| I used to work at a restaurant
below Dupont Circle in D.C. which referred to itself as a
diner. How they managed to get away with that I am not sure.
The place was beneath a high-rise and far too stylish. We
were a young, artsy wait staff. No waitress named Bertha,
no griddle you could see, no hairy, short order cook named
Donny. Only one thing qualified it as a diner: the menu included
comfort food.
On a particularly busy shift, I came from the kitchen with
four plates of very sloppy food for four women in the twilight
of their reproductive years. I had meatloaf with ketchup on
top and mashed potatoes with extra gravy, turkey and stuffing
with mashed potatoes and extra gravy, the haddock special,
cooked in a white wine cream sauce, and chili cheese fries
with sour cream and salsa.
Usually I did not carry four plates, but I had tables waiting
for drinks and checks. The women smiled as I rounded the corner.
I scanned their table. They had had two rounds of iced tea--glasses,
and their purses, were everywhere. Not a square inch available
for plates, which were hot and precariously balanced.
They cleared space, moving the purses to an empty seat in
the booth and stacking the glasses. I slid the plates off
my arm. I
placed
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placed them slowly, each clink
of ceramic against wood signaling that my straining muscles
and the skin, burning off my arm, would soon be at ease. As
I placed the last plate, I looked across the table, and saw
the third plate, chili cheese fries with sour cream and salsa,
teetering on the edge of the table, and starting to slip.
The women watched me put down the meatloaf, and followed my
eyes. We all watched the plate of chili cheese fries tilt,
directly over the empty seat. The fries slipped off the plate
and disappeared with a flooomp.
I froze. The women and I shared a look. They turned to the
empty seat where the purses were piled. I thought to myself,
at least I had soiled the purses equally—-they will
bond over it. Besides, leather and vinyl are easy to sponge
off. They turned to me. I peered over the edge at the pile.
The plate lay underside up. I picked up the plate to find
one purse, open, full of chili cheese fries with sour cream
and salsa, now mixed with pens, eyeliner, lipstick, gum, a
pad of paper, some jewelry, car keys, even a change of underwear.
I did not get a tip.
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