Stalled

I was clearing dirty dishes from a table, precariously balancing knives and forks with two fingers while hoisting our unimaginably heavy platters onto the shaking platform of my left forearm, when I heard the all too familiar rumbling behind me.  The sound always presents itself in the form of a muffled buzzing noise, much like that of some sort of flying insect, but then grows in pitch and volume, rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm.  This sound of which I speak, dear reader, strikes fear and discord into the heart of server and manager alike at my place of employment.  Why, you ask?  It is the sound of none other than midtown Manhattan's own crazy-old-lady-who-persistently-and-unabashedly-has-frequent-shouting-matches-with-the-unknown-unheard-voices-in-her-head.


The City is well known for its quirky characters.  The indoor atrium outside the restaurant where I work is a veritable microcosm, divided into small communities.  There are the "Atrium Church-goers" - those who hold their own form of services in the middle of said Atrium, complete with their own Reverend and Bibles in large print lettering.  There is the "Homeless Town Hall Political Committee" - our friendly neighborhood homeless politicians who are always ready and willing to discuss the economic downturn and its various solutions at great length.  There are the "Doll Folk" - this is the strangest group by far; they have made costumes for life-sized dolls, often with fantasy themes such as superheroes, vampires, and other mystical creatures.  The "Doll Folk" proceed to display their creations with great pride and an obvious sense of fulfillment in their artistic achievements.  There are the "Role Playing Gamers" - I don't really know much about the games, but there are numerous tables set up and devoted to charts, cards, and fantastical imaginary trips that I'm sure are exhilarating and intellectually rewarding to all involved.  I have never played Dungeons and Dragons myself, but everyone I know who has is certainly and exuberantly in favor of the activity.  There are many other groups not listed here that call the Atrium home, but the individual mentioned above is not really a member of any of these groups, noted or otherwise.


Back to the incident at hand, I glanced up from my stack of sticky leftovers compiled of rib bones, puddles of unused ketchup and mustard, and dishes of ponzu sauce that were threatening to escape the pile by falling to the hard floor, where they would shatter, leaving a wet, broken mess of ceramics and bits of sushi rice.  Trying to reign in the renegade saucers, I simultaneously eyed the lady's progress through the restaurant.  Immediately, I knew where she was headed.  My eyes searched the dining room, hoping that one of my coworkers had also noticed her presence and could guess her intentions as well as I.  I caught the eye of one of the other girls who shared my section of the dining room.  She nodded briefly and promptly sprang into action.  I saw her quickly maneuver through the crowded aisles (it was a Saturday night), narrowly missing heavily laden arms of servers, small children, and heedless guests.  She managed to reach her object just in time, barely brushing past a portly gentleman standing squarely in front of her destination - the Ladies Restroom.  Deftly, she squeezed past him, muttering apologies, swung open the door, and slid inside right before her opponent in this unorthodox foot race could force her own slight form past the large figure blocking the path.  As the door fell shut again, I knew what was happening on the other side without having to see it with my own eyes.  After making it into the ladies restroom, my colleague had launched herself into the handicap stall, there to take up residence until it was safe to come out again.  You see, we knew from experience what would follow if this particular NYC character was allowed to seclude herself in this particular confined space. It had occurred countless times before, and never to the benefit of anyone who had encountered it.  This woman would lock herself in the bathroom for an inordinate amount of time and proceed to have argument after argument with herself, cursing and swearing like the proverbial sailor.  After she tired of berating whoever it was she was talking to, she would come out of the handicap stall and then start in on fanatically scolding anyone else who came into the bathroom, no matter their age, appearance, or apparent social status.  In some ways, this individual is probably one of the most unprejudiced people I have ever encountered.  She hates everyone and yells at them equally.


It was a good ten minutes later before I saw the beleaguered countenance of this petite ball of fury throw open the door of the ladies' restroom and storm through the bar area, harassing everyone who stood in her way.  She is so short that I could not actually see her progress through the crowd, but her movement was evidenced by the astonished faces and stumbling forward of various bar patrons as she pushed her way past them, intent on insulting each one individually.  Finally, the top of her small head emerged and she left the restaurant the same way she had entered, buzzing and muttering all the while.  A few seconds later, the wary face of my fellow waitress appeared at the door of the ladies' restroom, her eyes quickly searching for signs that it was safe to leave her post.  Again, we locked eyes; I smiled and gave a quick nod, a sort of "all clear" sign.  She heaved a deep sigh, grinned, and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "All in the line of duty."  I chuckled as she again attempted to slide past the corpulent man, who strangely seemed to take no notice of the saga that had unfolded around him, or of anything other than his beer for that matter.  I looked around the dining room to see that everything had returned to normal.  Servers were whisking back and forth between tables, unruly children ran up and down the aisles while their weary parents pretended not to notice, and I was once again weighed down with endless plates of leftover food.  I wondered how many people had actually been aware of the incident.  Not many, I bet.  Just me, the crazy lady, and my brave coworker, fighting courageously in the trenches (or handicap stalls?) of Manhattan food service.