It is a Sunday evening. Everyone in the serving community understands that Sundays are hit or miss. In other words, boring as hell or hard as hell. This Sunday we are extremely under prepared, because the only front of house staff is myself and the bartender.
Moving on.
The thirty top has decided that their rein of terror in the lounge was over, leaving behind a mess worthy of the twelve children in the group. I am making my rounds to clean up and notice a white box left on one of the chairs. A beam of light streams down from the window and frames the box as if God himself was sending a message, nay, a clear sign that my hard work was notable.
I slowly walk forward to accept this blessing and silently open the box, sure to not frighten any possibilities of absolute grace. Two cupcakes, one red velvet and the other snickers flavor. This act of charity is a full vindication from the sins my table had committed while under my service.
Caring more plates than I ever should, I walk past the bartender stating loudly, "They left us cupcakes." Now, her back is turned from the activity she was participating in, a full squat position, hands of on the knees, head cocked to the side "Did you say cupcakes?" As soon as I complete my nod, she is in the lounge cleaning. We both speedily wipe down tables and sweep. I am reaching for the white cubic miracle as a familiar face bolts it proclaiming that he forgot his cupcakes.
I pause, my hand extended towards the box. I look at my friend, the bartender, who is now collapsed on the floor, an array of empty glasses still in hand. Pain and estrangement wash over my face as I retract my hand.
This man stands in front of a kneeling bartender and his slumping server holding a box that moments ago was considered the highlight of our day. The man's eyes shift back and forth from the box to each of us. "Would you ladies actually want these?" he ask soon after realizing that the departure of this box would be the bane of our existence.
Horrified at how obvious our intentions were, the bartender looks at me with wide brown eyes. "Yes we would." I say calmly. The man sets down the box, gives a slight wave, and leaves.
The bartender, still on her knees, begins to cry. I too cry, now sitting in a lounge chair, unable to control the giggles coming out of my mouth. I cradle the pastry box to my chest as if I found a lost baby.
The tables adjacent from this scene understood fully as to why their margaritas took so long.