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A day in the life of a server

Wrinkled elbows. Diana struggled to focus on the final minutes of Professor Milton’s lecture, but couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s bare, milky-white, saggy elbow skin. Did she know how they looked from here? Diana could see them fluffing out of Professor Milton’s sleeves like rising bread from her seat in the back of the lecture hall. Diana peered down at her phone, tucked away inside her shorts’ pocket. 3:34. One more minute. She could hear the familiar noises of her classmates packing up their laptops, notebooks, shuffling their feet together in anticipation. Even though she understood the desire to leave, she despised it when students packed up before the lecture was over. All some professors wanted to do was teach, especially the passionate ones, and it made her sad when they desperately tried to retain the attention of the lecture hall in the final countdown of each class.

3:35. Freedom.

 Unlike most of her classmates, well she assumed unlike most of her classmates, she actually had somewhere she had to be in the next 20 minutes. She hauled her book bag and duffel bag over both shoulders and sprinted out of the building and down to the metro. She heaved a sigh of relief when she just slipped through the closing doors. She inserted her uncomfortable, bulbous headphones into her ears and scrolled through her music to whatever might pump her up for the long night ahead. She settled on some classic Kanye.

15 minutes later she got off at U Street, heading over to the slightly divey, but just nice enough to be hipster, restaurant/bar that she called her second home. She’d been working nights there since coming to D.C.

She owed everything, her food, her textbooks, her tuition, and the roof over her head, to this establishment. The swinging wooden sign above the entrance boasted its illustrious name, a name to be proud of, “The Drunken Swan.”

Diana walked through the doors and breathed in the familiar smell of countless spilled drinks, stale French fries, and the tears of the drunken, broken-hearted clientele. She quickly clocked in and ran upstairs to the bathrooms. Inside, she peeled off her standard college student outfit of denim shorts and a light knitted sweater, and suited up her battle armor. Black leggings, black chunky sneakers, and a black v-neck t-shirt just snug enough to insight wishful thinking while still leaving something to the imagination.

She wrapped her short black apron around her waist twice, checking the pockets for her ammunition. Paper pads. Check. 2O assorted pens. Check. Check books. Check. Wine key. Check. She looked at herself closely in the yellowing mirror above the sink, a fading doodle catching her eye momentarily.

She took one of her pens and touched up the lines on a detailed drawing of a cartoon dick smoking a joint on the left side of the soap dispenser.

Satisfied with her updated artistry, she looked back in the mirror and practiced her “smile” briefly. She was cute, not hot by any means, but tables seemed to respond better to her than some of her coworkers. “Approachable,” her other coworkers teased. But she worked with her freckles, her slightly dimpled cheeks and her doe-eyed gaze as best she could.  She wrapped her hair back in a tight low bun, and touched up a bit of black under-eyeliner. The eyeliner was to help make her look older. After she’d prodded and plied her face into submission, she hefted her bags over her shoulders and braced herself for happy hour. After checking the schedule she climbed the rickety staircase to the top floor. Tonight she was outside on the rooftop garden, something the managers only opened if the weather was immeasurably pleasant. Tonight was one of those magical last warm evenings before DC turned into a wet, cloudy, needy b***h.

She knocked a panel loose in the side of the bar and stashed her bags in there, replacing the panel seamlessly. Her paranoia was justified, she’d had her wallet stolen one time too many at this place. The twinkle lights adorning the trellises were switched on even though the sun was far from setting, and Diana’s favorite bartender Brown was busy mixing a new bottle of simple syrup.

“Hey babe, what’s good?”

Diana slid onto a bar stool and tapped out a staccato beat on the fake marble. She sighed and forced a smile. “Just another day in paradise. Yourself?”

Brown started swaying his hips from side to side as if he could somehow hear the beat Diana was tapping with her fingers. He shook the bottle of melting sugar and hot water with each movement.

“I’m chilling, trying to cut out of here early. I have a big presentation tomorrow.” Brown was out of school and had just started work at a PR firm during the day. He only bartended a couple nights a week, not because he needed to, he thought it was fun, and he viewed it as practice in public relations every time he dealt with a customer. It didn’t hurt that he was 6’5 with a South Carolina accent and a face like the guy from the Brawny towel label.

Diana widened her already large green eyes and pouted her bottom lip.

“Can I have a juice?” She clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture.

He laughed softly. “Alright, but keep it in the styrofoam cup. Laurel is managing tonight, and if she catches you we’re both getting written up.”

Brown quickly upended a small can of Dole’s pineapple juice in the cheap white cup, added some ice and seltzer, and while glancing over his shoulder, added a couple fingers of Tito’s. He handed it to Diana with a wink and an air kiss. She planted a kiss on his scruffy cheek and popped a plastic lid with a straw on the cup. She took a long drag on the straw gratefully.

“Oh hoh,” Brown sang, “Someone is getting their first table.” Diana turned on the bar stool and appraised the party of four with skeptical eyes as they sat down.

Business attire. Men. Mid to late 30’s. Estimated purchase: two drinks each, maybe a couple appetizers. Estimated tip: $20 for the table.

Diana slapped a wide smile on her face. She smoothed her hair, tugged on her shirt and walked over.

 

“Hello gentleman, how are you all doing this evening?” She looked at each of them, noting their responding grins.

“My friends are being really lame, can you help me?” said the one in the middle, whom she immediately pegged as the leader. There’s usually one in every pack. He’ll encourage them to keep drinking and to keep spending more money. She tried not to dwell on the yellow pit stains forming under the sleeves of his crisp, white, Brooks Brothers button-down shirt.

“I can certainly try!” She winked. “Here’s the list of beers we have on tap, and our cocktail list.” She pointed down at one of their menus and all four of them followed her finger with their gaze.

“I’m sure you guys can figure something out.” She averted her eyes from Pit Stains. “Shall I give you another minute to decide?”

“Yeahhhhh probably.” Pit Stains grinned wildly.

She nodded and went to prepare a tray of waters for them while they deliberated.

Diana noticed she was getting sat again. Another table of four. Twenty-something professionals. Two guys and two girls. Split checks. Estimated tip: $3-4 each.

Diana slipped into her routine. Greet, get drinks. Take food orders. Wash, rinse, repeat. The tables started filling up and blending together.

A family. Entrees each, drinks as well. Estimated tip: $15-20.

Upon closer inspection�"a Dutch family of tourists. Revised estimated tip: 10% or less.

The twenty-somethings, the guys and the girls, were one of those “familiar” tables. Diana encountered one of those rarely, but knew each time it meant a big tip was coming at the end of it. They were one of those tables that wanted to be her best friends, who somehow ignored the fact that she was at her job and needed to work. Every time she walked past them they tried to get her to sit down, to join them in their revelry.

“Come on Diana, aren’t we the best table you’ve ever had?” asked the friendliest guy, he’d introduced himself but she’d long forgotten his name. She’d been referring to him as soul patch, for the mushroom shaped patch of hair thatched onto his pointy chin.

“You’re certainly reaching the top five, I hope you’re up to the challenge.” She giggled and started to turn away, ready to bus off a nearby table.

Alarm bells sounded as his hand made unexpected contact with her arm, focusing her attention back on him. She made eye contact with him and he sensed that he needed to let go.

“Sorry about that,” his laughter easing things back to normalcy, the moment of tension quickly forgotten. “Just don’t stay away for too long!”

She breathed in deeply and smiled back. “Oh never, not with my favorite table.” She winked.

Tables filled and tables left. Diana danced in between parties, twirling trays and juggling menus. As time wore on Diana flipped her switch. Her inner monologue was muted, and every interaction became calculated, precise, robotic. When the table was quieter and more subdued, she gave them their space and only presented herself when summoned. When the table was more responsive, even rowdy, she forced jokes, sass and enthusiasm from her lips. She molded herself into what was needed and what was wanted. Sometimes she could do it on her own. But more recently, and especially on nights like tonight, she needed the extra help from Brown to keep her going.

She’d been developing the bad habit of getting drunk by the time her shift ended each night. She was able to disguise it well as general enthusiasm so none of the management had noticed it yet. With strategic breath mints and opaque drinking glasses she managed to coast by, and keep doing her job well.

An old couple. Entrees each, maybe a glass of wine. Estimated tip: $7.00.

Diana couldn’t help noticing how sweet the couple was. Unlike most of the clientele at this place, who came for the hip atmosphere and cheap drinks, the old couple came solely for the nice view on the rooftop. They spent most of the evening gazing out at the street below, ensconced in a cone of solitude that seemed to mute the racaousness of the other patrons. They were the nicest table she’d had all night by far, showing genuine interest in Diana, in her studies and her life outside the restaurant. Diana uncharacteristically decided to write a little thank you note on their receipt before they left. A lot of her coworkers wrote notes like that for everyone, because they theorized it would gain bigger tips. Diana usually didn’t; she hated wasting time on tables that wouldn’t appreciate it anyways.

She checked the time on her phone. 9:30. Happy hour was long over, and her shift was thankfully drawing to a close. The rooftop patio closed in half an hour, and she only had two tables left, the 20-somethings that had camped out for the past five hours, and two middle-aged women splitting a molten lava cake. She felt warm after finishing the third “juice” Brown had given her, and her forced smile from earlier in the evening now found its way on her lips naturally. She hummed some Kanye while she started her nightly side-work.

Since it was deserted, she sat down at the bar while she polished her silverware and rolled fork and knife pairings into napkins. Brown was munching on their special appetizer of the week, Kahlua fries, while he added up his tips. Kahlua fries were French fries covered in marinated pulled pork, chopped onion, jalapenos, cheddar cheese, sour cream, and a special blended hot sauce. Diana’s slightly tipsy munchies kicked in as the smell wafted over to her. As she leaned over and grabbed a couple fries off Brown’s plate, she felt someone slide in next to her at the bar. It was Soul Patch.

“Hey there sweetheart. How’s your night been?”

“It’s been good as it gets.” She smiled automatically, the warmth from her juice spreading over her face. She went back to folding silverware into napkins.

“Can I just say, my friends and I are impressed by your incredible service,” Soul Patch’s eyes bored into her. He would have been cute, she surmised, if it weren’t for the obnoxious patch of hair he had obviously cultivated with care. He had light brown eyes framed by a strong brow and wavy dark brown hair, and a slightly crooked smile she imagined was used to getting attention.

“How sweet! I really just try my best, it’s not like this job is especially strenuous.” She pondered for a moment about the validity of what she’d just said.

“Well. I was hoping maybe I’d get to see you again. Maybe outside of this place?” He moved his hand dangerously close to making contact with her arm again. The alarm bells went off again, and everything started flashing Kill Bill red.

“Please don’t f*****g touch me.” She snapped. He started at her tone, moving his hand down to his lap, and then smiled even wider.

“There’s the real you,” he chuckled softly.

“I was wondering when you’d break. Smiling, laughing all night, it seemed a little fake. But don’t worry, I like girls with a little attitude.” He slid his hand up her thigh.

Diana, already a little tipsy, hopped off her bar stool and shoved Soul Patch harder than she meant to, knocking him to the ground.

“I don’t like being touched!” She snarled.

“Babe, what the hell?” Brown came out from behind the bar, trying to keep his voice low so their last couple tables would stop staring at the commotion.

“What the hell is your problem?” Soul Patch got back on his feet and straightened his blue button down. He smoothed his hair and pointed aggressively in Brown’s face.

“You better get a handle on your employees. You know what, where is your manager?”

“Listen, buddy,” Brown held up both hands in a placating gesture, “I think you better just walk away. I saw what was happening, and I’m pretty sure you’re the one who made unappreciated physical contact first.”

Diana hung her head in shame and avoided eye contact with both men. Soul Patch glared at them for a moment, let out an angry huff, and stormed back to his table. His friends were standing, waiting anxiously and watched him peel a few bills out of his wallet and throw them on a pile of dirty paper napkins. They silently gathered their things and filed down the stairs to the exit.

Diana bent down to pick up the bar stools off the brick patio. She righted them, and kept avoiding Brown’s concerned gaze. She knew if she looked him the eye, she’d start crying. She was furious with herself for losing her composure. She swayed slightly, realizing she was a bit drunker than she had intended. Luckily, the women eating the lava cake had already paid, so all she had to do now was make a quiet exit, tally up her tips with her manager and cash out for the night.

“I’ll be back.” She muttered at Brown, who had walked back behind the bar but still hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

“Diana,” he didn’t make the mistake of touching her unwarranted, but instead reached out a hand across the fake marble towards her.

She paused, and inched her hand towards his, still avoiding eye contact. He clasped it immediately and squeezed. They stood like that for a moment in silence.

“Thank you.” She whispered, removing her hand from his and making her way towards the exit. Her manager Laurel was waiting for her in the doorway.

“We need to talk. Now.”

Laurel was only 27, but had already cultivated a scary, authoritative persona in the restaurant. Some managers gave no s***s because they knew what kind of a place they worked at�"mediocre and winky at best. Most of them openly drank with Diana during shifts, teasing customers and even taking naps in empty booths downstairs. But Laurel was almost a cliché, with her no-nonsense attitude and her firm tough love. Even though she was 5’2, blonde and had an affinity for J Crew. The least intimidating looking manager was the only one who scared Diana every now and then.

Diana knew she was in trouble. She followed Laurel to the walk-in closet next to the bathrooms that the managers used as an office. Filing cabinets, security cameras, computers, and a couple chairs were the dominating features of the suffocating room.

“Sit down.”

Diana’s legs buckled in fear as she plopped into a threadbare desk chair.

“I’m so sorry Laurel,” she began, stammering in her eagerness to get this over with. “I don’t know what I was thinking, he was being rude,”

Laurel rolled her eyes. “Enough. I went up to tell you to start breaking down the tables. I saw everything that happened, you don’t need to tell me any more.”

Diana fell silent.

“Obviously you’re getting written up for assaulting a customer. I’m aware that his conduct was also inappropriate, but in those situations you do not react. You go get a bartender, or one of the managers!” Laurel’s voice rose with the last word, emphasizing its importance.

Diana started rubbing her hands on the tops of her thighs to stop them from sweating.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Diana breathed softly, choosing her words carefully this time. “I don’t know. I guess I was just tired, it had been a long day, and that particular table has been here since the beginning of happy hour. They had been getting a little too friendly all night. I guess I just lost my patience. I’m really sorry. It was completely unprofessional and I promise it will not happen again.”

Laurel sighed. “You’re a good server Diana. You do your job well. But it’s my job to notice everything that’s going on in this place. And lately it seems like this job is wearing you down. Tell me honestly, is everything okay?”

“Can I just add up my tips and go?”

Laurel pursed her lips. “Fine. You can do them here and just head out when you’re done.”

Diana didn’t care if Laurel was upset. There was no way she was going to admit to her, of all people, that she was drinking on the job everyday. Diana started sifting through all the receipts she’d accumulated throughout the day, adding up each tip amount so she could tell Lauren how much cash Diana was owed.

Diana needed this job. She convinced her parents that going to D.C. for school was the right choice for her, even though it was 3,000 miles away from home. They could barely afford to send her, even with the various loans taken out and scholarships won. Serving meant she made between $150-$200 a night. Some of which she saved for herself, but most of which she sent home to her family. The more Diana went through each receipt, the more she felt her heart sinking, her worth going down. She remembered each table, how each assessment was correct and was saddened by how predictable people were. No matter what they always lived up to their potential, good or bad. She finished counting, and handed the slips of paper to Laurel.

Laurel whipped through them at lightening speed, and wrote the final number in a ledger on the desk.

“I owe you $172.” Laurel got up and unlocked the safe. She handed Diana a stack of bills. Diana started to count, making sure she had the correct total, when she noticed a receipt of hers had slipped onto the floor. She paused, bent down and picked it up. It was from the old couple.

Their check had been only $43.00. But they’d left her a $20.00 tip.

She wrinkled her forehead and flipped the receipt over to a note they’d written on the back. Tears started to prick the corners of her eyes.

 

We hope you have a good day as well. You’re a wonderful, hardworking girl. Keep it up. You can do it.

 

She felt the tears spill out silently, and realized Laurel was still watching her.

“I forgot this one.” She murmured, handing the last receipt to Laurel. Her manager looked at it, then back at Diana, and nodded. Laurel handed her another $20 bill.

“Everyone goes through this.” Laurel said softly.

Laurel looked Diana up and down. “Some people can’t do this every day. Dealing with people and trying stay professional. It’s not easy. But you’re good at it, and even though it might be hard now, I think you can stick with it.”

Diana nodded numbly. She walked out of the office, with her wad of bills still clutched in her palm. She walked outside to the patio to retrieve her stuff.

She looked around at the finally empty space. Even Brown had somehow disappeared. The lights were still on�"giving the collection of 15 wooden tables and chairs a warm glow. The vines and bushes clinging to the trellises made her feel safe, as if she was in her own private garden. Without everyone else around, she allowed herself to breathe in the balmy night. Without the people and the noise, her switch flipped back on and she allowed herself to think again. She focused on the noise inside, the thoughts colliding together and shattering apart.

She looked down at the collection of crumpled bills in her hand.