“Cindy!” the assistant manager snapped, “Table 17 hasn’t ordered yet, oh- and table 14 needs refills.” He whizzed past her in a breathless fury. Weekend waitressing is not for the weak at heart. She caught onto this fast. It was bearable when people ate their fucking high cholesterol, over-processed food without any complaints or remarks pertaining to its shitty quality. It’s a hit or miss at a chain food restaurant. This plain and simple fact is sometimes lost on people.
When leaving the cozy beer scented nook of a college university, one usually assumes that the world is waiting for your resume and eager to hire. After almost a year of sending in resume after resume and not hearing back, Cindy felt sorely misguided and anxiety set in. She took up a job waitressing full time at Applebees to pay the rent (She refused to cave in to her mother’s desperate pleas to move back in with her to save money. For Cindy, it would be like putting training wheels on Lance Armstrong’s bike- An insulting and humiliating regression). She had a clear vision of what her life would be like after graduation, and it felt like she was being swept down by the neck into an undertow when there were no visible signs of danger to prepare her- no white caps, no waves. Just sun.
She threw up her curly, honey-blonde hair into a messy bun that settled firmly on the crown of her head. Taking three deep breaths, she strode over to table 17. As she was turning the corner she stood up straight and put a smile on her face that felt as natural as a Twinkie tastes. “Hi Folks, my name’s Cindy. Can I start you guys off with some appetizers?” She was relieved to see that she was serving a small family. They leave better tips than high school couples that touch each other underneath the table. The woman looked too well dressed to be in such an establishment. Her Ralph Lauren polo T-shirt didn’t have one wrinkle in it. She loathed this woman. Wanted her to choke on a chicken bone. Her husband dressed similar to his wife, wearing khaki pleated pants and thick framed glasses adorned his clean shaven face. Their son looked to be about 14, and didn’t look too thrilled to be there with them.
Twenty minutes later, Cindy forged her way through the maze of tables and made it to table 17 without dropping the tray. She slowly placed the food on the table in front of them and their surveying eyes. The woman dipped the spoon in the Minestrone soup and then slowly put it towards her puckered lips. Her eyes widened with a blank furiousness, “Ouch!! This is scalding Hot.” As she was dabbing her blistered tongue with her napkin and taking sips of water to alleviate the pain, her husband held up his fork which had a hunk of steak impaled at the end and held it right in front on Cindy’s face and said, “This steak is cold.. how long has it been hanging out like this. Take it back.” He shoved his plate to the far end of the table. The son already gobble down half of his meal and was probably oblivious to his parent’s complaints. Cindy assumed he’d learned to block it out. So that was the final straw, that was it. Cindy ripped off her apron as if it were on fire and handed it to some girl at table 3. When she got outside, she lit up a cigarette and drove home.
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