Waiting Tables While Your Neighbor’s House is on Fire

Everything is ridiculous.

There is so much to be grateful for. My house is not burning. My town is far enough from the fire zone that it’s where the LA families are escaping to so that their children can breathe fresh air. The sky is a delightful shade of blue right now.

This was supposed to be the time of year when we would get a little respite from the influx of holiday diners and vacationers, but instead we got people who have reluctantly escaped and brought this fevered hunger and thirst with them.

Am I allowed to complain about what it’s like to wait on the wealthy when they aren’t on vacation? There is this urgency to get their orders in that’s accompanied by an inability to make a decision. Is it too soon to discuss the weight of standing in front of a guest whose house may be currently burning while selling them $17 cocktails? Can I bitch even though this “Particularly Dangerous Situation” has skipped my neighborhood, or does that just make me an asshole?

I’m not going to be the one to sound gracious or like Jesus and Mother Mary while talking about this because like I’ve always said: I don’t come here to lie. Waiting on fire evacuees while already on the verge of burnout and probable vitamin D deficiency has been the most emotionally taxing experience of the year. I spent the entire shift on Sunday night on the verge of tears. All weekend, the guests have been getting emergency alerts, frantically checking their screens, and watching the news at the table at full volume. Everyone seems to know someone who has lost everything. Gofundmes are the popcorn springing from the blaze of the Santa Monica and San Gabriel mountains. I share and donate and do my part, but have this icky feeling that nothing will ever be enough.

I should be grateful and gracious because there but for the grace of God go I. I see on social media all of the people who spring into action, collecting food and items for people who have lost everything. My colleagues organize a donation drive at the restaurant, and one after another, community members I’ve never even seen keep showing up with bags of necessary items for our neighbors down south. I feel guilty for being annoyed that they’re here.

Is it as simple as the fact that if I was about to lose all of my personal belongings in an inferno, the last thing I would buy is a $17 craft cocktail? I wouldn’t stay in a hotel with a nightly rate that pushes $1000 because I would truly have nothing.

With this event has come the realization that my neighborhood is not safe. None of our neighborhoods are safe.

Chef shares a video on Instagram of a doe running down a smoke-filled street in Alta-Dena. We are seeing the plot of Bambi play out in real time, but Bambi is loose in the city. On Monday morning, I see that the death toll in the Palisades is at 24 and think about people who may have burned alive in their homes. There is not usually this much life lost during these events.

I still don’t have a go-bag.

I cry the tears that have been building up for the first time upon reading about the deaths but not enough because I still carry this pressure behind my eyes. I get the news that the “Particularly Dangerous Situation” has moved up the coast to my county which makes sense because the rattle of my windows kept me up all night. I don’t want to leave for work because I want to make sure my cats are safe in case the neighborhood goes up in flames.

At the restaurant, one of my tables, a couple of locals looks around and says, “I’m sorry there aren’t more people here. I don’t know why, on such a beautiful day, there are no customers.”

I don’t tell them that I don’t want to be here. I don’t tell them to stick their dumb hand up in the air and feel the strength of the wind. Everyone is at home and on edge. I want to be home with my cats’ carriers lined up next to a go-bag, but I’m being pleasant at work instead. I smile and make sure they always have a drink and that their halibut is cooked to perfection.

Writing this felt dumb. I’m sorry, but I think what might feel better is sharing this spreadsheet of Alta Dena's families who have lost homes and not reached their donation goals. Thank you to everyone who has reached out to check on my well being. I have always been in an existential crisis, but my house is not in the path of any of the fires. Please click the links below to help those who have actually been affected and ignore babies like me.

Also, the Pasadena Humane Society is caring for both wildlife that has been affected and animals that have been surrendered by evacuees.