If you’ve ever woken up in a cold
sweat realizing you forgot to bring mustard to table 3B, you may have waited
tables. If you’ve ever paid for your own birth control pills with a roll of nickels,
you may have waited tables. If you can read faces, memorize legal documents, calculate
complex equations in your head, juggle time management for a small empire, run
in heels and make the happiness of others your number one priority, you have
definitely waited tables.
My first job at the age of 16—beyond
my mother’s metaphorical apron strings—was as a Waffle House waitress. I had
been in my mother’s employ for some time but she’d gotten the idea that my
“attitude” might be improved by working for someone else. She was right. The
summer after my junior year I was hired by an actual man named Bubba and even though
he’d be busted and fired on drug related charges before the summer was out, I was
to learn a lot under his care. For example, almost immediately I learned that
it’s possible to smoke through a tracheotomy while frying eggs and flipping
bacon, that themed juke boxes are the second cousins of water torture and that you
can actually wear a bonnet and an apron at the same time without dying of
eternal shame.
As the months passed surrounded by that smoky orange,
yellow and brown décor, I learned some other stuff, too. I’m now of the
opinion that just as nursing students are required to attend AA, sociologists,
anthropologists and students of the mental health field should be required to
work in food service. Because nowhere is the truth of human nature more apparent
than between a fork and its mouth. Serving people from every walk of life—or at
least those willing to eat potatoes that have been smothered, covered and chunked—I
learned how to make small talk, big talk and when to hold my tongue. I learned
how to keep my head above water even when it felt like I was drowning in the
weeds, what it meant to serve and the importance of withholding
judgment—at least until after dessert. And, as an aspiring writer, I learned how
to pay attention to detail, that what I remembered and what I said mattered and
how to get by on what I could bring home each day
My next stints waiting tables were with
the aid of a liberal arts degree—on a dude ranch in Colorado, at a five star resort
in Arkansas, on a cruise ship in Alaska and then, lastly, at a small tavern within
walking distance of my own house back home. Each was a continued education in
communication skills, life lessons, gratitude and humility. And when I finally
met my future husband I was relieved to discover that he passed muster: he’d
waited tables at Pizza Hut on Jeff Davis Highway during Little League season. And I have no
greater respect than for anyone who could survive that.
It’s been a long time since I’ve
worn an apron, bonnet, tuxedo, cowgirl hat or life preserver but every time
someone brings me hot coffee or a plate full of dinner, I know I will never
forget what it felt like when the tables were turned.
