Business is slow, tips are bad. The bathrooms are especially nasty. The trays are especially heavy. The weather is like the inside of a mouth.
There is one man, a regular, who comes in everyday and says inappropriate things. One day, as I was presetting for his desert he asked me for a napkin of a different color. Okay, fine. Then he wants a smaller spoon. Alright, here you go. I put his trio of peach sorbet balls before him and asked "Okay Mr. __? Is there anything else I can do for you?" "Will you eat my sorbet balls and let me watch?" he replied. "No Mr. __, I am afraid you are going to have to eat your own balls." I said, and swept regally from the dining room to go scrub my skin with a metal scrubber and throw up.
The thing is, this restaurant is of a higher class than any other place I've worked. It doesn't matter, rich people are rude. Rich people feel that they have a right to be rude. Poor people look into my eyes and see a human being. Rich people look at my tits and see tits. Tits they will leave a 10% tip to.
At least I'm employed. That's what I said to myself today as a fellow server broke a glass and spattered me with cappuccino. At least we're employed, we whispered to each other as our hostess' voice rang out requesting us to clean the patio. As we watch our anorexic boss get skinnier. As we scrub gum off table legs. As we are spit on (yes, SPIT ON) by children.
Someday, I will spit back. Until then, I need my job. I'll just take a deep breath, hold my money, and try not to have to eat any one's balls.