with me. Something I can’t keep down anymore. Salad?

THE DAUGHTER (texting to her friend, Juji, about something they both saw on tumblr):  You better have not put anything on my salad.

THE WOMAN:  God, Jessica. Make eye contact!

THE DAUGHTER (not removing her focus):  No.

THE WAITRESS:  Oh, and I have the. Lambchops.

THE MAN (giddy like a little girl on Christmas):  Lambchops?

THE WAITRESS:  That would be yours?

THE MAN:  YES.

THE WAITRESS:  I should have known.

THE WOMAN:  What about my food?

THE WAITRESS:  That’s coming. You know what else is coming? Death. For us all. But me, much sooner than you.

THE WOMAN:  Ooh, I think we need breadsticks too.

She leaves. A minute later, like a phantom, she reappears with the food and breadsticks.

THE WAITRESS:  Here? Is this what you want? Need?

THE WOMAN:  Well, yes. It is.

THE WAITRESS:  I need love. And money. Mostly money.

She walks off, leaving an awkward silence in her aftermath. Then, the family begins eating.

Then, like a disease, SHE RETURNS.

THE WAITRESS:  How is everything? Is it fine?

THE WOMAN:  Well I think so.

THE MAN:  *just keeps eating and nods his head*

THE DAUGHTER:  *doesn’t acknowledge*

THE WAITRESS:  I wish I was fine. I’m going to move into the dumpster behind the restaurant after health insurance bankrupts me. And then I’m going to eat other people’s shoes to survive. But who needs the high life, right? Or any life?

They all look up and gawk at her, somewhat in disbelief.

THE WOMAN:  I beg your pardon?

She walks away, trembling and shaking her head to herself.