January 27 - With a Smile

            “Good morning, I’ll be right with you.”

            Melinda looked up from her ancient Blackberry.  She refused to upgrade because she liked the keyboard, even though the phone was at least seven years old (her daughter couldn’t remember a time her mother hadn’t had the phone glued to her hand, so it must have been that old.) and sometimes switched to Arabic without notice.  The alarm still went off within five minutes of the set time, but her daughter was pretty sure that would go next.

            “I’m sorry, how about a hello first?” asked Melinda, bearing her teeth in a smile that was meant to be friendly, but never quite worked for her too thin mouth. 

            “I said ‘good morning’,” responded the waitress, bewildered.

            “Oh,” responded Melinda, pulling on her blazer, “I didn’t hear you.”

            The waitress nodded slightly. “Right, well if you could follow me…”

            The waitress turned sharply as she led the family to their table.  Melinda, returned to her Blackberry, led as her daughter and husband fell into step behind her.  Crisp sunlight streamed through the open windows of the hotel restaurant as the waitress led them through the tables of businessmen.

            “Will this be alright ma’am?” asked the waitress, pulling out a chair at a corner table.

            “How about you ask that with a smile?” asked Melinda.  A saccharine tone crept between her teeth bared in the same stretched, creepy, insincere smile.

            Her daughter, Liz, tugged slightly on her sleeves as she slid into a chair at the table, eyes in her lap.  Her mother wouldn’t say no to the table, but it was best not to make eye contact with the objects of her mother’s moods. 

            “I’m … I’m sorry ma’am? Could I get you tea or coffee?” The waitress stood still, hand still gripping the chair she had pulled out for Melinda. 

            “Could you smile?”  Melinda’s face was still frozen in the same smile, the lines on her face deepening every second it spread. 

            “I’d like some coffee,” Liz said softly.

            “Same,” said her dad.

            “Two coffees, then, and…” the waitress trailed off as she averted her eyes from Melinda.

            “Earl Grey Tea.”

            Melinda slid into the chair, pulling her napkin across her lap like she had been drilled on the motion in finishing school. 

            “I thought there was a reason they called it the hospitality business,” said Melinda, the smile finally fading from her face leaving in its place a dark, haughty look. She glanced across the table as though judging the grain of the wood. “Shall we get something from the buffet?”

            Crisp sunlight streamed through the long windows.  Melinda looked down her nose through her pink reading glasses as she surveyed the pickings.  She disapproved, but – as her daughter would attest – she disapproved of everything.  She stretched out her hand for a plate.  Her hands were bony and long.  Her veins stood out blue against her papery skin.  Her head turned sharply upon finding her hands empty.  Her fingers seemed to keep reaching as she glared at the empty space. 

            “There, you, bring some plates,” Melinda called out, waiving her hand at the empty space.

            It was the same waitress.  She looked at the middle-aged woman with deer-in-the-headlights eyes and scurried off.  Melinda shook her head, muttering something about hospitality as her daughter loaded two slices of white bread into the toaster. 

            Slowly, the three wandered back to the table.  Beside them an elderly man was reading the business section of The Sunday Telegraph.  Every once in a while he would glance up at Melinda as she sat, with perfect posture, cutting into a grilled tomato. 

            “I mean, all I ask for is a smile with service.  Isn’t that how hospitality works?” Melinda laughed a cold, metallic laugh. 

            The waitress walked over to the man at the neighboring table.

            “Can I get you anything?” she asked with a smile

            “Ah, yes. If you’re not too busy dealing with your more demanding guests, I would love another pot of tea,” he replied.

            As the waitress walked away Martin looked up: “Mind your own business, would you?”

            “I’m sorry, did you have something to say to me?” the elderly man looked up from his newspaper.

            “Yes, I said mind your own business.”

            “You know this is why they say Americans are loud and rude.  I’ve lived in New York twelve years and I’m a regular here and these women work very hard.  Pay them the same respect you think they ought to pay you.”

            “Well, thank you for your opinion.”

            The man returned to his newspaper.  Liz sat, staring at her white toast and tomato juice, nervously folding and unfolding her napkin.  She tore off a corner of the bread and nibbled, trying not to make eye contact with the man at the next table.

            “Oh Elizabeth, I know we embarrass you; but we really are right here.  As I said, all I want is a smile,” said Melinda.

            Martin watched the elderly gentleman leave the restaurant as he bit into a raspberry Danish.  “I should have said we were Canadian.”

            “Oh now that would have been good!” replied Melinda.

            That same smile spread across her face, stretching her too small mouth across her too wide teeth.  Liz’s gaze returned to her toast. 

            “Are you alright Martin?”

            “Just fine, why?”

            “You have a grumpy face.  Smile.  You’re ruining my breakfast.”