Should’ve checked the reservation first

Quit a restaurant in the West Village halfway through family meal. Manager said if I walked out, don’t expect to come back.

Fine. Took my stuff. Hugged the dishwasher. Very emotional considering I’d been there 8 months.

Got outside and called my girlfriend. She said, “My parents are taking us there at 7.”

I knew about dinner. Didn’t know where. Her dad had apparently been excited for weeks because getting a table made him feel connected to organized crime. Asked if we could move it. She said they were already on the train from Connecticut.

So I went home, showered, put on a different shirt and returned to the restaurant I’d told 6 people was destroying my health.

Host looked at me. Looked at the reservation. Went and got the manager.

He showed us to the table himself. Asked if I’d been in before. Her dad said I worked there.

“Not anymore,” my manager said. “He’s pursuing other things.”

I ordered the chicken because I knew which cook was mad at me.

Halfway through dinner our server asked if I could show her where the extra receipt paper was. I got up.

Her mom said it was nice how they could still count on me.