Shitty Waiter

Mitchell’s Monologue

BLACKNESS

A black screen.  Nothing is discernible.  A voice emerges from the darkness and silence.

MITCHELL (V.O.)

I dream the end of all cuisine.  The end of Italian food.  The end of Chinese food.  Of Japanese, Ethiopian, American, Dutch, Tex-Mex, Thai, French.

(beat)

I dream the end of all of this.  The end of dining.  The end of going out.  The end of showing up to a four-star restaurant in cut-offs and flip-flops.  The end of getting dolled up and dressed to the nines.  The end of pleases and thank-yous.  The end of happy hours and whats-good-tonights.

(beat)

I dream the end of food that aims to dazzle rather than nourish.  The end of couples and families wolfing down platefuls prepared by someone they don’t know, someone they don’t care about, some bastard sweating over a stove, some poor soul cursing over a cutting board, some underpaid schmuck who in his heart of heart harbors a burning hatred for all of those smiling simpletons in the dining room.  Every meal they order is another month tacked on to a twenty-year prison sentence.  The tickets pile up.  There’s no hope for parole.  The chef hates his life, hates everything, hates me, hates the customers most of all, and I’m supposed to serve it with a smile.  All so you have something to brag about tomorrow to those insufferable scumbags you work with.

(beat)

I dream the end of your bad tips, your good tips, your perfectly average tips.

(beat)

I dream the end.  The end of it all.

(beat)

Truly, you must think I’m some kind of monster.

INT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT

MITCHELL, thirty years old, handsome, dressed in black, wearing a necktie, stands in the center of a busy dining room.  Lively CHATTER fills the room.  There is the sound of CLINKING silverware and glasses.  JAZZ winds a happy melody in the b.g.  He carries a tray full of drinks.

MITCHELL (V.O. - CONT’D)

You’re absolutely right.