Monologue Mania Day # 78 May 1, 2014 The Waiter by Janet S. Tiger (c) 2014

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May 1, 2014 Day #78 Monologue Mania by Janet S. Tiger The Waiter (c) 2014

                                                      
                                                  The Waiter

                                                     by Janet S. Tiger
                                             © 2014 all rights reserved

                                                 tigerteam1@gmail.com

            (A man comes out onstage, he is dressed formally, and walks straight and tall.  He carries a waiter’s tray, with a glass of water on it.  When he gets to the front of the stage, he bows, then takes the glass and drinks the water.)

Mmm, very good.  I am Tobias, your waiter for this evening.  (Listens)  Your water?  I will be glad to bring it to you, you will just have to wait for a moment.  

You have obviously come and asked for me because you are waiting to hear this story.  Someone told you it was worth your while, so you have waited several days to get a reservation specifically with me as your waiter.  So, I will wait, and you, too, will wait.

Waiting is a very good way to learn things.  Notice I did not say ‘patience’, because patience is considered a virtue, and thus, extremely difficult to cultivate.  Patience is a grace, a gift.  We honor those with patience because we identify that it is as difficult for some as calculus is for others.

Waiting, on the other hand, is something everyone has to do.  We wait to be born.  Then – (sighs)…… we wait to die.  

In between, we wait for our waiter.  Who will bring the water after this brief, but important story for you.

This is a story that is mostly true.  I say ‘mostly’ because as certainly as beauty, truth is in the eye of the beholder.

The story is one from my youth, that of a young man growing up during the Depression.

My family had farmed the same land for many years.  My mother’s father had broken the rocks and made the land into a habitable – even profitable- endeavor.  My father – who had worked for my mother’s father - had married the farmer’s daughter, my mother.

Together, they had raised seven children, of which I was the youngest.  It was a good life, until …it wasn’t.

Then came the years with no water, and the inability to pay the bank, and then the bank repossessing and then we had to leave.

The very unfortunate event occurred on a very hot day, preceded by many hot days.  My father was particularly upset by the turn of events, as he had been friendly with the bank manager, Jed Wilson, until the foreclosure, of course.  Then his anger had grown, exponentially, until the day when the sheriff was coming to forcibly remove us.

My mother, who had actually dated the sheriff before my father came to work for her father, felt the sheriff would not be too mean, and the best thing to do was to actually leave peaceably.

But not for my father!  He kicked in our front door, and proceeded to take paint and splash it across all the walls of the house, followed by opening all the gates to release our stock into the wilds around our farm.  Out went chickens and pigs and horses and cows, with my mother yelling at him, Stop!  Please stop!   Wait…….

Not my father.  He was filled with a deep rage, and the damage was impressive.  To his credit, he did not burn anything down, but he had calmed a bit after the paintfest, and we were all poured into our old truck with the possessions we could fit, ready to move to my Aunt Molly’s house in faraway Wichita, Kansas.

The smoke of the sheriff’s car could be seen in the distance, and we started to slowly drive off, letting the sheriff see we were going.  My mother just sat, looking back and crying softly, saying, ‘Why’d you have to go crazy, Thomas?  You just made work for some poor woman who’s gonna live here, just like we lived here….’

My father didn’t respond, but something strange happened.  Instead of the sheriff going to the house, he stopped us as we rolled slowly down the dusty road.

‘Hey, Martha……’ the sheriff was waving for us to listen.  My father threw the shift into a higher gear and took off quickly, leaving us kids to hang on as boxes and pots and pans rocked off the now speedy truck.

‘Thomas, slow down!  Thomas, wait!’  My mother was grabbing at the wheel.  Even though it was technically a horrible moment, there was an element of intense humor, especially when one of our cows walked in front of our truck, forcing my father to slam on the brakes, and allowing the sheriff to pull next to us, yelling the whole time!

(Imitates sheriff)  What the hell are you doin’, Tommy?  You tryin to kill us all!  I’m trying to get you to stop, for God’s sakes, so you see this!

            (He pretends to open an envelope)

Here, you idiot!  Ol lady Mitchell got together all the people in the church and they collected the money and paid off your mortgage lien!  You get to stay in your house!

Now, if there was an element of humor before, it was more like an avalanche now……..the tension, which had built over the last two years of trouble, and had been flamed by my father’s ‘gifts’ to the new tenants, erupted as we laughed until we were weak!

‘Ya couldn’t wait, could ya, Thomas!’ and she would collapse again, until finally the sheriff got one of us children to explain, as my father just sat there shaking his head through it all.

Then the sheriff laughed, and I swear, we all sat there for hours laughing.  Of course, I was a child then, so maybe it was just ten minutes, but the reality was, that my mother never let my father forget that day.  ‘Wait, Thomas,’  she would say, while helping him clean the paint off the walls, and then she would collapse agin in giggles.  'Wait, Thomas,' became her favorite phrase, and, to his credit, my father’s anger seemed to be dissipated after that day of gifts from our friends and neighbors – and the fact that his actions took on the hallowed story effect that comes only in small towns – where a great tale starts and grows, like a cat becoming a lion or even a dragon by the time it is retold a thousand times.

            (He adjusts his suit and takes a deep breath)

And that, my dear friends, is why I became a waiter.  Because I have learned since then, that it has held true all my life – good things come to those who wait.

            (He turns to leave, looks back)

And now, I will get you some water…..

            (He exits.)

  A special note to all our dear, dear friends and family who enabled us to have a home to go to when things got tough – thank you!

  

Janet S. Tiger    858-274-9678
www.JanetSTiger.weebly.com
Member Dramatists Guild since 1983
Playwright-in-Residence
Swedenborg Hall 2006-8