Ice Ice...maybe

A rare sight in any restaurant's waiter's station is a full ice bin. On any given night, of the thirteen servers on the floor, one, maybe two of them are refilling the ice the five times it has to be done throughout the course of the shift. Most of the others will thank said team player(s) with an 'atta boy, but never actually exercise the possibility of doing such a thing, and some will go on just not thinking about the source of the ice and that the bin underneath the soda machine is not actually that source. (It's like how my clothes keep reappearing in my closet and drawers, but clean again. I don't really feel the need to investigate. I just keep hoping that it will keep happening.)

This group malaise is a source of mounting frustration for even the most seasoned waiter who finds himself being the ice mule of the night. He'll snap as he realizes that he has to fill that bin for a fourth time, or it will remain with only that one last sad, wet piece of ice sliding around the bottom of it for the rest of the night. This will come on the heels of the two ladies who've occupied his only four-top for the past two and a half hours having just left him four dollars...in change. The ensuing breakdown usually manifests itself as a mumbling tirade followed by an angry jamming of the scoop back into the bin, followed by an awkward silence in the immediate area for about three minutes. The same dummy will undoubtedly be toting that bucket back and forth for a fifth and final fill-up in an hour, accompanied by the following commentary by a supportive "team" member:

"Woow, you're really on top of that ice tonight, huh? ThA-Anks! I've gotta find out where that ice machine is one of these days."

...and a tumor is born

Admittedly, I'm that mule some nights, and it does get frustrating mostly because I can't make myself stop the insanity once I've started. I have no idea how it happens and even less about what forces me to continue. Most nights though I usually have no problem at instantly cranking up the look of concentration on my face as though I'm mere seconds from bursting into action on a drink order for eight after noticing someone looking down into the bin and then beginning to look around to let someone else know that it needs filling. I can play that game of chicken all night.

The true master of labor avoidance will walk their glassware back to the ice maker to get the ice they need, hoping that whatever cruel turn of chance that found the bin empty will right itself soon.

Dear lady who sat out on the patio three nights ago with your friends for three hours nursing a bottle and a couple of appetizers,

When I asked for you to fill out that "keep in touch" card, I meant for you to put your address and/or email address on it so that I might be the waiter to turn in the most cards so as not to have to roll silver that night. So you know for future reference, we (waiters) will never promote something without the prospect of some sort of prize or reduction in workload. Ever. I didn't really want to keep in touch with you or care if the restaurant does. So while I appreciate the "great service!" compliment you wrote across the card along with absolutely nothing else, it was completely useless to me. You might have thought I'd do a victory lap around the restaurant showing everyone the awesome comment card I'd just gotten or maybe just press it to my chest and smile inside for a few seconds of deep, genuine pride at what a great job I'm doing at being a waiter, but neither of those things happened. I just wished that, instead of the compliment, you might have opted for a more monetary show of appreciation, say maybe nine or ten dollars rather than the $6 you left on that $54 check. Thanks again.