The WaitressIt's not the one table that gets you. It is the procession of tables. Theynever stop coming. They want to sit down. They are impatient, they have tobe at the airport/movie/hospital in twenty-five minutes. What can theyorder that will take less than twenty-five minutes? They want drinks. Theyneed dinner rolls. Yeah, Could you warm those? To have described in mime,not only the difference in circumference between the cup and the bowl, butalso, the depth. The repetition of the same events throughout the night,performing the same routine with mildly varied results would cause somepeople to walk out or cry. It takes a certain type of person to wait onothers. It is a well kept secret but we are professionals in thisbusiness. I am a highly skilled social surgeon, attuned to your wants andneeds before you have even formed the wish.I am watching you eat, waiting for the approaching moment, waiting toapproach. Service is it's own reward. Whatever you ask I will attempt todo graciously because I care. On a human level and out of pride for my ownquality of work, whatever our differences, I want you to be happy.I feel like I am under glass and I am watching myself wait for somethingto change. I see a new table has been sat in my section. I've waited onthem before. An older woman and her old, old friend/mother/aunt. The old,old woman is so old and bent she looks like E.T. Her voice is cracked andhigh. She wears the same large, white, mushroom shaped knit hat everytimeI see her and it seems like her head must be exactly the same shapebeneath it. The older woman uses her friends name like a gentle curse,"Oh, Margaret." She is clumsy and resentful and makes the old, old womancry.I go over to their table to see if they need anything. "Oh, Margaret",looks up at me with tearful, pleading eyes, mutely decrepit. This feelslike a domestic problem. What can I do? "Say, Lady, stop this elder-abuseimmediately or you will get no cake and no coffee refill!" I sense apathetic awareness in the old, old woman akin to the manipulative wail ofa child demanding notice. I know that she will go to the bathroom and peeon the floor. I know that my friend Chino will have to clean it up. Ishake my head "no" while I ask, "Would you ladies care for anything elsethis evening?". This level of suggestion has a 90% success rate anddoesn't sacrifice politeness. They gather each other up and I bleach thewine stains from the counter. Throw away the bread. My hands are red andcracked from bleach. I can taste the cloying, menthol powder in my lungs.I am guilty of entrenching myself in my own system of beliefs and equallyself-centered values. The same precautionary hardness, recognizing onlyhard truths, "life is hard", and- having learned the ropes, the pitfalls,seen the casualties and feeling unfortunate myself- I withdraw from thoseless fortunate. The Neglected Poor, the Drunks and Skanks and Pimps andHo's, the Young Bucks who smoke on the train and speak in some barelyintelligble language- where do they fit in?I feel more in common with them because their struggle is obvious. Why doI want to see myself as engaged in a struggle? It's easier than admittingto the strength that I posess, I guess. I can stereo-type anything andanybody but feel less inclination to do so after the first rain of rudeobservation passes. I see the lack of humanity and tenacious will of lifebeneath it. My sympathy fails to crystalize into pity. I am sick of seeingpeople degrade themselves. I understand the frustration and the vacancy ofwill to resist. It's the wait. The complete lack of control over exteriorcircumstances which humiliate and confine your position. The trick is, toknow, these circumstances don't define you.How do we understand the world? Only through our experience. It leavestrails and we tend toward the same paths, each soul magnetic, it wantsonly, these tears become rivulets that cut their way through stones overtime. Of course. We just have to wait. All though, there's no time likethe present. Our culture creates a false expectation, a false sense oftime. No longer linearly marked by each cause and effect, water does notbecome wine these days nor do we churn milk for butter, and, when the soleof our shoe is worn out there is not a Shumacher in sight.We are no longer responsible for what happens to us ( a misconception ofit's own), we expect a life bouyed by the random rewards of beingSelf-Conscious. We forget that we are fools and shadows. Jugglers of timeand the boxed in calendar of days. What we are owed, what you told us, ifI just took the stairs, each step a rule that I met with respect,increasing self-respect, anyways, you said that these steps led somewhere.Why am I still here? When I think of the time that I have invested inperfection- and I have come so close. I can feel it. Or, what's that Ithought I heard you say? Over your shoulder, through the cracked carwindow, your voice distorted by wind and motion, you kept moving until thesound that I had coveted was lost to distance and encroaching traffic- Ithink you said, "Don't walk so fast." Stories which began as heroic tales of the individual will to triumphlose the hero and herald only individualism. There's a new, improved lackof romance in this windfall of information. I think we are regressing. Isaw an ad for a TV show where strangers, desperate to be married, havetheir spouses chosen by anonymous callers. "For better or for worse", theannouncer directs our attention with dark knowledge. I think that we areall tired of cynicism and, also, just tired. We book passage on a sinkingship and dream of flying.