I was surprised when I was a server at how fucking blessed I was.
I see my life in visuals, tiny details, and these are the things I always will remember:
- my ugly black shoes I bought from Wal-mart covered in mashed potatoes
- my hands stained with High-C Fruit Punch
- melted chocolate ice cream pouring over bowls onto tabletops
- asking women who didn't speak English for birthday cakes
- gummy bears smashed into red carpet
- staring out the window at the construction across the highway
- stealing rolls, putting them in my apron, hiding them in the back room
- scooping huge cups of sugar into a giant bowl for sweet tea
- asking Peruvian boys for help getting boxes from high shelves
- giving puppyeyes to old black man cooks begging for tin foil
- people asking me for butter which I had to get from the buffet bar - huge chunks of butter
- cleaning ketchup tops with rags, over and over, every night
- smoothing my Beatles tie under my apron
- eating cinnamon rolls with Lyz in the backroom on Sunday lunch
- moving entire booths to sweep for crumbs
- refilling the ice bins, flinging ice cubes everywhere
- confusing diet cokes with cokes with diabetics
- washing my hands enough the skin was peeling off
- getting a couple of dimes and nickels and pennies as my tip
- looking for a tip, finding nothing, cussing in my head, going to the next customer
- being asked if I'm in high school, is it legal for me to work there
More, obviously, to come. But yes. I am glad that is not my life.
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