02/10/2008 22:47

564 Goodbye, Chris

You often hear the phrase "a friend of the family," a term of endearment granted to some individual held in high regard by, well, the members of a family. My family doesn't have any friends of this nature; not as itself, not as an entity. I have my friends, and my mom has hers, and my dad has his, but the circles with which we as individuals surround ourselves simply don't intersect. Most of my friends have never met my parents, and while I've met some of my parents' friends, I wouldn't consider them my own. I don't remember the first time I met Chris Turner. It would have been at Outback Steakhouse, where he was a server; probably in 1995, give or take a year. What I do remember is the second time I met Chris, several months later, after he'd encountered dozens of new faces each night in the meantime. When my parents and I next walked into Outback and sat down, he greeted us by name without any hesitation, as if he'd known us for years. Maybe a nice tip was the reason Chris had committed our names to memory, or maybe it was just his inherent ability. It doesn't really matter why. That night, Chris Turner became a friend of the family. Different people treat the practice of eating out in different ways. Some are faithful to specific restaurants, finding comfort in a favorite dish, not caring who brings it to the table. Others are loyal not to eateries, but to the wait staff; knowing that a good server, even if he found himself in a soup kitchen, would determine a way to make the experience enjoyable for his diners. My family tends to fall into the latter camp, and Chris was the perfect reason why. I don't believe I've set foot in Outback in ten years; instead, we followed Chris first to Bahama Breeze, then to Bonefish. Chris was a master of his craft. It's difficult to impart the intricacies, the nuances, the skill, the level at which he operated. He was not a server, he was the creative conduit between the kitchen and the customer. He had his finger on the pulse of the entire restaurant - whichever one it happened to be - and used that not only to his advantage, but also to yours, if you were dining there. Entrees were tweaked at his suggestion, and suddenly jerk chicken pasta became bowtie pasta with jerk shrimp and scallops. Sauces that weren't supposed to go with your dinner appeared, and made it better. And every meal came with something that should have been on the tab, but wasn't. I'm a cynical bastard and I know my share of pranksters, but none better than Chris. I turned 21 when he was at Bahama Breeze, and that particular Friday night is one I will always remember. Pretending that they'd introduced a new dessert, he brought around a pie tin containing the supposed confection, and invited me to sample how good it smelled. Before I had time to realize I'd been played, I had a face full of whipped cream. Moments later, and prior to cleaning up from the aftermath, a group of 20 or so girls who had been dining across the restaurant gathered in a circle around the table to sing happy birthday to me. I've never been so embarassed in my life, but to say that I'd love to go back to that night would be an understatement. That was Chris. With most waiters, you were eating dinner. With Chris, you were having an experience. Chris was diabetic, and he probably didn't take care of himself as well as he should have. I look in the mirror and can cast no stones. His health grew progressively worse. He had fainting spells, and wound up in the hospital a few times. He had at least one stroke. He put Ex-Lax into his boss' bag of Skittles, which nearly put his boss into the hospital. Always the prankster. Almost a year ago, I encountered Chris in traffic late one night; I know which night, it was the night of the Tool concert down at the DeSoto Civic Center. I was on my way home, driving down 64, and he nearly ran me off the road. I was briefly happy that my gun was present on my hip, because I was about to have an encounter with some complete asshole who was swerving around and trying to do me harm. Then his window rolled down, and I saw his face, and we spent 20 minutes chatting in front of the home of whoever lives on Berryhill just off 64. He invited me, once again, to go bowling with his group of servers on Monday night; I know he was probably trying to hook me up with some cute waitress, and I told him that I'd make it, one of these Mondays. The last time I saw Chris Turner was a couple of months ago, at Wal-Mart. I was pushing my cart down the Beer / Soda aisle when I heard someone call out my name. He told me that he was having dialysis every other day, for 4 hours at a time, and they'd just had to switch from a shunt on his left side to one on his right side, because the site of the former had become infected. He pulled his shirt down and showed me the bandage. He told me he was only allowed to drink 32 ounces of liquid a day. I tried to quantify where 32 ounces would fall among the cups of coffee, 20-ounce Diet Mt. Dews, and copious amounts of vodka that I consume each day. I couldn't really imagine limiting myself to 32 ounces of liquid and I wondered how he could, although I imagine maybe he didn't, after all. I shook his hand and told him that I'd see him soon. Maybe one of these Mondays I'll show up to go bowling. Rest in peace, Chris Turner.