Mondays mean quiet. Mondays mean recuperation and rest from a crazy weekend of waiting tables. Mondays are my time, the time I sit down, coffee in hand, and remember who I am.
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| Signs of spring |
I would watch him or her scrupulously, critiquing every shot, envisioning how it would look in my mind, criticizing. But it's only because, for this night, I was on this side: serving Prime Rib and Chicken Marsala instead of being where I love to be - my second favorite place in the world to be besides behind my dog team: behind a camera.
As the night went on, while tending to my tables, I couldn't help but focus on the photographer. At one point, a gorgeous halo of light fell right on the bride and the groom sitting at the head table. I walked over to the photog, who was sitting at the bar, drinking a beer and eating Prime Rib to tell him about the moment begging for capture with his Canon Mark IV. He shrugged and took another bite, indifferent to the golden light of the setting sun.
My favorite magic words these days are these: "you're phased."
Those of you in the service industry are undoubtedly familiar with this phrase. For servers, these words mean you are slowly being phased out of actively taking tables. Things have died down enough that you stop taking tables in your section and can begin your side work. It means you will soon be leaving work.
Before long, I was phased. Once I finished my side work, I felt especially downhearted. I left the photographer and the reverie of the reception and wandered outside. Where I work is a bustling area in a college town, a block full of bars and taverns, restaurants and studios. I walked across the street to another pub for a beer. Such a relief to sit down, the beer went down all too easily and I had another. I decided to leave before I was tempted to have another.
As I walked to my truck, eager, hopeful faces of college kids passed by in all directions. One young man with a vaguely familiar face stumbled up to me, clearly already quite drunk at only 11:30 p.m.
"Hey!" he said, slurring his speech. He touched my hand, his blue eyes sparkled with a youthful exuberance. He was tan, with sandy brown hair and an aqua green button-down shirt. "You were my server!"
I smiled. I didn't know whether to be flattered or startled by his simple recognition; I think I was a little of both.
"Yes," I replied, returning his touch by steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, I was. And it seems like you made the most of that open bar!"
"Can I give you a dollar?" he asked. Now I was taken aback.
"No, you can keep your dollar," I laughed.
"What if I give you twenty?" he asked. He reached for my hand again, this time cupping the crisp bill between his and my own palm.
"What?" I said, flabbergasted. "Why would you want to give me twenty?"
"Because you did a great job ... and I know how hard it is." He said, at 22 years old, he had recently started his own landscaping company and "rakes in two-thousand dollars a day." I don't know that I believe him, but he insisted I keep the 20-spot. He was so drunk, I doubted he would remember giving it to me, but I was quite thankful for his generosity. He hugged me before stumbling further down the pub-lined sidewalk. He smelled like Old Spice Swaggar and Bud Light.
Who wakes up and thinks to themselves, "I want to be a starving artist when I grow up?" I sure didn't. But somehow, I feel fortunate and grateful for the random blessings of strangers, and the lessons of this time period.
I am the sum of all of these parts: mother, sister, daughter, lover, dog driver, writer, photographer, and yes, server of Chicken Marsala. I am not too proud to accept the gifts of random strangers. And I am pulling myself up by my bootstraps, one boot lace at a time.
Thank you, handsome young man in the dapper aqua green shirt who handed me a 20-spot that night on the sidewalk. I hope karma returns your generosity one-hundredfold. Namaste.
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