The Waitress

Her phone buzzed and vibrated across the nightstand. “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves pumped out its upbeat optimism as the song danced and bounced the phone to more intensity. Abby turned her head, keeping it pressed firmly into the pillow. In slow motion, she swung her arm in a perfect arc, landing her hand softly on the phone, deftly pressing the snooze button even as her eyes stayed tightly shut. “Who in blue blazes walks on sunshine at 4am?”

She brushed her auburn hair from her face as she turned her body to the nightstand. Her eyes adjusted to the phone lit room. Abby half staggered, half shuffled into the bathroom. Forty and celebrating her 23rd year waiting tables today. “What happened? Where did the years go? What about my plans?” She stood in front of the sink, avoiding the judging gaze of her own deep emerald eyes. The cool water she splashed in her face cleared the fog, but not the reality. “It’s time to make the donuts,” she mumbled to herself.

Three older ladies worked in the kitchen of Jenny’s Diner, everyone called them the Kitchen Ladies. None of them were named Jenny. Jenny was in her late seventies and ran the register six days a week. She also ran the kitchen staff and the wait staff and sometimes she even ran the customers. Miss Jenny was white haired, sweet, and hard all at the same time. Abby respected her, heck, she wanted to be just like her, but she also loathed her. Miss Jenny expected an awful lot of loyalty and work for a terribly modest salary. Sometimes she made Abby feel trapped. “Work hard and your tips have no limit, otherwise...” Miss Jenny would say.

And she did. Abby worked hard. And on days like today, when she volunteered to help open and get the kitchen started, she had to be there by 4:45. The first batch of biscuits was in the oven by 5am. It was Saturday. Beginning at about 5:30, the diner would serve constantly until about 10:45. “Who eats breakfast at 10:45?” She thought, “must be nice to sleep in.”

Jenny’s Diner was the kind of place that had regulars, lots of regulars. There was the booth crowd. They came in threes and fours, sat in cramped booths, drank coffee and ate platters of bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, hash browns, grits, and biscuits or toast. Sometimes they opted for plate sized pancakes or omelets. They talked politics, family and whispered local rumors. They argued over tips among themselves and usually tipped less than Abby hoped. It didn’t change her approach. Abby smiled at everyone, called most by name, knew their usual wants and catered to them.

There was Professor Stimson and his buddies. The Professor was an Ivy League man, with experiences she would never have, like travelling to Europe each year to watch soccer matches, (seriously? she thought). Stimson always took his grits and his coffee secretly loaded with sugar in the kitchen. She never betrayed his secret and was always sure to ask about his latest scholarly paper. He never tipped her more than 15%, ever.

Then there was the bar crowd. The diner had an L shaped dining counter where singles and doubles usually sat. She liked serving the bar. It was quick. The bar crowd was lively with lots of characters and cross talk. The older men often flirted a bit, made terrible jokes about everything, but almost always tipped at least $2 even if their bill was only $5. She called them by name, asked about their lives, knew their “usual” orders, and was always efficient.

By 8am her feet ached, her head pounded, her sinuses begged for air that didn’t smell of bacon and sausage and pancake syrup. She looked over at Mr. Personality. Every Saturday, for at least eight years, he landed himself in the last seat at the bar. He placed a newspaper and his hat on the bar beside him in order to deter anyone from sitting next to him. He was probably in his 60s. Grey, thinning hair and a furrowed brow, dark grey pants and a light blue shirt that was wrinkled and a bit too small to tuck in… he was a fellow who clearly preferred more butter than less and always ordered an extra biscuit to go. He seemed to prefer quiet anonymity. He didn’t engage in conversation much at all. Most everyone at the bar chose to sit there for the discussions, the local flavor, the back and forth that sometimes played like a perfectly timed sitcom. Not Mr. Personality. He sat quietly. He tried some new combination each week, but always with a glass of milk on the rocks. Abby was so curious that she tried milk over ice once at home. Mr. Personality was right, it was better ice cold.

He pulled out a small black leather journal each Saturday. The cover was rich and textured, the corners slightly worn and an indention pressed into the top of the front caused by the clip of the ink pen he kept with the journal each day. He wrote something every time he came in. Regulars sometimes whispered rumors about what he was doing. Some said he was a health inspector taking notes on the sometimes suspect food prep areas in the diner. Others said he was an investor planning to buy the place, still others said he was a food critic writing what surely was the longest review in diner history. Many called him “Mr. Black Book” instead of Mr. Personality.

Whoever he was, Abby was always polite and tried not to intrude or to ignore him. His check was always around $10, but he never tipped more than a dollar, and it was always in quarters. He usually occupied that seat for about two hours. Abby earned one quarter from him every thirty minutes. “What am I doing with my life?” she thought.

As the breakfast rush slowed, Abby was exhausted. Her back joined her feet in the symphony of pain. Misery loves company. The bar was almost empty. Mr. Personality was gathering his things. Abby was counting her tips for the day. She looked up and noticed him placing four quarters on the bar. Her four quarters. She screamed inside. With that, her pay for the day would amount to $47. She felt herself trembling. She turned her back to him and grabbed a tall, plastic glass and pressed it to the beverage machine to fill it with ice. She opened the refrigerator and took out a milk carton. Hands shaking, she poured the milk over the ice and replaced the carton. She leaned against the prep counter and gulped the ice cold milk down. He watched, smiling softly. “Milk on the rocks.”

“Excuse me,” he said. Mr. Personality placed the black journal down on the counter, his right hand flattened on top of it. He slid it forward toward her. “It’s time. This is for you.” He put his hat on and walked out the door with a broad smile on his face.

She stared at the black book. She was puzzled, curious, and still shaken from her self judgement. “$47 and a black book… okay then.” She touched the cover, gently running her finger down the side of the book. There was black tape on the cover that she had never noticed. She peeled it back. Embossed in gold lettering was “Abby Lane: You Matter.” The first thing in her mind was “What is THIS?” A tear rolled down her cheek and she trembled more as she opened the book.

The End January 5, 2013

Today I visited a local diner. I had decided it was a fitting last meal. I always loved a good Southern breakfast. The food was good. The atmosphere was quaint. I figured I would see Mama soon. Too much pain in this old world anyway. But, I think I may have witnessed something important, something that makes me want to come back just to see. A pretty young lady with reddish brown hair and green eyes was waiting tables and was treated badly by a customer and I think even by the owner, but she did not break. She held her ground. She was not abrasive nor dramatic. She, well, she sucked it up and moved forward. If she can, maybe I can. It’s at least worth another week on the planet just to see. I would have quit. Lord knows I’m good at quitting. I will return. One more week. What’s it matter anyway?

January 12, 2013

Well, I trudged through another week. Miss Green Eyes is back, waiting tables, smiling warmly. I saw a fellow get a little flirty with her. She played it off, delivered his stack of pancakes and sausage with a smile. The thing is, it didn’t even seem like a fake smile. I’ve seen waitresses put a little too much lipstick on and a little too much sweet in their voice. Everything’s “Sugar this and Honey that.” After a while a guy might want to hear his name spoken kindly. Now that’s funny, considering I don’t even like to share my name. The price of fame I reckon.

Abby Lane held the book close to her chest. She left the diner after signing out and headed home. Her heart pounded as she sat at the kitchen table in her apartment and opened the book. There was an entry for each week, and each one focused on something she had done or said. Hugging Maybelle Jenkins after her husband passed and Maybelle finally came to breakfast after weeks of being shut in. Crying when Maybelle left, but hiding it from almost everyone. Making a special pancake tower with a candle on top for little Elena Ruiz because she remembered it was the child’s seventh birthday. Elena’s grandmother was one of the three Kitchen Ladies who worked so hard. Paying a homeless man’s tab out of her pocket because he was alone and hungry and needed kindness.

In the final entry, Mr. Personality shared that he was a successful author who published under a pen name. He shared that he had been depressed eight years ago, his writing career stalled, his marriages failed, his health poor. Each week, though, she inspired him to return for another week of life. “Never, ever think that your life has been wasted, “ he wrote. “You saved me and you help so many others… a career isn’t about your station in life, your degrees, your fame. You live a life that brings happiness to others. Do not despair. You matter! I have only tipped you one dollar in quarters every Saturday for eight years. In the pocket of this journal is a key. Take it to the Citizens Bank. The box there is in your name. Everything in it is yours. Your new account there has $20,000 in it. Consider it a down payment. My new novel will be in your honor. Thank you.”

He signed the last page, “Mr. Black Book,” and added a notation that he had heard all the rumors.

Abby Lane smiled. She cried. She laughed. She cried some more. The Waitress became the author’s best and most successful work. It was a literary comeback unmatched in modern times. Movie rights followed. Abby Lane found wealth in her life, but she was rich all along, and those who knew her even more so.

You can still find Abby every Saturday at Jenny’s Diner. She sits at the bar in the last seat, with a newspaper beside her and a black book on the counter. Mr. Personality never returned. Jenny retired and Abby helped the three Kitchen Ladies buy the place. Abby goes through two or three books a year, and when she gives them away, they always begin with a name and “You Matter.”