The man kept checking his phone beneath the table.
Every time he looked at it, his wife stopped speaking and watched his expression.
Still, they ordered as though they were determined to enjoy the evening.
Oysters.
Filet mignon.
Lobster.
Several cocktails.
And a bottle of Bordeaux we kept in the locked wine cabinet.
By the time they turned down dessert, their total came to $407.63.
“Could we have the check?” the man asked.
He looked at his phone again.
I placed the leather folder beside him and walked away to deliver drinks to another table.
I was
gone maybe three minutes.
When I came back, the booth was empty.
So was the payment tray.
At first, I assumed they had stepped outside.
Then I checked the restrooms.
Nothing.
I hurried toward the front entrance.
They were gone.
My stomach dropped.
I went straight to my manager’s office.
Jett barely looked up when I rushed inside.
“Table twelve left,” I said. “They didn’t pay.”
He sighed.
“Maybe they stepped outside for a cigarette.”
“They’re gone.”
“You sure?”
“Check the cameras.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t have time to go through footage during dinner service.”
Then he said the words I had been dreading.
“You know the policy. Walkouts come out of the server’s pocket.”
I stared at him.
“That’s over four hundred dollars.”
“Then consider it a lesson.”
A lesson.
As though I had personally invited two strangers to steal from me.
At the end of my
shift, I paid the bill.
My hands were shaking when I signed the paperwork.
By the time I stepped outside, I had already cried once in the employee bathroom.
Four hundred dollars was gone.
My mother was still missing.
And I had no idea how I was going to explain any of it to my family.
I barely slept that night.
