West: Effective People Swimming in Ranch and OJ

This is the second installment of (hopefully) many about my adventures living and working in West Yellowstone, Montana.

I groggily reached for the ringing phone; it was my co-waitress Tara, frantic. I glanced at the clock incredulously. It was 7:30 a.m., and I was supposed to be there a half-hour ago. In a mad dash, I added some holey jeans and chuck taylors to my tie-dye pajama shirt to create an ensemble that would soon make friends with all manner of food items.

When I arrived at the restuarant, there was a customer to waitress ratio of 20 to 1. I apologized to Tara and immediately started filling coffee cups and busing tables. But by 8:00 a.m., I had only had a taste of the complete bedlam that would ensue.

After a steady (and by steady, I mean pull-your-hair-out crazy) morning, Stephen R. Covey, you know the expert on highly effective people, proved he wasn't all that effective while he and his family of 30 (mostly young children) terrorized the restaurant for lunch. They ordered 15 shakes; perhaps that's not a huge deal for a place like Wendy's, but when you hand-scoop every shake and make them on a machine that makes a mere three at a time, you're in trouble. The children ran across the place screaming and littering the floor with crumbs and shreds of napkins. It wasn't all bad, though. Mr. Covey gave us a $100 tip and complimented me on my enduring patience by saying I'd be a great mother someday. So, I was somewhat pacified as I cleaned up the hot mess they left in my restaurant.

Then came the ranch. In a moment of sheer clumsiness, I poured an entire five-gallon vat of the slimy substance all the way down my front and onto the kitchen floor, ending a 20-year friendship between me and mayonnaise-based dressing. There's nothing like slopping ranch dressing up off a dingy restaurant floor to make you feel like a second-rate citizen. Smelling like dill weed and garlic for the rest of the day also doesn't help. I figured this had to be the pinnacle of my horrible day. I misunderstood Murphy's Law.

Next came the bus-full of teenage delinquents, out of detention for a day of recreation and buffalo burgers. I don't care what anyone says; picky teenagers are a delight to serve, really. And it's even better when their advisers just plumb forget to tip you. delightful.

I thought I was finally safe from the curse of the restaurant gods while doing my post-shift chores, but I had nonesuch luck. Another reusable 5-gallon ice cream bucket with a loose fitting lid had it in for me. This time, it was filled with orange juice. With all the gracefulness I could muster, I dumped the OJ all over my shoes and onto the same floor previously flooded with ranch. Me plus the restaurant had been a losing combo all day, so I begged the cook to clean up the sticky mess, so I could get the heck out of there. Out of pity, or just because he was a nice guy, he did it, and I was free.

I wish I could say this was the worst day I ever had at Old Town Cafe, but unfortunately, that would be untrue. Stay tuned for an episode titled "Black Wednesday."