Just Another Shift

I should have known better than to pick up an extra shift this week. Life has been hard, and money is tight, but I would still much rather be out on the boat with my friends.

This is the third…

Fourth…

Fifth…

It’s now the fifth weekend in a row that I have been stuck working, forced to watch summer drift past me in Snapchat stories, as if life is happening elsewhere. I told myself I was being responsible by picking up more shifts, but deep down, I resented every moment I spent here, missing out while others enjoyed their freedom. I keep telling myself that one day I’ll figure out how to set boundaries, take only what Scott assigns, and allow myself a life outside that suffocating, poorly ventilated grease trap. But for now, I’m stuck in this cycle, torn between financial necessity and the ache of watching my own life pass me by.

“Sam, I sat you again. Table 5.”

Of course you did, Trinity, because God forbid you follow the server rotation list. I swear, I’m the one functioning person in this establishment some days: smile, Sam, server face on.

“Mrs. and Mr. McAllister, welcome back. Flat tire on tap and a glass of white wine?”

“Samantha, dear. You know us best.”

“I’ll be right back with those. While I’m at it, make sure you check out the new specials. Matt is a culinary genius with these new dishes he whipped up. I highly recommend the Chicken Marsala served on a bed of savory garlic mashed potatoes.”

Tim and Susan McAllister, I see them every Thursday at 4:40 pm. Their order is always the same. He gets a beer and a burger. She gets white wine and a steak salad. They always seem so content with their lives together.

****

Tom’s cheeks flushed as he pulled the papers from his coat and set them on the table, his head bowed in shame.

“You couldn’t even wait until we got our drinks?”

“Please… it doesn’t have to be difficult.”

“Who is she?”

Hearing the unmistakable squeak of Samantha’s work shoes, Tom swiftly hid the papers from sight. With a soft smile, she placed their drinks on the table.

****

I put on my friendliest customer-service voice and faked a smile. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu?” I already knew the answer would be the same as last week.

“Just the burger for me, and Susan will take her normal salad with the dressing on the side.”

“Actually, dear, I think my husband was right earlier. It’s time for a change. I’ll take the most expensive steak you’ve got.”

I noted down Susan’s bold new order and stopped by table 15 to check on James Jenkins. He’s been in that same booth every Friday at 5:00 pm since before I started. Three lemons, eleven sugar packets, and a single cup of black coffee that sits there, getting cold. I’ve learned the hard way that if even one packet is missing, I’ll be starting the entire process over again with a smile.

“Good evening, James. I’ll be right back with your drinks. Would you like to hear the specials?”

****

“No…No thank you. Just my typical order, please and thank you.”

James had already sanitized the table with the wipe he had brought from home. He set out his own silverware and packets of blended pepper with salt.

Samantha normally took exactly 3 minutes and 51 seconds to retrieve his order, but today she was already pushing 4 minutes and 12 seconds. James shuffled in his seat, closed his eyes, and started counting in his head.

4 minutes and 20 seconds…

4 minutes 21 seconds…

4 minutes 22…

Sam’s shoes squeaked, a familiar sound that brought him comfort. The quiet way Samantha carried herself made James feel completely at ease.

****

I set down the coffee, first handle facing to the left of James, making sure not to touch the table. Then I set his plate of lemons directly in the center. Then I set his ice water to his right, with the packets of sugar lined up nicely at least 1 inch from the water to prevent condensation from dripping.

“I’m so sorry I was running behind, but my attention is all yours.”

‘Too many requests, and he tips in exact change,’ Trinity once griped, explaining why the other servers avoided having James in their section. James rarely spoke except to order, but the way he folded his napkin precisely or aligned his silverware said plenty about who he was. His presence was steady, even when I could see him fidgeting as he waited for his coffee. Unlike other customers who snapped their fingers or sighed loudly, James would simply trace patterns on the table with his finger, patient even when his anxiety showed. After I took his order, I hurried back to the kitchen, quietly hoping there would be extra fries.

Locker 13 in the breakroom was notorious for not locking; the dented metal door rattled against its loose hinges whenever anyone passed by. The air inside the cramped space was thick with the lingering aroma of stale grease and artificial lemon cleaner, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator nearby. I made a deal with Denny, the line cook, when I first started: I bring him a Red Bull each shift, and he puts plates of hot fries in the locker so I can snack between tables. Each time I opened the locker, the steam and salty scent of the fries greeted me, and I shoved as many in my mouth as I could, the heat from the oil burning my tongue and coating my fingers in a slick layer of salt. My uniform stuck uncomfortably to my back, absorbing the breakroom’s oppressive humidity, as I pulled my phone from my purse to see 9 new Snapchat messages—all from the girls, rubbing in every ounce of their fun.

“Runners needed. Sam, table 5 is ready.”

I swear I can never catch a break around here.

Smile, Sam. You’ve got tips to earn.

With the tray of food resting precariously on my shoulders, I made my way back to the McAllister table. My shoes were finally silent, and the resulting quiet, along with my heavier steps, amplified the table’s unease. The air hummed with nervous energy, prickling my skin. Susan’s eyes remain fixed on the papers in front of her, her grip tightening so fiercely that her knuckles whiten. Tom avoids eye contact, his hands fidgeting beside an empty beer glass while Susan’s untouched wine reflects the strained atmosphere between them. The sharp scent of stale hops and the acrid tang of tension seemed to settle over us, making me instinctively hold my breath.

A rogue fork plummeted onto the tile floor and announced my presence for me. Susan nearly jumped out of her skin, dropping the legal documents at my feet. We reached the floor at the same moment. I didn’t know how I was supposed to react, so I grasped her hand for a quick moment with a small squeeze before returning to my feet.

“My apologies, Ms. McAllister. I’ll be back with a clean fork.”

I tried running to the freezer so I could scream in peace, but the timid little hostess got in my way.

“Sam, please don’t be mad, but I just sat you again, table 23.”

Of fucking course you did, Trinity.

“Got it, table 5 needs a new fork when you get a minute.”

Smile, Sam, you need the money.

An overenthusiastic couple sat on the same side of the booth, hands intertwined.

“Welcome in. My name is Samantha. Can I start you off with some drinks?”

“A bottle of your best champagne; we’re celebrating!” The bubbly woman let out a crackle and put her hands out in protest.

“We are not celebrating anything just yet. Don’t you dare jinx it! Water for now, please, for both of us.”

I gave my typical special speech and cleared a nearby table on my way back to the kitchen.

****

“Samantha, a moment, please.”

Fearful of the kitchen’s unpredictable nature, James had never ordered food. Today was different. He found himself drawn in by Sam’s description of the Masala, imagining the unfamiliar, tangy flavors.

“One chicken masala for here, please. Maybe to go, does it travel well? Actually, maybe I'd better not—”

“James, you’re going to love it, trust me. I take one home every night.”

“I'll eat it now, thank you, Samantha.”

Sam walked off while James adjusted his tie, proud of himself for having navigated the ordering.

****

I put in James’ order with a full-hearted smile; I had been trying to get him to try the food for weeks. I knew it took a lot for him to trust me, and his willingness to step outside his comfort zone felt like an achievement for both of us. Building this small connection, based on patience and consistency, reminded me why forging genuine relationships at work matters to me, even in a job that can often seem thankless. Savoring my sense of accomplishment, I devoured more fries before heading back onto the floor. Before both my feet had made it out of the door, Steve blocked my path.

“Do you plan on running food or pre-bussing your tables tonight? What about silverware and side-work? Have you even started either?”

“Pull the stick out, Steve; we both know you don’t want to push me to quit.”

I grabbed the chocolate cake from the to-go window and made my way back to the dining room. I stopped by table 5 and gently set it in front of Susan.

“This is on me; you can do better anyway.”

I cleared the table; Susan’s steak sat completely untouched.

****

“Check your phone. Do you have any missed calls?”

“The volume is on high; we would have heard it! The social worker said 6:30.”

The newlyweds sat side by side, hands tightly intertwined and legs bouncing beneath the table, their eyes darting between each other and the silent phone resting on the placemat. Neither glanced at the glossy menus in front of them, appetites lost to the anxious energy that seemed to pulse in the small space between them as they awaited news that would shape their future.

The familiar sound of a default phone ring came from the woman’s purse, and she froze in place. Her husband practically jumped over the table to answer it himself. With shaking hands, he answered the phone. The woman held her breath, waiting for him to speak.

“Mhmm…Yes…Yes…No?.. Uhh, I think so…. Great, thank you…”

“Am I going to be a mom?”

“You’re going to be a mom. She picked us.”

“She picked us!”

The man picked his wife up in a hug as they celebrated their biggest dream come true.

****

I grabbed the best champagne we had behind the bar and two glasses for the celebrating couple. Their infectious happiness flooded the room.

“I see the celebration has finally started! This one is on the house, our way of saying congratulations.”

After popping open the soon-to-be parents’ bottle and taking a selfie with the sentimental woman who swore she never wanted to forget me, I made my way over to check on James.

“How’s the chicken, James?”

He looked up, and for the first time since I had first met him months ago, he had the biggest smile from ear to ear.

“You were correct. This is amazing. Thank you, Samantha.”

“I’m so proud of you for going out of your comfort zone, James. I’ll be back with another order to go. Just in case your mom wants to try it.”

James extended his hand for me to shake, and together we shared a friendly moment of understanding. I collected his dishes and headed to the back of the house.

“Samantha, do you want to explain to me why you have over $100 in comps tonight?”

“Oh Steven, I think the words you’re trying to find are thank you, Sam, for coming in yet again on your day off.”

“Thank you, Sam…. One more thing before I cut you from the floor…. think you can pick up a shift again tomorrow?”

I looked out into the dining area for the first time in a while. James was video calling his mom to celebrate his personal victory. The couple giggled and compared baby names.

“I’ve got nothing better to do.”