Waitress

photo by: Patrick Cummings

I am called into the manager’s office and asked to sit in one of the black rolly chairs. Standing above me and leaning on the desks, three cross-armed managers tell me that I haven’t been happy lately. I agree, though this submission makes me suddenly feel like a booger has been pointed out on my nose. Tears surface, as if for breath from their compressed position in the marrow of my ribs. They don’t love their jobs either, they tell me, but my behavior lately has not been characteristic of me. I, apparently, have not hid myself well behind my "goodhowareyous." 


I don't deserve this nosy poking attention, this awkward interrogation. I want to walk out and go home, but I don't because that too wouldn't be like me and I do not want to prove them right. 


Eventually, I agree to more smiles and return to my side work of stocking tiny jellies into flavor categories, filling salt and peeper shakers, cutting lemons and making pots of coffee.

I am a waitress so I am supposed to be happy all the time, but I am a waitress so I am not happy most of the time.