Part Time Waiter, Full Time Country

Chapter 1- Italy

"Beep beep beep beep beep" My alarm clock screams at me. I reach over and smack the thing until it stops. I reach up and rub the grit out of my eyes and get out of bed.

I glance at the clock as I get ready for work. Seven o'clock. I sigh, and throw on my white shirt and black pants. I take a glance at the empty pantry, and sigh. I haven't had much food on the table for a few weeks now. At least I finally found a job. Not much of one though.

I walk out the door, ignoring the dull pain in my stomach. I am used to it by now. I walk the seven blocks to work, since I don't have a car, and can't even afford a bicycle right now. I pass by my brother's house, and he looks up from the mail he was sorting through, standing on the porch.

"Eh! Veneziano! Where are you going?" He yells at me, his ever-present annoyance showing. "Hi Romano. I got a job finally." I say quietly. His perpetual frown twitches a bit, and I can tell he is happy for me. "Good for you, bastard." He says as he walks back inside. I used to get offended when he called me that, but once I realized he called Spain that, I figured out that he uses it as a term of endearment.

I smile to myself, and keep walking. Finally, I arrive at work. It is a little restaurant on a street corner. I stand in front for a moment, remembering when I worked in the best restaurant in town. I was the head chef, and as such, was highly respected. But the restaurant went out of business a few months ago. I was stuck with no income, and had to find a new job. Now here I am, at a little corner diner with no reputation and as little money. I sigh, and walk through the door, hearing the bell ding as the door opens.
"Hello?" I hear from behind the counter. "Who's there?" A voice calls. "Um, hi. I'm Feliciano. The new waiter." I say, slightly embarrassed. This is the first time I had to say it out loud. I'm a waiter now. Part time waiter, full time country. How embarrassing. Unfortunately, being a country doesn't exactly pay well. In fact, we don't get paid at all. Well, technically our countries provide us with a house and water and heat and stuff, but if you don't have any money for food, you are in trouble.

"Oh!" The voice says, and I see a small woman come out the door behind the counter. "Nice to meet you!" She says, and shakes my hand vigorously. "I'm Anaïs, the manager. Follow me and I will show you around!" She says excitedly. I smile weakly, and follow her into the kitchen. She gives me the tour, explaining my jobs, and what to do when, and how to do this and that. I follow numbly, only barely listening. I already know all this stuff. You can't exactly work in a restaurant for decades and not know the basics. When she is finished, she turns to me. "Any questions?" She asks, and looks at me expectantly. "Um, no." I say.

Just then, we hear the door ding. We both turn, and in walks another employee. Anais tells me to go out to the dining room and wait for a customer. I nod, and go sit down on a stool behind the counter. About thirty minutes later, the first customer shows up. By now there are a few more employees, and the kitchen is warm and smells like cooking meat. I go to stand up to serve the customer, but one of the other waiters gets there first. I sit back down and continue to wait.

After a while, the diner starts to fill up. Soon, all the other waiters are busy, so I get to start working. I spend most of the day rushing between the kitchen and the dining area, carrying plates, taking orders, and ringing up checks. Around five, the place gets even more crowded for the dinner rush, and I hardly have time to breathe. Finally, around seven, the flood of customers coming in the door slows to a trickle, then an occasional one or two.

I stand back to catch my breath for a moment, and see another customer come in. He is a tall blonde, dressed in a business suit and holding a briefcase. He strolls in the door, and walks over to a table. I walk over and take out my notepad and pen, ready to take his order.

"Hello, my name is Feliciano, and I will be your waiter for today. Our weekly specials a-" "Yes I know the weekly specials." He cuts in, rather rudely. "I come here almost every day. I can tell you are new." I grimace a bit. This guy. I would hate to see what Romano would say about him. "Well then, may I take your order?" I ask, plastering a fake smile on my face. "Sure." He mutters. "Can I have the sausage with kraut and a beer please? The German one on tap." I smile at him, and say "Of course sir." Then turn to go put in the order.

No more customers come in for a while, so I sit down after putting in the blonde guy's order. The bartender hands me the beer, and I walk over and set it down in front of the guy. "Danke." He says. I nod, and start to walk away, then turn back to him. "You are German, aren't you?" I say, only then realizing I shouldn't go around asking customers their nationality. He looks up, slightly surprised that a waiter would engage in normal conversation while at work, and nods. "Ja. How did you know?" I bow my head a bit, and say "Well, your hair, eyes, and skin color say northern European, and you asked for sausage and German beer, so it wasn't very hard to figure out. Especially when you spoke German." I look up at him, hoping he won't get angry at a waiter prying into his personal life and tip badly.

He just looks at me curiously for a moment, then says "You're Italian, aren't you?" I am slightly taken aback, and stutter out a small "Y-Yes." He nods, and looks down at his beer. "Your accent is quite distinctive. And you have pasta sauce on your shirt." I look down, and realize that there is a spot of pasta sauce on the collar of my white shirt. I wonder how that got there? I turn bright red, and say "Um, I have to go get your food." And rush off to go do just that, cursing myself for messing up so badly. Not only did I ask a personal question when I had no reason to, but then I embarrassed myself in front of a customer! I can't believe I just did that.

I step up to the counter and grab the plate of sausage and kraut the cook just placed there, and a napkin as well. As I walk back over to the guy's table, I try to wipe the sauce off of my shirt, to no avail. I only succeed in making it a red smudge. I sigh, and set the plate down in front of the German. By now, he is the only customer in the whole diner.

He thanks me for the meal, and I walk back over to the counter and take a seat on one of the stools. The bartender is cleaning up, and the other waiters have already left. Anaïs steps out of the kitchen and looks around. "Good job on your first day Feliciano. Keep up the good work." She says, and grabs her coat, walking out the door. I sigh as the door closes with a ding behind her, and look at the bartender. He smiles at me, and nods. I sigh again. Then I stand up and walk back over to the German.

"Is everything good? Would you like some more beer?" I ask. "No thank you. And everything is very good. Thank you Feliciano." He says. I am about to say "That is good." When I realize what he just said. "Wait, how do you know my name?" I ask, and he smiles a bit. That smile looks slightly out of place on his face, which until now has remained completely emotionless. "I heard the manager call you that. Also, you said it when you first came to take my order." "Oh." I say. I stand there a bit awkwardly for a moment, then go to turn around to walk away. "Wait." I hear. I turn back around to look at the customer. "Why don't you sit down here?" he asks, gesturing to the empty seat across from him. "I don't often have someone to talk to. It would be nice to have a normal conversation with someone." I smile, this time a genuine one, and sit down across from him. I see the bartender snicker over the German's shoulder, and give the guy a face that says "Shut up." The German looks at me curiously, obviously thinking the face was meant for him. "Oh, not you!" I say, and he laughs. "Don't worry, I heard that guy snicker. I don't think it was meant for me." I sigh, and he laughs some more. "Well, I suppose I should introduce myself. I'm Ludwig. Ludwig Beilschmidt." He says, holding out his hand to shake. "Vargas. Feliciano Vargas." I say, taking his hand. His hand is surprisingly soft for such a large, strong looking man. "So. Where did you work before this?" He asks, letting his hand drop back down to his plate, and picking his fork back up. "Um, I worked at another restaurant." I say vaguely, not wanting to admit that I had been a high standing person for a long time. He nods, and doesn't question further. "What do you do?" I ask him. "I am an accountant." He says. "And..." He trails off, looking like he decided he better not say what he was thinking. "What?" I ask. He just brushes the question away. We spend about half an hour talking, mostly inconsequential stuff like the weather.

Finally, he finishes his meal. I stand up, and say I will get the check. He nods, and starts to pull out his wallet as I walk over to the counter and ring up the check. I walk back over to the table and take his plate, leaving the check on the table. I walk back into the kitchen and wash the dishes, since the dishwasher left already. When I walk back out to the table, Mr. Beilschmidt is gone, and on the table sits the check and a fifty euro note. I stare at the money, knowing that his meal only cost sixteen euros. I reach down and pick up the money and the check, and a little slip of paper falls out. I pick it up, and notice writing on it. "Keep the change, Feliciano." It says. I stare at the money and the slip of paper, my mind whirling.

Why did he do that? He didn't have to, I am... well, this will probably be the only thing putting food on the table, but still... He doesn't know that.

I shake my head, and clear away the rest of the table. I give the bartender a nod, and, grabbing my small sweater, walk out the door. I start to walk home, lost in thought. I can't figure out why he did that. Finally I give up, and just appreciate the fact that someone did something nice to me for no reason. I smile. I will have to thank him very hard if I ever see him again.

I stop in a small grocery store on the way home, and pick up a few packs of ramen and some cereal and milk using the money Mr. Beilschmidt left me. As I check out, the lady at the counter looks at me in surprise. She is used to me coming in and buying small amounts of food with one or two euro pieces. She probably thinks I stole the money, but shakes her head and scans the food anyway. As I walk out the door, I hear her mutter "Dirty thieving cretin" behind me. My shoulders slump a bit. I have never been called anything like that. And I have had to do things much worse than steal in my life.

I reach my front door and unlock it, walking into the warm, though very empty house. Being a nation, the country provided me with a house- no, a mansion- but after I lost my job, I had to sell most of the furniture to pay for food, gas, and other necessities. Now, the only things left in the house are a small fridge, the size of a hotel mini-bar, the oven, my bed, and a single dresser. And the sinks and toilets and such of course. It is a bit hard to sell those, especially when you still need them.

I sigh again, I have been doing that a lot lately, and grab half a pack of ramen noodles out of the plastic bag from the grocery. It isn't exactly the gourmet pasta I was used to a few months ago, but at least it is food. I eat my ramen in silence, then go to bed. It has been a long day, and a strange one. I wonder if I will see Mr. Beilschmidt tomorrow to thank him. I hope so.