The Modern American Dictator

The Modern American Dictator

Andrew Sievers

SEAN, young adult, is leaned up against the dumpster behind the restaurant that he waits tables for.  He is taking a smoke break.  He periodically takes a drag as he speaks.

SEAN:  So I’m in this world history class and the professor had us read about some Chinese dictator who said something like, (pausing to recall.) if you truly want to know a person, you should “tie him up, and hold him over the volcanoes’ edge.”  I say that’s crap.  I say if you want to know people, I mean, REALLY know people, try waiting tables.

         You think I’m kidding, but seriously.  Take this guy on table eleven for instance.  On his way in, he holds the door for some older woman the way his mother taught him to.  No he’s berating me because his filet, which he ordered medium rare, came out medium rare.  Of course it’s pink all the way through!  I mean, what did you think was going to happen?  Were you expecting some burnt piece of dollar-menu-cardboard-crap?  Don’t come in here with your cheap smile in your cheap suit and try to impress your friends by ordering a medium rare filet when you don’t even know what that means!  God, I’d love to hold him over the edge of a volcano.

         And this mother on twelve.  I mean, I felt sorry for her at first- three kids with another one on the way.  And her husband seems more interested in the ballgame on our big screen than his own damn kids.  I mean, seriously, put a leash on those things!  They’ve turned my section in to a war zone!  The ground is a minefield of sugar packets and French fries!  They squirt ketchup all over the table like they’ve never seen how a squeeze bottle works!  Seriously, this isn’t a jungle gym.  Restaurants are for enjoying company, not for taking a break from your kids.  Who do they think has to clean up all this crap anyway?  There’s no way I’m making a babysitter’s wages off some yuppie couple and their three-and-a-half kids.

         And of course, the woman in the electronic scooter at thirty-three.  (sarcastically.) Those are my favorite.  She can’t be a day over thirty, and she’s got to be close to like, what, four-hundred pounds or something?  She wheels in here with the looks of someone who thinks the whole world owes her something.  Like she has a REAL disability.  I mean, seriously, there are illegal’s in the back washing dishes that need emancipating, they’re STILL contributing more to society than that beach whale.  And she sits just waiting for me to make some minute little mistake so she can score a free meal.  Yeah, I forgot that she wanted Ranch and not Italian, but come on, the difference in calories would be doing her a huge favor.  So then I’m in a situation where I have to explain to the owner how she wants her meal comp-ed, and that it was impossible to make her happy, and he just tells me, “Junior, we sell two things here: good food and bullshit.  I make the good food, you sell the bullshit!”  Freakin’ tyrant.

         It really makes you think, you know?  What’s the point?  I mean, those rowdy guys at the bar on a break from a tour in Afghanistan.  No joke.  I’m no patriot, but I can honestly say that I’m grateful that they’re fighting over there while I’m just here doing my job.  But what are they even fighting for?  Are they fighting so that the blimp on thirty-three can stuff her face, or so the cheap suit on eleven can act like a d-bag?  If American’s really do “hate our troops,” maybe it’s because we resent our freedom.  Maybe we’d be better off communist.  No, seriously, maybe we’d rather have the government control everything.  Tell us what to do and when to do it.  Like in China.  Hah.

         Or maybe this seriously is the “American Dream” that everyone’s always pining for.  But what do I know?  I’m just the waiter.  I’m just the vessel for the food with no nutritional value to be brought to people who are too lazy to get it for themselves.  But someday…someday I’ll make something out of myself.  This is all just a stepping-stone.  Or so I keep telling myself.  (Sigh.)

         But then, at the end of the day, I get this little elderly couple.  They’re celebrating their thirty-fifth anniversary.  And I think to myself, “Wow, I hope I’m that happy someday.”  So I sell them an appetizer, and some drinks, and everything is going smoothly, and they say, (Mock elderly voice.) “You remind us of our grandson, I swear, you look just like him.”  And after dessert, which is on the house of course, we get to talking about my life, and theirs, because it’s close to closing anyway.  And on their way out the door, they tell me, “We haven’t had service this good in years!”  And it really lifts my spirits, ya’know?  It really makes me want to believe that people are basically good.  Or at least they can be.  (Puts out cigarette.)

         And then I open up my checkbook to find- (Pulls out checkbook from apron and opens it up.  Holds up a five-dollar bill).  Hello, Mr. Lincoln.