The Server Dream: A Short-ish Story
A loving homage to the restaurant industry.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, events, and locations may be inspired by reality, but are ultimately made up.
Carson slipped off his battered black Vans and tossed his bleu cheese stained tie on the kitchen table after returning from his third double in a row. His aching body was begging him for bed, but his brain was wired. Since entering the restaurant industry some ten years ago, Carson has developed a diet consisting of caffeine, nicotine, booze, and whatever the chefs accidentally made too much of. He is learning at twenty-five years old that consuming two Red Bulls, eleven Zyns, four beers, one cigarette (after the beers), two green tea shots and a cold Nashville Chicken Sandwich are beginning to take a drastic toll on his body. Unfortunately, when you spend most of your waking hours on your feet in a bar, these are the most accessible forms of sustenance. He honestly assumed getting in 31,000 steps a day balanced it out. It didn’t.
At this point in his life, Carson is not so much concerned with his unhealthy lifestyle, or even his finances. In fact, money is one of the main reasons he is still a server. On a good weekend like this one, it’s not uncommon for Carson to bring home around $1,500.
After college, Carson continued serving because it was the safe option. He was starting to consider thinking about maybe looking into the idea of potentially trying something different. Making a career change was a big step for Carson, and he was, a self proclaimed creature of habit.
Architecture had always been Carson’s true passion. He fell in love with architecture while on vacation in Western Europe when he was thirteen. As the family traipsed around England, they made sure to hit all the stops. Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, Piccadilly Circus, but none of them caught Carson’s eye quite like the Tudor homes outside London. Something about them shifted his vision of the future. He could never explain it, but he knew what he wanted to do with his life. The vacation to Europe set Carson on a straight path that resulted in a Bachelor’s degree in Architecture, $80,000 in student loan debt, and a shady architectural internship that left a bad taste in his mouth. Carson was terrified of failure. The thought of his dreams being crushed nauseated him. So, he figured he could preserve his fragile dreams while staying afloat as a server. Besides, he was incredibly good at waiting tables. Carson was proud of the fact that he was good at something. Many people trudge through life, finding neither their passions nor their skills. Carson was truly grateful to be talented, but the pride he had in his work began to expire when his life started to feel stagnant.
Shortly after a shower from the world’s weakest shower-head, Carson shuffled to the kitchen for his fifth beer. On his way to the kitchen, he passed his roommate Brian. Judging by the loud Vietnam documentary and his unwavering gaze at the television, Carson safely assumed that Brian was stoned.
“Could you turn it down a little?” Carson asked as his beer’s bottle cap clacked against their countertop. The volume lowered with no response. As Carson slumped on the couch and let out a large sigh, Brian half-heartedly broke the silence.
“How was work?” he asked. Brian didn’t really care how work was, but in his THC-fueled haze, it felt like the courteous thing to say. The insincerely polite remark inadvertently caused Carson to relive his particularly shitty Sunday double and all its gory details.
At around 10:10 AM, Carson, still a little drunk from Saturday’s escapades, rolled into the Lincoln Ale House to prepare for brunch. He wasn’t required to be at work until 10:30, but Carson was never late. In fact, he was early to just about everything in his life, no matter the circumstances. Arriving early always beat the stress of trying not to be late. When 10:45 came around, Tony, one of Lincoln’s many managers, emerged from the office to meet someone up front. Carson actively avoided human interaction before the restaurant opened. Not long after, Tony returned to the back with a bright-eyed college-aged guy.
“Carson, this is Tyler. You’re gonna be training him today,” Tony said, “He already trained on Wednesday and Thursday. We need to get him some practice with brunch service.”
“Sounds good,” Carson responded without taking his eyes off the syrup cups he was filling. Carson wasn’t thrilled about training Tyler, but he’d be damned if he let it ruin his day. The two young men exchanged niceties until Tony promptly reemerged from the office.
“Where’s Chrissy?” Tony asked. Chrissy was late, as always. Carson was neither surprised nor upset. He honestly respected Chrissy’s ability to take advantage of the management, convince other servers to cover her shifts, and generally do what she wanted with little to no consequences. She always showed up right before the customers, and Carson didn’t mind doing side-work. Every restaurant has a Chrissy, and most of them use their powers for evil. She was stunning, but it wasn’t her looks that always made things go her way; it was her unrelenting charm and affability. The two had actually become really good friends during their long tenure at Lincoln. They started working there around the same time and seem to be the only ones that managed to stick around. Regulars and coworkers always suspected that they were secretly dating, but there was no romantic connection, aside from the time two years ago when Carson drunkenly asked Chrissy out. To this day, Carson claims he only half meant it.
By 12:30, the servers were deep into the chaos of the brunch shift. Tyler had dropped a Mimosa which soaked an older woman’s shoes, and she wasted no time in chewing him out. The kitchen ran out of bagels for their signature breakfast burger. Tony sent Will the busser to a local grocery store to retrieve more, which meant the kitchen’s efficiency had taken a huge hit. The new hostess triple-sat Carson, seemingly with no remorse. A party of twenty-five had arrived for their 1:15 reservation and demanded they be sat and served immediately. Unfortunately for them, Lincoln could not physically fit them at a table until 1:15, their reservation time. The host of the party then demanded to speak to a manager, which ultimately forced Tony to put a makeshift table together, squeezing them in like sardines. Carson watched this debacle unfold as the green tea shots returned with a vengeance in the form of a warm, thick layer of sweat seeping into his shirt. The party was squeezed into Chrissy’s section which Carson viewed as some sort of cosmic justice for all the shady things Chrissy did over the years.
“They’re fucking complaining about their table after they made Tony seat them early. Like, don’t make a fuss about getting seated and then bitch about the table when you get it.” Chrissy exclaimed.
Carson agreed, but was far too busy to indulge her. Only two hours in, his dream of just one seamless shift was gone.
Tyler left at 4:00 with little to no training from Carson. Tyler was used as an extra set of hands during the rush so Carson could essentially be in two places at once . Besides, Carson believed wholeheartedly that the only true way to be trained in a busy restaurant is a baptism by fire. You’ll never be good at serving unless you face adversity early on.
The rest of Carson’s shift was largely uneventful until about 7:00. Wes, the night server casually mentioned that his long-distance girlfriend decided to surprise him when he got out of work. The problem with this new development was that Carson had priority to be first cut at around 8:00 because he worked a double. Now that Wes was itching to see his girlfriend and asking to be first cut, Carson reluctantly agreed to let him leave first. Carson frequently had trouble turning off the fake persona that he presented to customers. In turn, he had become a chronic people pleaser. As he silently finished up the side work at 11:00, he wondered if he was a pushover that let everyone take advantage of him, or if he was just a glutton for punishment. Either way, nothing a good scream in the car can’t fix.
“Work was good,” Carson responded, but Brian was locked in on the Vietnam documentary. It could have been the booze or twelve hours on his feet, but the droning voice of the narrator with the cacophony of gunfire formed a dense white noise that put Carson right to sleep.
As the indescribable, timeless release of sleep set in, Carson’s brain began playing a cruel trick on him. Flashing images and brief sequences began creeping into what could have been a well-deserved night’s rest for Carson. The fragmented images and sequences appeared in greater concentration and rapid succession until Carson found himself in a vivid dream.
“Hey fuckface!” a voice called out from behind a white PVC fence. Carson scanned his surroundings to get an understanding of this vaguely familiar place he was standing. Carson’s memory seemed to be blocked until he reached the patio area of The Jury Pub, the first restaurant he ever worked at. Carson loved The Jury. It was a local spot that he felt at home working in. Everything there was to know about bussing and serving, Carson learned at The Jury. The aggressive voice that was calling him belonged to Bradley, the heavyset GM, who always gave Carson trouble. Carson never let Bradley get to him during his tenure at The Jury. Even at sixteen years old, Carson understood that Bradley’s negative attitude was a culmination of poor decisions, burnt bridges, and lack of ambition. He took umbrage with Carson’s existence because Carson reminded Bradley of himself when he was younger and more spry before he let everything slip away. Carson never let it get to him, but it was no thrill to relive the days of torment and unnecessary aggression from his superior in this dream.
“What are you doing?” Bradley called out again from the top of the patio stairs, “These cups have to go. The band is gonna be here in ten minutes!”
Carson gazed upon the patio, confused. Covering the metal wire cafe tables were hundreds of cups, bottles, and crushed beer cans.
“Get rid of them before the band gets here,” Bradley demanded.
Carson began stacking cups rapidly and throwing them over the fence into the dumpster. Every time he returned to gather more, the cups he previously tossed had returned to the table. Carson was making no progress. In an attempt to compete with the Sisyphean task, he increased his speed, but to no avail. The trash continued to build up until the patio was even more cluttered than before. Carson persisted, grabbing cups by the armful, and running to the dumpster to dispose of them. A small mountain of discarded cups formed on the other side of the PVC fence, but the tables were still covered. Bradley returned.
“Jesus Christ, you are fuckin’ useless,” he said as he watched Carson shuttle cups from the patio.
“The cups aren’t going anywhere,” Carson replied in a monotone, almost lifeless tone.
“Well, drop those, Carson, cause it’s your lucky day,” Bradley said, “Sammy no-call no-showed, and the servers are getting killed in there. You’re the only one who has been here long enough to half know what you’re doing. So get up there, and take tables.”
Sammy was no stranger to a no-call no-show. When Carson was a busser, Sammy was in the throws of a brutal opiate addiction. The last Carson had heard, she decided that enough was enough, and sought out help. Shortly after Carson left The Jury for good, Sammy was out of a successful stint in detox. It seemed like she was taking steps in the right direction. Carson was very happy for her health and safety, but when she was using, it was never nice to face the consequences of her unannounced absence.
Bradley’s demand echoed as Carson was struck with conflicted feelings. On the one hand, serving is a highly coveted position for a busser to take on. Carson had been working towards this promotion for a long time. On the other hand, he would be thrown into the fire with no training or help. He grew to appreciate this strategy of training later on in his career. However, it doesn’t work unless the server has a fundamental understanding of the job.
Carson quickly abandoned the cups and approached his first table in the main dining room. Two older couples collectively rolled their eyes as they watched an exhausted Carson approach their table.
“G-Good afternoon folks, my name is Ca-,” Carson muttered before being interrupted.
“Please skip the pleasantries, we’ve been waiting here forever for a server,” one of the women exclaimed.
“I’m terribly sorry about that. It’s been quite the day-,” Carson said.
“I’ll have a Grey Goose martini, up, straight, on the rocks, extra dirty, dry, extra olives, with a twist,” the same woman ordered. Carson was too inexperienced to notice that her order was nonsensical.
Carson reached down to grab a notepad or receipt paper to write on, but didn’t have any. He would have to place their drink order from memory.
“And for you?” he asked the other woman.
“I’ll have a virgin cosmo,” The woman said. Even a young, inexperienced Carson knew that was a strange way of ordering cranberry juice in a martini glass.
“For you, sir?” Carson asked the first man.
“Bud heavy,” the man mumbled.
“Thank God,” Carson thought to himself.
“Last but certainly not least, what can I get for you, sir?” Carson asked the final man.
The final man looked vaguely familiar. He was wearing a suit while the other patrons dressed casually. The man was pale with no distinct features.
“Just a water for me, Carson” the man said. Carson was far too stressed to remember that he did not get the chance to tell the table his name.
After attempting to remember their order, he relayed it to Sidney, the bartender who was always very kind to him. Even in a terrifying dream, Sidney did her best to look out for Carson. She tried to make a passable martini with every possible modification. When Carson returned to the table, after struggling to balance the martini glasses on a tray, the martini woman took a sip of her drink.
“Can we speak to a manager please?” she uttered into the glass.
Carson turned to retrieve Bradley, but he was already standing right behind him.
Bradley began to shout at Carson in front of all the customers. This public humiliation display encouraged the customers to join in. Both the couples and Bradley laid into Carson with feverish anger. The only person who wasn’t yelling was the suited man. Instead of lashing out to illustrate the absurdity of the situation, Carson just closed his eyes. The screams became muffled hums, and Carson kept his eyes closed until they were gone.
When he opened his eyes, he was in a new place, The Marina. The Marina was Carson’s second restaurant, a small bar near the beach that served mostly tourists. The Marina’s main draw was its location. It sat next to a drawbridge where boats would travel from Gleam Pond to the Atlantic Ocean. Unfortunately for Carson, when he opened his eyes, he was standing waist deep in Gleam Pond, unable to move. Bewildered patrons and coworkers watched on as Carson struggled to get out of the water.
Carson’s coworker and close friend Alice called out to him.
“Carson!” She shouted. “Why are you standing there?”
“I don’t know,” Carson responded.
“Well get back over here! We have tables,” Alice said.
“I can’t”
“What?”
“I can’t. I can’t move. I’m stuck here.”
Carson began to panic. He knew he could just walk out of the water, but for some reason, his brain just wasn’t letting him. It felt like he was being held down from his ankles.
“Alice!” Carson called out.
“What Carson? I’m kind of in the middle of something,” Alice answered.
Carson began to tear up. “Can you please call for help?” he asked, “I don’t know how to get out.”
Carson’s tears began to accelerate until he was fully sobbing. He finally mustered the strength to try to identify what was keeping him in the pond.
A pair of hands emerged from the ground, wrapped tightly around his ankles. His crying turned into terror. Carson’s breaths grew shorter and more rapid. The hands tightened and pulled him further into the Earth. Carson panicked. He fought and fought, but the disembodied hands were far stronger than he could have imagined. Carson held his breath as he was pulled under. He accepted what was coming. He kept sinking into the ground, but he could feel an opening on the other side. The hands pulled him through until he fell about ten feet onto a cold dry floor.
Carson coughed, choked, and gasped for air. As he regained his breath on the floor, he opened his eyes to see two shiny black dress shoes standing in front of him. He looked up to identify the hands that dragged him under. Towering over him was the suited man from The Jury. They were both dripping water on the black floor. Around them was nothing, and the room seemed to go on forever. The suited man backed away and pointed to a tray of drinks sitting on a stool. Carson stood up and regained focus.
“Go on. Your tables are waiting,” the suited man said to Carson as he pointed at the tray.
Carson’s eyes darted around to find the tables he was referring to. There was nothing in sight.
He grabbed the tray, but did not go anywhere.
“Where are they?” Carson asked.
The suited man pointed upwards to reveal a glass ceiling that separated Carson and himself from the dining room of Gerry McMahon’s, the third restaurant Carson worked at.
Through the glass ceiling, customers glared at Carson, as if to be fed up with his incompetence.
“You’d better get up there soon; they’re starting to look impatient,” the man said.
Carson knew there was no way he was going to get up there, after all, this is one of the most common server dreams there is.
“I’ve had this dream before. There’s no way to get up there. Just wake me up,” Carson said.
“Not yet,” the man said as he shook his head.
A wave of rage came over Carson. He was fed up with the torment and stress and impossible tasks. Carson grabbed one of the drinks from the tray and threw it at the suited man. The suited man effortlessly dodged the drink and began to shake his head again. Carson just stood there while the man smiled. The standoff lasted about ten seconds, until the man pulled a rock from his breast pocket. After tossing it in his hand a couple times, he cocked his arm back and threw it at the glass ceiling. The rock bounced off the ceiling and hit the ground with an echoed thunk. A small crack formed under the patrons. The crack crunched, crackled and grew until the glass ceiling shattered. Chairs, tables, glasses, plates, food, drinks, and customers rained down on the man and Carson. Before the impact, the man grabbed Carson, and everything went black.
“We have one more place to go, Carson,” the suited man’s voice whispered in the darkness.
Before the words could even register, Carson was back at Lincoln, filling ketchups. It was late, and Carson was trying to finish a few more things before he could go home. The Lincoln felt different from all the other locations he had just been in. It was calm, and he was less anxious. He peacefully filled ketchups as if they were a metaphor for counting sheep. Clara, the young hostess who always double-sat him, approached him slowly.
“Hey Carson, you’re gonna hate me, but you have a table for one,” she said.
“Table for one?” he said as he checked his watch, “What time is it?”
“It’s late, but he specifically requested your section, and Tony said it was okay.” Clara said.
Carson gave Clara a resigned nod and approached the table. The suited man sat alone at a table for two, facing away from Carson.
"Hello Carson,” the suited man said before Carson reached the table, “Here we are, our final stop.”
“You come here to scare me?” Carson asked.
“Not this time, have a seat,” the suited man said.
“I can’t. I’m working,” Carson said, trying not to fall into another trap.
“Of course you can. None of this is even real,” the man continued, “take a seat.”
Carson sat across from the suited man.
“Who are you? What is all this?” Carson asked.
“I’m no one. If anything, I’m you. I’ve been sent here by your brain to relay a message,” the man said.
“What’s the message?” Carson asked.
“Well it’s clear to me that you need to make a change. You’ve been serving for about seven years now, and don’t get me wrong, the restaurant industry has been very good to you. It’s a great profession. You’ve made countless friends, had good times, made good money, but are you happy? I don’t think so. You may be hesitant to move on from the industry because you’re comfortable, but are you really comfortable? It seems to me as though you face immense stress levels the second you walk through that door. Sure, you’re great at it, which mitigates the stress, but I think it’s time to try something new. What do you really want to do?” the Man said.
“Architecture,” Carson responded.
“Architecture, that’s great. Sure, it’s arguably far more stressful than serving, but you have the tools. You can deal with people, even the worst people. You can work under pressure. You have the degree. We both know you have the drive to excel. Why not just go for it?” the man asked.
“What if it doesn’t work out?” Carson asked in response.
“Who cares if it doesn’t work? Would you rather serve for the rest of your life and live with the constant reminder that you never even tried to live out your dream?” the man asked.
“That’s a fair point,” Carson said, “You’re right. I love serving, and I love the restaurant industry, but I can see myself just staying put because it’s easier. I owe a lot to the restaurant industry, but I think it’s time to hang it up.”
“Exactly. You never know until you try,” the man said, “the truth is, I’m just an extension of all the thoughts you were already having. Consider me that last push you needed to do something about those feelings. Sorry I had to try to scare it out of you.”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Carson responded.
The man stood up from the table, placing his napkin on his empty plate. He extended his arm to shake Carson’s hand. Carson obliged.
“Goodbye Carson, we’ll probably meet again in the future,” the man said.
“Hopefully, we don’t,” Carson said as she shot out of his nightmare.
A cold sweat coated his skin. As he regained control of his breath, he veered around his apartment’s pitch-black living room. The TV was off, and Brian was nowhere to be found. As Carson’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he reached for his phone. When he turned it on, he squinted at the bright light from his screen. His phone’s clock read 2:47 AM. Carson unlocked it, and opened his messages. He typed out a message to Tony that read:
“I quit. Sorry for the short notice. It’s been a pleasure.”
Carson threw his phone back on the couch, trudged to his bedroom, and slumped on his bed. He quickly slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep, where he would soon wake up with his entire future ahead of him.
THE END
Thank you for all the kind words on my last post.
Thank you for your patience while I took a “brief” hiatus.
Thank you for reading.
Until next time.
-CJ
Hmmm...I saw you in Carson at times. Great job!!
Enjoyed this one the most. Welcome back!