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\nShe glides across sticky wooden floorboards, bearing a heavy tray<\/p>\n
and a plastic pitcher of raspberry iced tea.<\/p>\n
“You got six at 21, and the party in the back – stay focused, and smile”<\/p>\n
her manager winks as he impales the paper ticket on a mental spike.<\/p>\n
She digs for the ibuprofen stashed in the Ketchup-stained apron around her waist;<\/p>\n
smiles will come easier if her feet can forget about the first shift.<\/p>\n
Table 6 needs refills, 9 needs their check<\/p>\n
Another high chair for 17;<\/p>\n
the neatly rolled silverware, which used to form a small white mountain<\/p>\n
has melted to almost nothing<\/p>\n
and thank god for gratuity—<\/p>\n
the old man at the back table is tapping his watch quite dramatically<\/p>\n
rolling his eyes in her general direction.<\/p>\n
She hustles to retrieve a round of Budweiser’s for her regulars at 2<\/p>\n
but first a gift from the bartender,<\/p>\n
a shot of Captain for all the waitresses<\/p>\n
to “take the edge off” the French-fried chaos.<\/p>\n
It’s not always a living hell—<\/p>\n
There was that kind group of female 30-something’s yesterday<\/p>\n
raucously, lovingly celebrating a birthday of a long-time friend;<\/p>\n
and that elderly couple,<\/p>\n
keeping the romance alive over a bottle of Malbec<\/p>\n
and told her all about their new grandchild;<\/p>\n
and there’s Dale, the Vietnam vet who bellies up to the bar every day at 11 a.m. sharp<\/p>\n
for a Coca Cola and a little conversation.<\/p>\n
But there’s a constant, shadowy backdrop<\/p>\n
to the hum of conversation,<\/p>\n
the clatter of dishes,<\/p>\n
the drone of soft rock classics;<\/p>\n
will she walk home with enough tips in her purse<\/p>\n
to pay the water bill<\/p>\n
and the babysitter<\/p>\n
and buy a decent pair of shoes?<\/p>\n
She is grateful for work, but working conditions leave her bitter;<\/p>\n
She can feel full, but still nutritionally deprived;<\/p>\n
She is paid, but not what most would call “compensated.”<\/p>\n
“You decide what your tips are,” she was told on day one.<\/p>\n
Do I?<\/p>\n
“Just like I decide to win the lottery,” joked a fellow waitress.<\/p>\n
They are what keep her there, the team of wait staff;<\/p>\n
Some days they’re comrades, on others they are crutches<\/p>\n
Lots of times they are cheerleaders, mentors, and confidants.<\/p>\n
She loads her tray with three orders of the meatloaf special<\/p>\n
and makes eye contact with Edward the dishwasher—<\/p>\n
they exchange a look and a full-bodied sigh—<\/p>\n
The struggle feels a little easier when you’re on a team.<\/p>\n
At the table, she pretends not to notice the mischievous smile,<\/p>\n
ignores the rude comment<\/p>\n
thinking instead about which order the kitchen will accidentally botch<\/p>\n
so she can have her own dinner.<\/p>\n
She turns to the dwindling pile of silverware—<\/p>\n
they’ll need dozens more rolled just to get through tonight—<\/p>\n
and for a moment she envies the spoon, fork and knife<\/p>\n
bound together so neatly, one on top of the other<\/p>\n
clean, perfect, simple.<\/p>\n
She’ll leave it all behind someday<\/p>\n
finish school, find a job<\/p>\n
that secures her beyond next Friday.<\/p>\n
Until then she glides across the scratched wooden floor,<\/p>\n
ascending the stairs to the noisy cocktail lounge<\/p>\n
with dignity and grace. <\/p>\n
<\/p>\n\n