Mortified Pie

We've all been there. Completely. Utterly. Mortified. Not understanding what just happened, but knowing that this feeling is going to be with you forever. "Forever" must be said in slow motion & with a gradual uptick in volume to stay true to the humiliation.

This month marks the 10th anniversary of the September 11th attacks. Everyone knows what they were doing that day. Eloquent minds have written beautiful missives about it. Others have marked the event with many slurs & by screaming "Amurrika!" repeatedly. We all have our ways.

This day stands out in my mind for the usual reasons. It also stands out in my mind as one of the most mortified moments of my existence.

Let's set the stage. I was in college. Living in New Orleans & working at a restaurant named Cafe Roma. Pizza, pasta, salads & the like. The restaurant had a bustling delivery business & a slower in-house dining scene. On the night of Tuesday, September 11th, I was at work. I'd had the day to digest the goings on (classes cancelled, huddled around the TV with my roommates) & went to work because...well...why wouldn't I?

Predictably, the dining room was an echoing tomb. Who the hell wants to go out for pizza & wings when so much just went pear shaped? I repeat - why would you go out when the pizza could come to you?

The delivery drives were hustling. The kitchen was jamming. The other waitress went home & I stuck around to help the bartender answer phones and take pizza orders. With three lines buzzing we could barely keep up. Drivers kept scampering behind the bar to make change & answer the occasional phone call.

Finally, it started to slow down. Drivers came back, we took smoke breaks & watched TV. The kitchen staff gathered in the front of the house to catch the news & hang out in a space that didn't include a 500 degree pizza oven.

Then, in front of everyone...it happened.

The television broadcast a report saying that groups were celebrating this awful day on the West Bank of Gaza. Screaming & waving scarves, they were jubilant.

I turned to a delivery driver named Jonathan & snapped "What the fuck is wrong with you people!?!". Jonathan was from the West Bank...of New Orleans.

He looked astonished & yelped "What did I do?"

Realizing my mistake I opened my mouth & gaped at him. My mind had one clear thought: "Uhhhh.....".

Completely mortified, I turned to the bar & the phone rang. Then another phone rang. Then a third started trilling. The second rush! Everyone sprinted back to their stations.

I've done & said about a million dumb things since that day, but for some reason that sticks out in my mind as a moment of complete shame.

I haven't mentioned it to anyone since that day. I never even apologized to Jonathan.

Maybe I wanted to exercise the demon. This particular demon & I have been acquainted for 10 years. I have a nickname for him.

Demon! Thy name is Mort.