I was the “on-call” person for tonight, which meant if anyone was ill I had to fill in. I crossed my fingers and prayed and just knew no one would call out on me two times in a row.

I went in this morning happy as a lark. Just a few more hours then I was home free, sliding head first into my abbreviated weekend. I checked the chedule for the evening and noted the presence of M.’s name. One of two male servers that we have where I work. M. is a tall man in his 40s with a deep, radio-quality voice who has fooled us all when it comes to his sexuality. Our restaurant has a large gay clientele and one very queeny bartender, but no one–none of us know for sure whether M. prefers the girls or the boys or the both. M. also has a serious case of alcoholism. He has been drinking for two decades, every single day. Even at work. He keeps a styrofoam cup above the coat rack near the bathroom filled with who knows what, from which he liberally drinks all the evenings long. He is always calling in sick, because he’s hungover or because he’d rather get drunk. That, or he’s already wasted.

Who called minutes later, but M.? He has a “cyst in on his foot” and doesn’t think he can make it in. Oh, didn’t I mention? It’s always an illness. He threw his back out. He’s got a horrible fever. He is enabled by the people I work for because they pity him.

And so I was told that I might have to run food tonight. And I almost started to cry.

I was waiting my tables and trying to manage a grin. I decided to confess to my manager that I was exhausted and really, really hoping that I wouldn’t get called in again. Twice. By M. Who is NOTORIOUS for this shit. I reminded her of Sunday, when he called out. She said “consider yourself off.”

I thanked her and let her know that I couls stay as late today as she needed me to. She accepted my offer and I was relieved to be able to make some plans for later tonight. I was able to not stick a steak knife in my neck.

Until I learned that M. was phoned twice and did not bother to call back. My manager told him he’d have to wrap his wound and make it in anyway, but he hadn’t responded. They feared he’d already beguin drinking.

So, I finally tried getting all zen and shit and just accepting that this sucks, as does life. Tried not to wallow in it. Just a few more hours. Again. I’d volunteered to stay late and now I probably had to come back. I would just try to forget today existed.

I tried resting on my break. I had to call in at 4:30 to find out my fate. Would I be going to see Farenheit 9/11 or would I be plating pate all night? I tried to calm my anxiety by watching Dr. Phil, but he was helping an 11-year ephederine addict, which made me even more nervous and jittery.

So, I had some sake to calm my nerves. I’d gotten myself all worked up, only a bit of rice wine would melt my edge. I phoned, heart thumping, shot glass in hand to learn that M. never called back at all. Which means he never officially called out. And I am off the hook.

So, now I’m having the rest of the sake. Then a fat nap.

I’ll let you know what I think about the Michael Moore movie. It’ll be the first of his I’ve seen.