Hard Day's Work

Once upon a time, not too long ago, I had a restaurant job. Although I try not to think about it in my current day-to-day, every memory I have of that place is either awful, mind-numbingly boring, or a combination of both. Before I took that job, I was under the illusion that I lived in a nice town, full of nice, well-mannered people. Within the first week, I learned that I was woefully wrong.

I don't know what it is about restaurants that make people forget their humanity the second they walk through the door. Every order I took was wrong, even if I read it back three times to ensure I'd taken it down right. No one seemed aware that coupons do - in fact - expire, and I always took the blame for them doing so. Also, according to some customers, I lost my ability to do basic math when their checks came out more expensive than they anticipated. None of them believed me when I told them that the computer tallies the check for me, or when I tried to break down their bill item by item to prove that they were in the wrong.

Worse than the customers grinding my soul to dust with their endless complaints, however, was my manager.

On a good day, she pretended I didn't exist. On a bad one, she was on my case from the moment I clocked in until I clocked out. Nothing I did was right in her eyes. I was always too slow; too stupid; too inadequate. I only waited tables for a few weeks before she moved me to the cash register, which was both better and worse. No matter how diligently I counted back change and managed the till, there were days that my drawer came up short. Most of the time, if I did find my drawer a few dollars light, I would supplement the difference from my own tips. Just to spare myself a reprimand, and avoid being called a thief for the umpteenth time.

During the weekends and summers, when we had significantly more customers, I pulled double duty as a cashier and hostess. Guess my manager thought I couldn't screw up wiping down tables and seating customers. Still, she was wrong. The sheer number of people that filled our twenty-foot square lobby was overwhelming every shift. The smart ones would turn right back around and leave the minute they poked their heads through the door. The rest stuck around, hounding me about how long it was taking for their party of twelve to be seated and trying to score free cokes while they waited for their poor, diabetic Aunt Gertie and her six grandkids.

In retrospect, I should have quit a long time before I did. The hard truth of it was - despite the fact that I was miserable and woefully overworked - I was too afraid to. I was afraid that I'd disappoint my family if I gave up. And, more importantly, I was afraid my manager wouldn't let me quit.

The moment I want to focus on today was probably my lowest at that job. I was working the lunch shift on a Saturday, in the height of summer. The dining room was slap full, as was the sheet of paper in front of me of parties waiting for tables. I remember sweating through my uniform, trying to hold it together. The waitresses and kitchen staff scrambling as much as I was, trying to get existing customers out so new ones could come in. It was stupid hot, both from the stifling amount of bodies crowded in one spot, and because Corporate kept the thermostat under lock and key.

I was rapidly approaching my breaking point, hanging on by a thread emotionally, when I realized my hostess station was out of kids' menus. Luckily, the cashier on duty had some to spare under the counter. When I finally caught a second, I ran around the counter, past the flat-top grill and the built-in sink across from it, to grab a handful.

Then, I slipped.

To this day, I don't know if it was water on the floor or grease from the grill. Honestly, it was probably both. That place was always disgusting, and the drains in the floor never worked right. Anyway, I went down. Hard. My manager saw. Looked me in the eye while I was on the floor. Said nothing. The woman working the grill was too busy to notice. The girl at the register didn't seem to care.

With tears in my eyes, I hurriedly picked myself up. I didn't have time to worry about the pain radiating through my hip and knee. I wasn't brave enough to complain to my manager about it. All I could think was how stupid I felt for falling in the first place, especially where the customers could see. Barely hiding my shame, I grabbed my kids' menus and limped back around to the hostess stand.

I think I stood there for about a minute, shaking and trying to figure out where to seat the next guests in line, when this old lady got up from a nearby booth. I assumed she was on her way to pay her check, but she walked up right next to me. Even though the restaurant was deafeningly loud that day, I can still hear her soft words ringing clearly in my head all these years later.

"Honey... are you okay?"

I lied and said, "yes", but even I didn't believe it. She shuffled off toward the kitchen after that and poked her head in, calling for my manager. While I never heard the exchange they had, my manager left the kitchen that same minute. Behind her was one of the dish washing guys, who she set to work helping me bus tables. Manager never said a word to me, but between her and Dish Guy we got through the lunch rush a little quicker.

The old woman was long gone before I missed her. I don't remember seeing her again after that day, either. But I still remember her kind face, and her cool, bony hand on my shoulder. She saw me struggling when no one else bothered to. When no one else cared. Part of me thinks she might've been an angel, as silly as that might seem. All I really know is after she spoke to me, it turned my entire day around. And I'm still grateful to her.