"Hear Here is a print forum for community discussion based on a theme. Our first issue, Serve, talks about teaching, the Department of Defense, care and feeding of loved ones, and so much more. Available June 16."
Please, Come Again
I work in a portal, behind a microscope, before a set of Big Brother-esque cameras. Ok, really, I work in a diner, but I know things about you. Because I listen, and because I can’t help but see.
I know that you came in a few months ago, and that you were ecstatic. “I’m pregnant!” you whispered and beamed when I teased, feigning shock because you did not want your usual shots of espresso. I also know that it took you a long time to come back, and that when you did, you lacked the telling swell in your belly, and you ordered espresso again. I didn’t say anything about the coffee or how brave you were. I just treated the order with the gravity it deserved, made sure to brew it perfectly, and offered my condolences silently, with patience and attention and extra steps because you needed to be fussed over in those days.
I knew when your husband died, very simply because he was not with you, and I was informed of his passing upon inquiring as to his absence. Two weeks later when you and your son returned, I asked how you were doing, and your eyes began to well. You strained to smile and said, “Thank you,” but perhaps that was too intimate. You didn’t come to breakfast to be reminded of your loss.
I know when you are hung over or sick and how much you appreciate my suggestion that you drink peppermint tea and that I sometimes bring it with a pack of saltines while you wait for your order. I know that it makes you feel cared for if your voice is failing and I bring honey and cinnamon for your tea without asking if you’d like it, because we know that it will help. I know that it is a relief if I bring your child’s food out before yours is ready and that if I cut up the fruit, you think I am impossibly sweet.
I know your “type,” your dating habits, your impressive roster of attractive female guests. I have never seen you with the same woman twice, and I have never seen you begin a meal with any of them without first saying a prayer. I cannot help imagining this pleasant, good looking man, trolling churches in his Sunday best for women who thoroughly enjoy a wild Saturday night and Sunday brunch – unattached and gracious to god.
I know that you left your number on a comment card for my co-worker while your boyfriend was in the bathroom, and I know that you touched my knee on purpose, and I know that your marriage is a little lifeless these days, and that your Friday night was raucous and destructive and fun. I know that you forgive me for bringing your new partner your old partner’s usual drink because they look so remarkably alike.
I can tell by the way you talk to me, and the doting but aggressive tone you take with your wife and daughter that you, this bald, small-eyed man, are precisely the sort of asshole I first took you to be. And I enjoy waiting on you because you are so awful that I have excused myself from the usual courtesies I offer everyone else who comes in and treats me like I am less than human. You are how I get back at them.
You have been cruel. You have told me you were surprised that I am literate. You have grabbed me violently over cheese. Cheese! You have stolen from me, belittled me, and run me ragged. You have groped me, sworn at me, promised to have me fired, back-tracked when you asked to speak to the manager and I said, “You are.” I know that on some level you like treating me this way – like you’re better or smarter than me - and I let it slide because it is so, so pathetic. That is not to say I haven’t retaliated. I have embarrassed you over meager tips, dumped a pitcher of ice water in your lap, confronted you about the inexcusable racist content of text messages you shared with me. I have made sure you will not come back.
You have also been kind. You have made me laugh, and asked my opinion about books, current events, home renovations and your current date. You have defended me when others attacked. You have offered the same quiet sympathy I have tried to offer you when I am having a wretched day. You have given me Christmas and house-warming gifts, introduced me to your friends and family because in a strange way, I am a part of your life, too.
We have a complicated relationship, you and I, and for the most part we haven’t even exchanged names. In the end, my desires are simple - I hope we are kind to one another, and I hope you enjoy your breakfast.
Please, Come Again
I work in a portal, behind a microscope, before a set of Big Brother-esque cameras. Ok, really, I work in a diner, but I know things about you. Because I listen, and because I can’t help but see.
I know that you came in a few months ago, and that you were ecstatic. “I’m pregnant!” you whispered and beamed when I teased, feigning shock because you did not want your usual shots of espresso. I also know that it took you a long time to come back, and that when you did, you lacked the telling swell in your belly, and you ordered espresso again. I didn’t say anything about the coffee or how brave you were. I just treated the order with the gravity it deserved, made sure to brew it perfectly, and offered my condolences silently, with patience and attention and extra steps because you needed to be fussed over in those days.
I knew when your husband died, very simply because he was not with you, and I was informed of his passing upon inquiring as to his absence. Two weeks later when you and your son returned, I asked how you were doing, and your eyes began to well. You strained to smile and said, “Thank you,” but perhaps that was too intimate. You didn’t come to breakfast to be reminded of your loss.
I know when you are hung over or sick and how much you appreciate my suggestion that you drink peppermint tea and that I sometimes bring it with a pack of saltines while you wait for your order. I know that it makes you feel cared for if your voice is failing and I bring honey and cinnamon for your tea without asking if you’d like it, because we know that it will help. I know that it is a relief if I bring your child’s food out before yours is ready and that if I cut up the fruit, you think I am impossibly sweet.
I know your “type,” your dating habits, your impressive roster of attractive female guests. I have never seen you with the same woman twice, and I have never seen you begin a meal with any of them without first saying a prayer. I cannot help imagining this pleasant, good looking man, trolling churches in his Sunday best for women who thoroughly enjoy a wild Saturday night and Sunday brunch – unattached and gracious to god.
I know that you left your number on a comment card for my co-worker while your boyfriend was in the bathroom, and I know that you touched my knee on purpose, and I know that your marriage is a little lifeless these days, and that your Friday night was raucous and destructive and fun. I know that you forgive me for bringing your new partner your old partner’s usual drink because they look so remarkably alike.
I can tell by the way you talk to me, and the doting but aggressive tone you take with your wife and daughter that you, this bald, small-eyed man, are precisely the sort of asshole I first took you to be. And I enjoy waiting on you because you are so awful that I have excused myself from the usual courtesies I offer everyone else who comes in and treats me like I am less than human. You are how I get back at them.
You have been cruel. You have told me you were surprised that I am literate. You have grabbed me violently over cheese. Cheese! You have stolen from me, belittled me, and run me ragged. You have groped me, sworn at me, promised to have me fired, back-tracked when you asked to speak to the manager and I said, “You are.” I know that on some level you like treating me this way – like you’re better or smarter than me - and I let it slide because it is so, so pathetic. That is not to say I haven’t retaliated. I have embarrassed you over meager tips, dumped a pitcher of ice water in your lap, confronted you about the inexcusable racist content of text messages you shared with me. I have made sure you will not come back.
You have also been kind. You have made me laugh, and asked my opinion about books, current events, home renovations and your current date. You have defended me when others attacked. You have offered the same quiet sympathy I have tried to offer you when I am having a wretched day. You have given me Christmas and house-warming gifts, introduced me to your friends and family because in a strange way, I am a part of your life, too.
We have a complicated relationship, you and I, and for the most part we haven’t even exchanged names. In the end, my desires are simple - I hope we are kind to one another, and I hope you enjoy your breakfast.