“Alright,
everyone group up,” ordered Steve, the pocket-sized banquet hall supervisor.
The fourteen servers, all in black, shuffled through the sea of six-foot circular
round tables like a small gang of Johnny Cash impersonators. Each table was covered
in white table clothes and adorned with a crimson table runner that was held
down with a circular mirror reflecting a fishbowl above it that contained a red
rose that taunted the pale stones below it by floating on the water. Around
these fishbowls were three votive candles and the edge of the table was
bordered with eight black napkins folded into a pyramid and surrounded by
silverware—a dessert fork above, a salad and dinner fork on the left, and a
knife and spoon on the right huddled along a saucer with teacup.
The servers converged on to the
edge of the square dance floor that lie before the raised table that would be
where the wedding party would enjoy their meal.
“In the past couple weeks we have had a few weddings,” he started every
pre-wedding speech the same way as taught to him by his high school wrestling
coach had back in his glory days, “last week we did ok, but this week we gotta
do better. We had a few complaints that servers were not as helpful as they
could have been and did not get the coffee around to everyone as much as they
could have. That is disrespectful and it can’t happen again. Tonight, we need
to be rock stars. Tonight, we need to be on the ball. Tonight, there will be no
screw-ups! We will treat the guests with respect.”
A long silence hung in the air
before he started again. “Ok,” he pointed to the left of center chair at the
head table, “here is the bride.” He indicated the rest of the chairs on the
rest side of the table, giving each a number. “One, two, three, four, five. Five
bucks to play, you know the game: choose which chair the hottest bridesmaid
will sit at.” A mess of singles and five-dollar bills landed in Steve’s clipboard
and he made note of who chose which chair.
“Chair one!”
“Chair four.”
“Chair two.”
“Chair zero.”
“There is no chair zero, Patricio,”
Steve replied without looking up from his clipboard. He didn’t have to look up
to know who was talking. Patricio had a habit of trying to annoy Steve to the
point that it was an art form.
“The bride will be the hottest,
hands down,” replied Patricio.
“You know I
have seen the bride already. Are you
really sure you want to take that bet?” Steve looked Patricio dead in the eye
as best he could, which was hard for him considering he was four inches
shorter.
“Damn it!
Fine, chair three.”
“Anyone for
chair five?” The betting continued for a moment before the servers fled like
shadows to light votive candles and prepare water glasses.
Any names and likenesses in this story are entirely coincidental.
