The biggest mistake you can make to an old car. I just did it.

I've discovered the one thing that turns me into a rabid screaming psycho nut.

--

In a hurry to clean the MR2 for pavillions car show.

Figured I'd just do one of those quick drive-thru automatic car washes.

Never done one of these in this car before, but not too worried. Maybe a drip of water or two could leak through the t-tops, right? No big deal.

The operator hands me a Vanilla scent tree, ensures that I leave the car in neutral and roll up my window. I do both. He pats my roof and signals to another worker, who hits a switch.

The hungry car wash machine thunks and groans, inching me and the MR2 into its throat.

'Everything's gonna be okay', I tell the dash, petting it.

The first section of pressure water hits me-- right in the face. I gasp at the sudden cold, wiping my cheek in disbelief. What the?

I peek up and discover there’s a good inch of space from the top of the window glass and the surrounding rubber seal- which has apparently rotted away with age. So it's like my windows aren't even closed.

Ohhh no.

Can they stop this thing? Please stop it. Oh God. But it’s too late. No one cares.

A freezing tidal wave of soapy slush sprays me in the face. Pumping, throbbing, heartless waves of slimy soap, wax, and dirt come pouring into the windows and above my head through the t-tops on both sides.

Panicking, I take off my shirt and shove it into the top of the driver's side window, trying to muffle some of the onslaught.

It's no use. The shirt soaks through in seconds. More soapy hell pours down the windows, onto my head, onto the seats, invading the carpets and raping every innocent electronic bit.

I spit soap from my mouth and frantically wipe my hands over the dash and door electronics, trying to prevent the water from flooding them.

The heavy bristles slap and fwomp all over my car, ripping apart my aged exterior plastics. I hear bits of trim tear and snap.
I can't see, I'm soaked and freezing. I’ve resorted to yelling and sputtering.

Then the high-pressure spray attacks the car. I scream a wall of obscenities, rubbing soap out of my eyes.

“GAH I I hate you! I hate y-“
PFFFFSSSHHH!!! The machine shuts me up, forcing more water into my face again, harder and colder.

I paid $12 for this. I gave someone $12 to ruin my life.

I’m helpless. Hopeless. I’ve failed my poor MR2.
I slump into my seat, which is now like an overfed sponge.
Waiting for the end. I'm not even trying to fight it anymore. Doomed. Ruined. Letting the cold water spray all over me, the dash, everything.

A tornado of cold air blasts me in conclusion. A final 'fuck you', then the machine coughs up what remains of me and the MR2.

A little green light blinks and waves Thank you, Come Again!
That did it. I exploded into the biggest Italian rage in history.

I bring the MR2 over to the self-service vacuums. Open the door, scream at everything, completely drenched. My shoes slop and slush water with each step. It looks like I just took a shower in my clothes.

Not an employee in sight. They all scattered.
It looks like my car is crying from the inside out. My quarter window plastics are dangling from one corner. The trim around the back window has been pulled out and bent upward. The front bumper's indicator lights have been pulled out and dangle from their electrical cords.
I cursed every single thing I could think of- from each blade of grass, to the sky, to the sidewalk, that stupid bird in the tree, the vacuum hose - everything in existence all in one slobbering string of incoherent fucks and shits.

I wring out my shirt and wipe out what I can, still yelling fucks and shits, then use the pressurized air all over my interior. But it’s useless. My seats and carpet squish with soapy stinkwater.

Still screaming out the window at everything and everyone, I punch the gas and burn rubber out of the lot, as the MR2 vomits water through the door sills.

I'm so sorry MR2. I'll never, ever do this to you again.

(Now I'm dried off, and the car is basking in the sun, drying off as well. See you at pavillions car show!)

Andrew drives a modern rental car, and concludes we're all going to Hell.

For the first time in years, I spent a day in Scottsdale without a car. I couldn't take it. It's horrible. How do you people do this.

Anyhow, due to needing a new (BRASS, not PLASTIC) radiator, my MR2 has been out of commission. 

So since it's (probably crying) in CarLife Autocare’s mechanic bay, they gave me a paid-for leathery rental. Not just a little economy bucket, no they hooked it up. I could write a glowing review about CarLife, but that's a story for another day.

A young mechanic oil-change kid named Alex picked me up from home and drove me to an Enterprise car rental center. "It's all paid for, unless you want insurance. Take it easy, buddy!" and he left.

Paperwork signed, I'm given a quick tour of my rental car by an Enterprise salesman guy.

Now the car they're lending me is nothing special by today’s super luxury standards. It’s an upper middle class fully optioned Chevrolet Captiva SUV. Brand new. Black on black, with chrome and aluminum accents. It's a car I'd glance over and forget as I'm thumbing for Porsches in this month's Car & Driver.

As I sit in the Captiva's driver seat, the Enterprise employee rambles about something. Then he waves and shuts the driver door with a quiet fump.

And the outside world is instantly muted. Turned off.  Completely gone and separate from me now. 

I take a look around this freshly stitched interior. So this is what GMs engineers have been up to.

I’m cocooned in fifty airbags, glossy faux aluminum and wood grain accents. There’s like 10 air conditioners and screens all over and I don’t know what it all means. The car is just on all of a sudden, like it knows I’m there. One of the screens flash words and welcoming animations. Asking me what I want in life. It can provide it. Anything you want, driver.

I just want to, uh, drive home. Can you do that, Captiva?

The driver seat alone has more options than my entire MR2. I want to adjust it a bit, so I reach down for a grab handle to find nothing. Instead there’s a handful of smooth buttons on the side. I press a couple of them and make the seat position worse, then give up.

This thing has so many gadgets, I don't even know what Bluetooth is but there’s like 6 kinds of it in here. I never knew I needed air conditioned seats, or responsive interior and exterior lighting, satellite location, onboard HD diagnostics, and warning beeping things and cameras until now.

Every surface has little bits of safety-laden convenience hoping to coddle me in every thinkable way.

I don't understand all this fancy technology and computers and it makes me angry.

So I decide to try and drive it while ignoring the flatscreen thing in the center console. It was offering me food and music and news updates and where the nearest whatever I need is... but I'm scared of all these buttons, so I just leave it.

Cruising along, blasted with ice cold air from the swoopy dash, I can’t feel or hear a thing from the road. It all seems so far away from me. I’m not driving a car as much as just watching a movie through the windshield.

Floating in the vast chasm of headroom above me is an open glass moonroof of the future. It’s letting bright Phoenix sunlight spill all over the chrome automatic shifter, blinding me as a result. 

Squinting my eyes on the movie road ahead, I reach up and grab for a sliding shade to close it.

But there’s no such thing, really. Instead there are a dozen buttons to control the fore and aft degree and angle and temperate and mood lighting of the moonroof. Can’t I just close this stupid thing? 

I hit all the buttons a few times until something makes it close. Ah, good.

The ride is so smoothly muffled and massaged, I can’t tell if I’ve run over a deer or a road reflector. There’s zero feeling. No connection between me and the outside. Not that there needs to be. I wonder if I’m even needed in this car actually. I’m sure it could drive itself fine with or without me.

In my MR2, there are no driver aids. It’s just you and the wheel and this eager little engine and that’s it. You make it all happen. If you screw up even the slightest bit, it’s your fault. Sorry. Learn to drive better or get out, chump.

But in this new Captiva, in this new car, you could have a baboon dowsed in itching powder as the driver, and everything would be just fine. The computers would handle everything. No tires would screech, no fuel would be wasted, nobody would get hurt. Everything’s gonna be just fine. We’ll even get McDonald’s on the way.

I was chuckling to myself about this, when it hit me.

This is what cars are like now. This is what people want.

I’m the weirdo, here. Not them.

I look around at the Scottsdale traffic whizzing by. Many of the cars are far nicer than this Captiva. I steal a glimpse from each driver as they pass. Every driver in their own suede-covered protective tech bubble vacation. They don’t care about anything outside of themselves. Their car makes sure of it.

The modern car can answer their every want and need, with silent obedience. The car makes them feel important, exclusive, and special. No rude boss, no screaming kids, debt, disrespect, stress or noise to worry about.

This is the future. Highways filled with millions of tiny escapes.

…I really miss my MR2. I miss my notchy 5 speed, and two working speakers. I miss my little early 90s Toyota world. Where things made sense.

The Policeman at Scottsdale Pavillions Car Show

I’m peacefully admiring a 1968 Jaguar XKE. For some reason, no one else is. Do they not realize what this car is?



No matter. I’ve been wanting some alone time with a quality classic like this. And this one is all business- just beautiful.

My face is inches away from the front left wheel (checking the spokes for specks of dirt and finding none) when I hear a voice behind me.

“What a car! It looks great!”

I straighten up, and face the voice. It’s a policeman.

Now a few years ago I would have instantly turned a sweaty, nervous pale color. But not anymore.

“Oh it certainly is,” I smile. I quickly think of reasons he could have picked me out to approach in particular.  I must feel him out, play this right.

“Well what, uh. What is it?” he asks, rubbing his chin, eyeing the car.

“It’s a ’68 E-type, Jaguar. You’ll see examples like this every year at the Barrett Jackson auctions going for new-house type money. My dad had a white one when I was a baby.”

He nods at the Jaguar. We both do for a moment. He appears to think I’m this car’s owner, letting his guard down completely.

Do I really come off as that… mature?

“Wow well it sure is pretty. My wife, she knows all about cars and stuff. It’s her thing. I bet she’d be all freaked out over this one. I don’t know cars very well. But you know I figure I’ll get a muscle car or somethin’ pretty soon. Retirement’s gonna happen soon.”

"Well a good number of these are for sale?" I gesture to the lot of '60s Camaros and Mustangs.

He grins some good teeth. Certainly doesn’t look retirement age. I’d say upper 30s to early 40s. Short cropped sandy hair. His skin is nicely reddened by a long day under the sun. His gear makes him look bulky, but underneath, I know he’s my height and weight. Normally cops act large and in charge, but not this one.

From his relaxed, friendly demeanor, he seems much happier just blending in like anyone else.

“So what brings you here?” I ask.

“Well they called in and said they needed me at the McDonald’s. And I was like, heck yeah.” He taps the little radio on his shoulder. It chirps garbled words and numbers which he pays no mind.

“I was workin' the baseball game this mornin'. They pay good for that one too. I mean it’s been a long day, but workin' the McDonald’s is my favorite gig man.”

He tells me about the owner of this particular McDonald’s. The one that hosts this weekly car show, arguably the most popular and longest-running car show in Arizona. He knows the owner very well, and has for years. 

Mr. Policeman tells me his name, which is John. Officer John's handshake is just like mine in grip, though his fingers are shorter and thicker.

We’re discussing which restaurant chain he should start getting into after retiring from police work, when his pants ring.

He takes out a smartphone from his pocket, slides his thumb across it, “Oh it’s the wife, hang on. Hey honey. Yeah I’m here…. What? Oh I don’t know what that is… sure, sure, I’ll come look at it. Just gimme a sec. Okay. Love you too. Yes. Okay.”

He thumbs the phone off and puts it back in his pocket, a little embarrassed.

“She’s here. Says there’s some Buick here and she’s all excited.”

“It’s probably the GNX,” I offer. He doesn’t know what a GNX is, he smiles and shrugs bashfully.

I notice eager onlookers now. From a distance, they think I’m in trouble with this cop. Like something's about to go down.

I imagine getting into the E-type, yelling something about you’ll never catch me copper and skidding away.

“So how long you been working this gig, John?” I ask.

“Years, man. They pay forty bucks an hour for this. Sometimes fifty. So I get to look at some cars, the wife’s happy, and then I get to catch a few kids bein’ crazy later on. It’s the best!”

“Crazy kids, hmm?” I say, thumbing to a burnout in the distance.

“Yeah, that kinda crap. I mean come on dude, we got a great thing here. Why ya gotta do stuff like that,” his brow furrows for a moment.

Even with his gun, and his furrowed brow, he still looks miles from intimidating.

“Little while back there were at least a dozen of us workin' this, I’d guess. This week is pretty mellow though,” he says, nodding at the scene around us as he spoke.

He tells me about the ‘riff raff’ that show up later on. And how it doesn’t completely stop until after midnight sometimes.

"It's like every week there's a new batch of morons. Excuse my French," he shakes his head, hands on hips like a disappointed mother.

"You wouldn't believe sometimes, though. You get these kids with daddy's money out here. They don't care about anything, they never earned a cent of it.”

"So they don't care about crashing it, either," I respond. John nods.

"In Phoenix, you know it's just like little old Civics and Altimas with silly wings. But at least they bought it with their own money. They're less likely to do something crazy, because they're worried about hurting their car. These kids out here though, are spoiled. I mean you get a 16 year old kid with a brand new 500hp mustang and it's big trouble."

“You need to get in their head, John. Don’t just ticket them. They won’t learn."

"Whadya mean?"

"You gotta tell them they’re an embarrassment to the scene when they act like that. And that real car guys find their public-road burnouts and crap irritating. Like, prove it at the track, son.”

He laughs. “Good idea, think I’ll try that!"

After a bit more chit chat about ‘kids these days’ John’s pants ring again.

“Well Andrew. I should probably get goin'. The wife, you know how they get and stuff.”

I smile and shake his little hand again. Then we part ways.

I hear a slight groan of disappointment around us. No, I’m not a criminal, people.

 If anything, I look like an undercover, just chumming with a coworker. I felt kinda cool about that.

An hour later, I’m moving through the crowd towards my car to leave.

“Hey it’s Andrew again!” Officer John beams. Like I’m the only friend he’s got here.

I smile and wave to him, to some surrounding confusion, get in my car and drive off.

Feel Sorry for the Porsche Owner

It’s them.
The two Porsche Cayman guys. They roll in together. The younger one looks like the rockstar type, in his 30s. Nick. Tattoos up to his neck, but well dressed. The other a forgettable middle aged white guy named Dave.

TechArt Porsche Cayman

The rockstar’s  Cayman is like something from a videogame. It’s glossy black, with a custom TechArt widebody, housing deep dish wheels that seem to devour the road. The other guy, Dave, his is a base model Cayman. Looking like an eager little brother by comparison.

They drive in, park in the middle of the show, get out and talk only to themselves. They’re not even interested in the other cars. They never leave their spot, standing in front of their two prized Porsche Caymans.

I’ve already made my rounds, talking to the regulars, inquiring about their current projects and plans, hearing their stories, shaking hands and moving on.

The Scottsdale Pavillions car show is in its prime right now, throbbing at its finest hour.  The air is cool, but not cold. The cars are packed tightly together as far as the eye can see, with the crowd moving through like waves. There’s some good cars, some rare ones, some beat up ones, some with hidden potential, and some I feel sorry for.

Every 20 minutes police blips can be heard in the distance then cheers from the crowd as showoffs get ticketed just down the road.

“So how’s she been, Dave?” I thumb to his plain Cayman.

He scoffs, like he tasted something bitter. “Still guzzling oil.”

The 2 year old Porsche glistens innocently.

“Hasn’t blown up yet?” I ask, with a smile.

“Ha! Don’t jinx me. These engines are absolute crap.”

The three of us chat about upgrades and parts to make these Caymans fly. Rockstar Nick is in all his glory, while Dave worships every word like a hungry pupil.

“Evolution has made a kit for this that makes 600 wheel horsepower on 5 pounds of boost. 91 pump gas too,” he says.

Dave nods in agreement (with everything Nick says). I scratch my chin at his fiction.

While we chat, passersby glance at the Caymans but don’t seem interested or impressed.

A finger taps my shoulder. I stop my conversation and turn around.

“Yo dawg. You seen a 911?”

I point to one down the aisle.

“Tanks.” And he walks off with his girlfriend, who looks uncomfortable.

Nick and Dave are visibly displeased, with hands on hips.

“Tanks.” Dave grumbles.

“I know. It’s okay guys,” I offer.

“Fuckin whatever. He thinks I can’t afford a 911? What, that I wouldn’t have bought one if I could have?” Nick’s feelings are clearly hurt now.

“It’s okay, man. It’s okay. That guy, forget him. He doesn’t know any better,” I whisper, trying to calm him.

“He doesn’t get it! My car is midengine okay? MIDENGINE. It’s way fuckin better. Stupid 911 is nothing compared to my Cayman!” Nick’s hands are flying all over.

Dave looks at the ground.

“Awright Nick. Dude it’s cool. Porsche blatantly detuned the Cayman so it wouldn’t be faster than their flagship 911. People know that.  The Cayman, with a few tweaks, is a monster that deserves respect,” I sooth.

“That’s—that’s right!”  Nick’s face is intense, his entire body then proclaims “I’ll get that turbo kit and then they’ll see! They’ll all see!”

Dave’s eyes trade between his regular Cayman, and Nick’s glossy super Cayman. Both of these cars are ultra cool in the real world.

 But it’s all relative. Neither of these men have quenchable thirst. Even with a $100,000 car, it’s the same rat race. An endless pursuit of validation and unquestionable admiration.

Nick and Dave only see what’s faster than them. In this car show, it’s easy to feel like your car- your pride and joy- isn’t good enough.

Nick and Dave are enslaved by that. They don’t remember the hundreds of approving glances, photos and compliments… they only remember the occasional “oh but it’s not a 911.” That little jab at their ego, that tiny moment of being brushed off.

It drives them crazy, festering in their mind. When there’s a little ding on an otherwise perfect paint job, that one ding is all they see.

I notice another MR2 roll through, my heart swells.

“My club is really gaining steam,” I say.

“Club?”

“Yeah an MR2 club,” I smile.

“What year?” Nick leans in.

“Mine’s a 93.”

Nick’s face opens up into a big smile. His eyes shine bright. “I used to have one of those! Holy shit that was such a fun car. Little two liter turbo in it was like a secret weapon!”

His super Cayman dims in jealousy.

Dave is lost. Not sure what an MR2 is.

“You know, you could sell your Cayman and buy a perfect turbo MR2 for your wife and each of the kids,” I chuckle.

“Oh… oh I don’t have a wife and kids,” Nick says to the Cayman.

“…Yeah… yeah me neither,” Dave says quietly, more to himself than to me.

They're both silent. Suddenly very far away.

The air hangs heavily. Their flashy cars mean nothing now. And not because they’re not fast or cool enough.

Because these men are getting old, and the reality of being alone just hit them. Under their thin veil of flashy sportscar prowess lies a quiet desire for love. That’s all it is. Someone love me, please.

"Hey you guys wanna grab some food?" I'm desperate to change the mood.

"Oh I... I think you know it's getting late so," Dave says to his feet.

"Yeah I should, I should probably... get home..." Nick fades.

What have I done.

Nick and Dave slump into their super Porsches, people gather around to watch them, but the drivers are miles away in their minds. Their titanium exhausts rumble loud enough to drown out their sniffling. Sad and alone in their leather bucket seats, shielded by their exclusive limo tint facade, they disappear.

Saved by a Witch, then Paying it Forward, in the Same Night.

I’ve had exercise induced asthma since I was little. Fat kid disease, I call it. Sometimes after heavy exertion, I’d have to use a rescue inhaler.

Well I’ve gotten older. Haven’t used (or owned) an inhaler in over a dozen years. Since I don’t go play outside anymore, I don’t have asthma attacks.

Then I got sick. Respiratory infection of some kind, combined with seasonal allergies, the cold dry air, and quitting cigarettes at the same time. My lungs were in bad shape.

I wasn’t doing anything strenuous, just reading, when my chest suddenly tightened up.
I try to breathe in, to just explode into coughing.
Even shallow breaths are blocked out.

My eyes are puffy and red, crying from strain. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. Like drowning above water, it took all my effort not to panic. A wheezing, labored mucus flooding my lungs and throat. My body shook, head pounding.

I need an inhaler. Right now.

I don’t have health insurance, no prescription, and I’m running out of time. Even if I did, it’s midnight. Who’s going to help me now? I can’t afford a hospital visit.

Craigslist.  There’s gotta be some crackhead trying to make a quick buck, right?
Please. Please save me, random crackhead.

There’s one! Ad for Ventolin inhaler, factory sealed, $25 bucks.

I text the number, trying to stay conscious between deep wet hacks. The person replies swiftly, and in complete sentences. It’s 12:13am on a Sunday night, but this seller has no trouble telling me their home address.

“I’m on my way, be there in 30 minutes, thank you so much!” I wrote.

I compose myself, grab my wallet, and leave the apartment.

The drive was difficult. My nose was congested solid, and my throat swollen nearly shut. Thankfully, no other cars are on the road. No one to see my swaying in and out of lanes, coughing and wheezing, panicked bulging eyes unable to focus.

I pull up to the house, it’s as described with a Kwik Tow truck out front.

I can’t text anymore, my eyes are too watery to read. Hopefully the person has heard my car arrive.
I push open the door, summon strength, and stumble out of the car.

My head fuzzes in and out, I’m leaning against the MR2, too weak to move.

“Here, take it deary.”

I look up, there’s a figure in the dark, holding out a little white package.

I try to thank the person, but I can’t talk, just hacking and wheezing instead.

I fall to one knee, overcome with coughing, panic has set in. My fingers are numb, heart burning. I can’t breathe, this is it. I’m gonna die here. Right in front of some lady. No one other than her knows where I am.

I hear a tearing sound. She’s opened the inhaler’s packaging.
A hand grabs my hair, pulls my head back.

“Take it, come on. Breathe, just breathe.”

The inhaler’s in my mouth, I hear it click and Albuterol puffs into my throat.

Within seconds I’m 90% better. Now upright, trying to look dignified, I get a better look at her.

She's wearing a tired blue robe with bunny slippers. She’s hunched a bit, with a long hooked nose and stringy black hair. She looks like the witch from the Bugs Bunny cartoons.

She looks just like her.

“There you go, deary. You’re all right. You’re all right.”

“Wow. Thank you. Thank you, ma’am,” I say, embarrassed.

She smiles a real smile.

“Oh, here,” I dig out some crumpled bills, and hand them to her. She takes the cash like it doesn't matter.

“Goodnight then, dear. I’m going back to bed now.”

She shoves her hands into her robe pockets, shivering, and waddles back into her house.


Just like that. Some lady. No fear at all, just genuinely saved a complete stranger in the middle of the night.

It’s nearly 1am now. I’m cruising across Camelback road, stopping at the 20^th Street light. I'm the only car in the night. Seemingly alone in an abandoned city.

I'm eager to get home and sleep, when...

“Hey! Hey man uh, uh”

A Hispanic guy, college aged, hollers something at me. I figure he wants a dollar or a cigarette. He's approaching my window as he talks.

“I need uh, help real quick, my car.” He thumbs to the Bank of America behind him. I don’t see a car.

“It’s right behind this building, I locked my keys in it, I promise. I just gotta use your phone, man,” he seems relaxed for being stranded.

He’s about my size, non-threatening demeanor. I have $62 in my wallet, so it wouldn’t be a huge loss if I’m being invited to an ambush.

“All right, man. Let me pull around,” I say out my window.

He doesn’t have a cell phone? Hmm.

I roll the MR2 into the Bank of America parking lot. Indeed there’s a single car, lights on, idling, with the doors closed and windows up.

“I went to use the ATM, and locked myself out, man.”

He rubs the back of his head, his hair a thick pile of dark curls.

I inspect the car, it’s as he described. I can see the keys in the ignition, locked inside. The gas gauge is nearly empty.

“Do you have anyone to call?” I ask him, he shrugs.

“I dunno, maybe a locksmith or something? Do you know a number to one?”

He’s hoping I have a smartphone, where I could just do a search, and this problem would be easily solved. But I don’t. Instead I hand him my bulletproof, internet-less, Walmart flip phone. We try 411 on it, but Verizon won’t allow 411 service.

He looks dejected.

“Well, thanks for tryin’ to help anyway, man.” He motions like I could leave him if I wanted.

“You don’t have any family or friends to call?” I don’t want to give up on him yet.

“Uh, not really. I could call my parents, but I just moved out you know, they’d give me a bunch of crap. ‘See we knew you can’t make it on your own’ and stuff like that,” he’s sad, looking at the ground.

 A cold wind hits us both.

“But seriously, thanks for at least stopping to help me man. I tried three other cars before you, and they were just like get away get away!”

“Dude, you’re wearing a Pokemon shirt. How threatening can you be?”

He chuckles for a bit, then sighs. The situation is still bad for him.

A big Silverado truck rolls into the parking lot to use the ATM. We look at it with hope.

The driver, hidden in shadows, pauses, then decides to leave instead.
 Afraid. Just go to a different ATM. It’s not worth interacting with other humans at 1am.

“See what I mean? Just like that. People don’t help. Too scared to even roll down their window.”

“Well I’m wearing a hood, and you look Mexican. We look like trouble I bet,” I say. He nods.

“All right man. I guess you can go if you want, thanks for keeping me company at least,” he says, staring at his car in defeat.

What if I were him, in the same situation? How terrible, alone in the cold. Feeling like a moron. Take him home, help him out.

“Hey, do you live near here?”

“Yeah I do. But it’s okay, I could… I could just walk or something. Don’t wor--”

“-Well get in then,” I tell him.

I clear off the passenger seat, and he drops into it.

“I’ve never seen one of these before.”

“Well shoot, man. Too bad I’m not a hot chick. This would be the luckiest night of your life,” I reply.

He smiles, “If you were a hot chick, you wouldn’t have stopped to help me.”

He thanks me repeatedly during the drive to his home. He asks to be dropped off at an intersection, I insist on just taking him home. He thanks me ten more times. His name is Oscar, he’s 20 years old and just moved out of his parent’s house.

“You said you just got out of work? It’s pretty late, man. You work at a restaurant or something?”

“Yeah, I just started. I’m a prep guy and a dishwasher.”

“Where?”

“At The Henry,” he says to the windshield.

“Oh wow, my sister Jackie works there!”

“Well don’t tell anyone man, this is like so embarrassing.”

“I can’t promise you that,” I smile.

“This is me right here. You could just drop me at the corner if you don’t mind, man. That would be perfect. I’m so sorry for this. So sorry man.”

I bring us to the spot.

“I wish I could pay you, I cou-”

“--No need. I wouldn’t let you if you tried.”

He’s visibly relieved. Yes, his car is still stranded, idling in an empty parking lot. But he’s safe at home, out of the cold. He can call a locksmith or get help of some kind from here.

Oscar shakes my hand and thanks me a few more times. I tell him good luck at The Henry, that Sam Fox is a good company. He waves to me in the dark, and walks to his home.

Working at Cheesecake Factory during Christmas Part 1

The holidays in particular put big pressure on people. Actually, correction, people put big pressure on themselves. Family is in town, everything has to be perfect.

“But it’s my mother, we said we’d get the best (insert thing or situation) for her, and it’s Christmas it should be this way or that thing.”

Yes, we know. Get in line with all the other families that told me and asked for the same exact perfection.

During holidays, you get customers that don’t normally go out to eat, who make every thinkable dining faux pas. They tax the server needless additional strain, unaware that in doing so, costs every other table good service, and in turn rob the server and his contemporaries money they need and deserve.

“It’ll be so busy, I bet you make great money!” you might be thinking.
In theory, yes. But in reality, it’s often three times the work for the same amount of money. Instead of having two good tables, you get six awful ones.

The idea is to make it up in volume. Get them in and out. Keep it moving, people.

Over the last week, I’ve taken notes from some of the best and worst customer interactions. And although most people come and go smoothly as routine, it’s the extreme cases that are memorable. I can accurately say that 1% of the human race is scum. It’s those people that you’ll be reading about.

Don’t think that this post is slamming everything about my line of work. It’s simply a reminder to be a good customer. That decency goes a long way when you dine out.
Through this post, you’ll get a real look at what serving in a busy restaurant is like. When you understand what a good server goes through, you’ll feel better about tipping 20%, knowing it was well earned and certainly deserved.

I’ve worked in restaurants my entire adult life. Working in small privately owned places, where it’s just me and the owner on the floor, to giant corporate chains with over 100 servers on staff per location.

I’ve been in the trenches of the holidays, making sure all the normal people enjoy their day off.
Year in, year out.

It’s an endless roaring nightmare, routinely pushing you and your grip of reality to the edge.
At top restaurant chains like Cheesecake Factory, working the ‘busy holiday season’ is like handling a hurricane in your mind.
And that’s exactly what tears through Scottsdale Cheesecake Factory every night in December, January, February and some of March.

I walk in 10 minutes early. I fought a Range Rover for a parking space moments ago, feeling upbeat.

At 4:00pm it’s supposed to be when things quiet down to a trickle. This is our chance to switch crews, restock and ready ourselves for the dinner war.
There should only be a few lagging tables, the floor at maybe 5% capacity… but it’s already full. There’s no wait at the moment, and things seem tame, but this is only temporary.

I can see it in their eyes. Oh day crew, what terrible events have stricken you today? Merely hinting at the monster to come?
Evidence of the lunch shift’s battle is everywhere.  Wiped out is the best way to describe the kitchen. The crew is visibly shaken.

I’m the first of the night shift to arrive, welcomed like some kind of holy savior.

“Thank God you’re here! Oh thank you so much! Thank you. Have a GREAT DAY!”
They fling their towels aside, clock out and joyously run away like freed slaves.

But now it’s my turn, and my dinner storm’s winds will be twice as harsh.
Half my night crew also worked the day shift, so they’re exhausted. They’ve been pushed like this for weeks, hanging onto threads and running on fumes.

To understand when and why the restaurant is busy comes down to understanding people like animals. Animals have habits that can be predicted and planned for.

I know I’ll need a certain amount of linen, lemons, ice, soda, booze, plates, cutlery, condiments and dignity to hand out. I get it all clean and ready as the phone explodes into ringing that won’t stop until we close.
The first wave of animals pile into the front door early. The rush is here already?
The night crew scrambles to brace themselves.

I’m working the bar tonight. Plenty of tables. When filled and emptied at perfectly timed intervals, it flows smoothly. Nothing breaks through my dam of control.

Well that’s not how tonight has started. My section gets slammed all at once. Every server gets nuked the same way. Triple and quadruple-sat with families of screaming kids and stressed out parents. Packed to the top with five hundred impatient people, each one thinking they’re the only person in the world.

Voices of every pitch and color swirl with background music I’ve heard thousands of times, combining into a thunderous murmur that shatters my senses.

The sheer variety of people keeps me changing like a chameleon from table to table: Be hip and flirty with the girls night out, strict and classy to the oldies behind them, patient and understanding with the mother and her crying kids that are allergic to everything, witty and wise with the martini sippers, warm and basic with the first timers, crude and relaxed with the blue collar Bud drinkers, then switching to hyper mode back in the kitchen to put everything together. I’m balancing no less than ten things in my head at all times, my arms filled with dirty plates, apron stuffed with checks to complete.

A glass and marble wall separates the gritty inner workings from the shiny glamour on the floor.

There’s a line of servers just trying to get bread for their tables. The kitchen hall swarms and throbs with moving white bodies. Like frantic schools of fish, workers slide between and around each other. Each on their own mission, mumbling things to themselves so as not to forget a detail.

There’s shouting all around “WING BOWLS TO THE LINE” “THE HELL ARE THE SPOONS” “WHERE’S MY BUSSER” “SOMEONE KILL ME” “CALL FOR SOUP WHAT THE FUCK”  “TEN PERCENT ARE YOU KIDDING ME” “NO I SAID SWEET POTATO FRIES” “WHERE’S MY TRAY” “TWENTY SIX MINUTES FOR A SALAD I HATE THIS” “FUCKIN ART DEGREE!”

Crashing, banging pots and pans fly around, the crackle and sizzle of dishes being prepped, commands mixed with cursing get hollered in English and Spanish. Sweat wiped from brows, pitchers dumped and filled, doors swinging, music blaring, plates clanging, bodies bumping into each other-  a massive effort to please the monster we’ve welcomed inside.

 All just to make a few bucks.

With a steaming meatloaf in one arm, a pizza and salad on the other, I zoom through the kitchen. Just before getting onto the floor to run the food out to its corresponding table, I see a trembling server. She’s new, maybe a month here. She’s frozen in terror at the scene before her. We’re only thirty minutes in, and she’s already breaking.

“I know, it’s okay. Just pick one task and concentrate on it,” I try to sound soothing.

Her bottom lip won’t stop shaking.

“I need you to run something. Pick something, and run it. Just get in there!” I yell at her over my shoulder.

“I-I…  I can’t do this... I can’t I-”

“Go!” I shout, then blast by her.

It shakes her awake and I see her dive into the mess as I rejoin the floor.

As I’m wrapping up an order, landing my last practiced jab to a table of chuckles, I catch a glimpse of six Greeks. There’s old Grandpa Greek, his daughter and grand daughters. Even the grand daughters are my age, so this guy is old.

“Gooood evening, how are we tonight?” my face says, dealing napkins like cards for a game.

Grandpa grunts something that sounds foreign. His granddaughters light up. They’re pretty, my age, my colors, they like me already and he hates that.

“My name’s Andrew, I’ll be helping you to-”

“Your reeng!” the middle-generation woman says, pointing to my hand, “It’s the Greek key.”

“Oh, yeah, here, check it out,” I drop the usual opening routine, and hand her my ring.

She studies it, smiling, then grandpa snatches it from her, killing the scene.

“You know vat this ees? Eets the Gleek key of eternity,” he says to me, as if I don’t understand or deserve to wear such a symbol. “Are you Gleek?”

“No sir, I’m Italian,” I say, in a flat Phoenix Arizona voice.

He scoffs, “Well I vant a glass a vine pronto. That’s Italiano for fast.“

I let that slide. He’s sneering his words at me, somehow trying to devalue me. He’s trying to make me look like a servant, not a server. Just some dumb worthless kid.

“Yes sir, what kind of wine do you like? My list is here on page four. It’s ordered sweet at the top, dry on the—“

“What’s good here,” he interrupts me yet again, leaning on his closed menu, now wearing my ring as if it’s his own.

The girls watch us. Grandpa being surly, defending his ladies against the upstart young lion.

“Okay well, what will you be having to eat? Knowing that might help me narrow it dow-“

“UGH why is eet ALL so HARD!” his arms fly open “Just tell me wass good here capeesh? That’s Italian for-“

“Yes, I know what it means. Sounds good.”

I glance at my other tables, I need more iced tea.

 “I’ll just assume your tongue and brain are like mine then, and get you our house merlot. That gets the job done for most Greeks.”

“Oh ho most Greeks huh?” he exclaims. The girls’ eyes widen at us.

“That’s right. You’re going to eat red meat. You’ll ask for the ribeye because you see it’s a few dollars cheaper, then I’ll tell you to eat the Steak Diane instead as long as you get it medium ra-”

“-You said yer Italian, no? You don sound like eet,” he looks down at me, I’ll never be good enough. 

I don’t have time for this. He’s only interested in being an irritant. He hasn’t even looked at the menu, wanting me to tell him everything instead. My other tables are falling behind. A baby cries somewhere in the distance.

My jaw tightens. I’m wasting too much energy on him. I look at the girls, as if to apologize for what’s coming. They understand and nod approval.

“You just theenk yer some hot-shot and—”

“Tu sei un pazzo, va via da qui,” I interrupt him this time.

His mouth gapes. I smile and move to my other tables.

The girls laugh hard.

Grandpa’s confused, demanding to know what I just said to him. They’re laughing at him and won’t tell.

After catching up all my other tables I return to the Greeks at a leisurely pace. Grandpa behaves perfectly this time, handing my ring back immediately, and having everyone’s order ready with no changes to anything.

Later into the rush, the wait was up to an hour. And for a place as big as this, that’s a huge deal.

I’m buried completely. I move lightning fast, efficient and poised, and I still can’t stay ahead of the flood. There’s simply no one able to help me, everyone else is maxed out too.

I’m moving through the bar tables, arms full of food to run, when I see two men where two women should be.

The table they’re at is dirty. It hasn’t even been prebussed yet. No one should be at this table for at least another ten minutes. It’s a small gap in time for me to catch up on my other five tables while this one is being cleaned up and reset.

I drop off the food and return to the men. They don’t have dinner menus, which means they rudely cut in front of everyone, dodged the hostesses up front, and sat themselves instead. Crossing their arms, looking frustrated, like I’ve failed them somehow.

“Good evening gentlemen, how long was the wait?” I say, innocently.

They look at each other and scoff, like I missed an inside joke.

“We ain’t waitin fer nothin but you. The hell you been? Hangin out an shit? Yer sposed ta get us what I want rat now!”

“Right, okay, well let me clean this table and I’ll grab us some menus.”

“I wanna happy hour menyeh.”

“I’m afraid happy hour ended over an hour ago s-“

“I said! I wanna happy hour menyeh rat now.”

My hands are full of the last people’s trash. I scan both the men, they have to be joking right?
They aren’t. Neither of these men, grizzly chinned, care about other people. Neither seems to understand nor care that they just stole a table from patiently waiting people. That they’ve deliberately broken the unspoken rules of how this all works.

“Well? The hell you starin at? Go git me our menyehs!”

“Yes sir.”

I go to the back, clear the old plates, dump the old trash, check on my other (legitimate) tables, fix them up. My body is drained, I’m running out of fake friendliness. I take a deep breath, grab some regular dinner menus and return to the men.

“Here you are gentlemen, sorry about that delay there. I was a bit behind from the start it seems,” I chuckle a disarming chuckle. It doesn’t work.

They flip through the menu book.

“Whale awright, now where yer happy hour shit.”

“Oh like I said, it’s just regular hour right now, sir,” there was a slight shudder in my tone at the end.

“I thought ah told you—“

A static crackling behind my eyes, penetrating my head. Somewhere between crumpling paper and the tzzchzz between radio stations. It rings in my head, I’m about to snap. I’m gonna lose it on this guy. It’s not his fault, he’s just a guy. Just a wandering animal without any idea.

“I thought I told you ta git me some—“

“Look at me.”

My facade vanished. I’m close to his face now, too close. There’s no busy restaurant around us anymore. Just darkness, and him. His stupid ugly face, that’s all there is. I’m not a waiter, I’m not working. It’s just me and him, two men, and one of them is going to be put in his place.

“Look at my face. What do you think this is. Hm?”

My voice is low and harsh, only he can hear it. My eyes are wide, I can feel them burn and twitch. This is grounds for being fired, what I’m doing, but I don’t care.

“Ah, ah just said ah wanted uh…”

“What? Happy hour is fuckin over. You know why it’s over? Because time doesn’t stop for you. Clocks tick, sir.”

My jugular vein throbs in my neck.
The air hangs thick for a moment, the man is completely shocked.

Then I lean back, the bustling environment returns around us. I switch the robot back on.

“But you can happily pick from one of the other four hundred delicious things we have!” my mouth smiles and laughs, but the man’s seen enough now. For a moment he saw what was underneath and he corrected himself with an apologetic

“We’d just lack uh, two Bud Lats. That’ll do, please. Sir.”

“Two Bud Lights, coming right up gentlemen!”

As the final hours wind down, it’s getting quiet. My uniform is ruined, my hair askew, drenched in sweat, the entire restaurant seems to have been picked up and thrown.

We’re just minutes away from closing. The manager is on his way to lock the front doors when a couple walks in. They skip past the front desk and plop themselves eagerly into one of my dirty tables.

I dig deep, pulling in a big breath. Almost done. We’re almost done, Andrew. You can do it.
I right myself, come around the corner and greet them.

With his arm tightly embracing his attractive girlfriend, he looks around at the destroyed, but largely vacant bar.

“You guys aren’t that busy, I was expecting it to be busy in here.”

I strangle him with my eyes.

--

I go through my routine on the outside, sleeping on a beach on the inside.

With their drinks and bread out, waiting for their food, I step out back.

Finally. A moment to breathe.

As 11:00pm rolls in, half a dozen torn up staff shiver in the dark.
I join them by the dumpsters. Needing just a moment’s peace, just a bit of quiet nicotine to regenerate. Normally, there would be banter back and forth, but not a word tonight.

They all just puff on their cigarette, gazes far away. They’re all somewhere else in their minds.

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