I Say When to Stop

A short story about limits

The waiter held the cheese grater over Joe’s plate.

“Tell me when to stop,” he said with a smile as he slowly rotated the handle.

Joe watched flakes of cheese trickle weakly from the grater. He positioned his elbows on the table, rested his chin on both fists, and sighed.

“Okay!” the waiter said, putting the grater at his side. “Enjoy your meal!”

Joe reached out and grabbed the waiter’s forearm, the one holding the cheese grater.

“Hey,” Joe said. “I didn’t say stop.”

The waiter was taken aback. In his 21 years of life, nobody had ever touched him with such aggressiveness, much less here at this small Italian restaurant. He thought of the word “assault,” but it didn’t hurt. It just felt strange. Confused, he erred on the side of himself being wrong about his judgment of the interaction.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, and held the cheese grater over Joe’s plate of penne and marinara.

Joe nodded, barely accepting the apology, and put his head and hands in the same position as before, watching the parmesan cheese pile on his plate with an eagle eye.

Joe’s wife, Martha, sat next to him in the booth. Across the table sat Joe’s two children, Jack and Mary, ages 14 and 16. All three recognized the look in Joe’s eyes and remained quiet. They knew it was better not to disturb him at these moments.

But the waiter did not know Joe. His wrist beginning to ache and the cheese piled higher than ever before, he put the grater down.

“Cheese fan, huh, sir?” he said with a smile. “Enjoy your…”

“Did I fucking say stop?” Joe said, his eyes shooting into the waiter like a bullet.

Martha gritted her teeth.

“Joe. Come on,” she whispered.

“No, Martha! I won’t come on! I want the damn cheese!”

He looked back at the waiter.

“You told me that I can tell you when to stop, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You made an agreement with me. A man must live up to his end of the bargain he makes, or else he is no man at all. Are you a man?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then don’t stop until I tell you to stop. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The waiter, trying desperately to stop his hand from shaking but failing, turned the handle. He wanted to go home. He wondered if he was in danger. He wanted somebody to come help. He worried what would happen when the cheese ran out. But he looked around and nobody seemed to notice the situation he was in.

“Keep your eyes on the cheese,” Joe said. “It’s falling onto the table. I don’t like to see food wasted.”

The waiter did as told and stared at the growing pile of cheese, now completely covering the pasta.

“Can we eat now, dad?” Mary said. “You’re taking forever.”

“We start together as a family,” he said. “You know that. When I’m ready, we’re all ready.”

Mary and Jack both groaned and went back onto their phones.

As Joe watched the cheese pile on his plate, he thought about his life. All the wrong choices he made and mistakes he failed to correct. If he could only go back. But he knew he couldn’t. This was it. All he could do now was this. He had to get joy where he could and this was one of his only ways. Yeah, some people might think it’s strange to want this much parmesan cheese, but he’s always liked parmesan cheese, ever since he was a kid, and if he wanted more parmesan cheese, he deserved some more fucking parmesan cheese.

“I worked hard for this!” he shouted.

The restaurant went silent - the only sound coming from the cheese grater as the waiter continued to grate. All the patrons at other tables stared at him. His family hid their faces in embarrassment. He looked up at the waiter who was staring down at these pile of cheese with tears in his eyes. He knew he went too far once again.

“It was always going to be like this,” he said to nobody but himself, the only one listening. “Maybe I never really had a choice.”

He stood up. He banged his fist on the table. His pile of cheese fell over, crumbs all over the table.

“You think you all have a choice? You don’t” he shouted. Martha grabbed his shirt sleeve, but he shook her off.

“We think we want more cheese, but why? We just shit it out and eat more and do it all over and over again. The whole reason for the process is to continue doing the process and that doesn’t make any rational sense! We’re on a never-ending merry go-round of eating and shitting and none of you shameless pigs even realize it!”

He sat down and looked at his family. They’ll never understand, he thought. They’re just like the rest of them.

He looked up at the waiter, who was now trembling in fear from head to toe.

“You can stop,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” the waiter said with a weak smile as a tear slid down the corner of his mouth. “Thank you so much.”

He turned to run away, but Joe grabbed his forearm.

“What about the black pepper?” Joe said.