Welcome! My name is Kate and I'll be helping y'all out this evening. Can I get you started with anything to drink? I am your waitress, with a bright smile etched on my face as I jot down your drink orders and say with the syrupy sweet high-pitched voice, "of course!" "not a problem!" and "my pleasure!"
I memorize tonight's specials so you don't have to read them; I'm happy to explain every menu item in excruciating detail; I'll make sure to tell the chef not to overcook your salmon, apologize profusely when it comes to your table slightly less moist than you prefer, then offer you a new one in addition to the free dessert.
I drop the check to the oldest man at the table and thank your party for coming out this evening and for being such a pleasure.
By the way, in case you were wondering, I do create the recipes for the food you don't like, I personally delay the dish that comes out just a little too late, and I created the policy that we don't sell half quesadillas. I find your condescending jokes genuinely amusing and I am too deaf to hear the snide remarks you make about me within earshot: "I'm surprised she's still working here after last week's service."
I am your waitress, who, with a furrowed brow, apologizes when you get croutons on your salad -- when, by God, you're gluten free. No, it's not Celiac disease, but you feel so much better without gluten in your diet. My only purpose is to delight you. My permanent address is the employee break room, where I live without family, friends, or a future. I live to serve.
For what it's worth, I took this job under the impression that I'd get good tips. I was proven wrong on my first day, when you stiffed me on an $80 check. I had four tables sit down all at once, all demanding to be seen that very moment. I can be in six different places at once. I wear the dirty polo shirt, oversized slacks from Goodwill, and Crocs with socks -- the only uniform I was given -- and today is my third double in a row.
I am your waitress, with the bleary eyes and aching ankles, scribbling the 16 modifiers you want on your low-carb pasta dish down in my notepad. With the fake smile and sweaty armpits, I am on my third coffee of the evening. I'm your waitress, the person you fault for cooking your food all wrong. I listen to your pretentious conversations: "I'm not saying he's a bad president because he's black... I'm saying Obama serves a particular... demographic."
I am your waitress, but I am a person. A sister. A daughter. A friend. A full-time student paying her way through college. Yet you reduce me to just your waitress -- just another brick on the sidewalk of life you tread -- a small, insignificant piece of the establishment you frequent. "For God's sake," you say, "what sort of place doesn't serve a cocktail napkin with a goddamn cocktail?" You bang your hand on the mahogany table and look at me with disgust, like I'm a dog who just sh*t on your Egyptian cotton bed sheets. I am nothing to you. I dig my fingernails into my palm as I contort my face to fake concern. If I defend myself, if I tell you that I think you're a pretentious bastard, if I demand to be treated like a human being, I lose my job. I am your waitress and you own me. So I apologize and turn to get you a cocktail napkin.
I bring you a salad because your husband asks if you really want the cheeseburger. I cut you off after you your fifth Jack and Coke. I am the one to whom you direct your drunken rage when I tell my manager to take the keys to your Lexus. You tower over me with your tailored suit, the veins bulge in your neck and spit flies from your wet, drunk mouth, as you ask me if I know who you are and who I think I am.
I am your waitress who stands stiff and awkward in a vain attempt to maintain composure, fighting back angry tears and a cutting retort. I am your waitress, and I see through the façade. I pity you. I will leave this place in two hours' time. I will take off the apron, the polo, and the fake smile -- but I suspect your bad manners are something you can't shed.