Treasured Yet Discarded

“Order up!”

The dinging of a service bell pulls me from my reverie, and back to reality. I walk over to the order window, grab the two plates on the ledge and carry them over to one of the booths by the window.

“One, Richie’s Cheeseburger and one, Howard’s Hot Dog,” I announce as I place the plates down in front of the customers. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Actually, yeah. Could I get a strawberry milkshake and a cola spider for my son?” the young father requests, causing the young boy’s face to light up with excitement.

“Coming right up,” I say brightly, walking off to work on their drink order.

“Lani, can you help me? I can’t for the life of me read my own friggin handwriting,” groans Áine in frustration, her warm Irish accent making her groaning sound more adorable than it should.

“And you think the NON-native English speaker is going to have a better time?” I tease.

“Pleeease,” she begs, “You’re just better at this stuff,” she says, holding up her order pad, a sad exaggerated pout plastered on her freckled face.

I look closely, trying to decipher the scribble that bears a striking resemblance to a child’s doodle more than anything I’ve ever seen in any of the languages I speak.

“I’m pretty sure you wrote down an iced mocha and an iced latte, but I didn’t take the order so I can’t be sure. Why don’t you just go to your table and ask?” I suggest, continuing to work on my drink order.

“Because…” she hesitates, nervously playing with a loose strand of her long, curly, red locks that are otherwise secured in a bun on her head.

“Because…why?”

“Because I might have already gotten their first order mixed up and I really don’t want to embarrass myself again,” she confesses.

I sigh. “Áine, I can’t handle your tables and mine. You need to toughen up and just go and confirm the order. If you don’t, you risk screwing up another order and then chances are it’s going to have to get comped, and Gary is already in a foul mood today.”

She takes in a deep breath and squares her shoulders, “You’re right. I just need to suck it up, confirm the order and then there’s no issue. I can do this.”

“You can do this,” I encourage her.

“I can do this,” she chants like a mantra as she walks towards her table.

I shake my head. Poor thing. Áine is a lovely person, but her elevator just doesn’t go all the way to the top. It’s like the building has ten floors, she stops at five and then she has to take the stairs the rest of the way. She’ll get there eventually, but it’s going to take her some time. I still adore her though.

Áine Hayes and I are both waitresses at the Happy Days Diner in West Hollywood. It’s this amazing 1950s-themed diner that takes more than a few creative ideas from the famous TV show Happy Days. The owner, Gary Belafonte – no relation to the singer – is a HUGE Happy Days fan and even put a lot of his collected memorabilia into the décor. It’s one of the most popular spots in We-Ho and is always busy. I’ve been working here for five years, ever since I moved to the United States from my home in the Dominican Republic.

I came into this diner by chance one day to rest my feet and get something to eat. Gary saw I was struggling and was very kind to me. I explained I was trying to find work and was still adapting to a new country, so he offered me a job and I’ve been here ever since. I know it's not common for people to say this about their place of employment, but I love it here! The customers are usually really nice and it’s a super fun atmosphere. I even love the uniform. A true 50s-style baby pink waitress uniform with a white collar, white trim around puffy sleeves, and white tennis shoes. I suppose we could wear any shoes we like, but these just make the outfit look so cute and vintage.

When I started working here, I tried watching that show 2 Broke Girls, for tips on how to be a waitress. Bad idea. I don’t know any woman, rich or poor, who is working eight to twelve-hour shifts at a diner in high heels. I know it’s a sitcom but come on. What woman hates themself enough to put their feet through that kind of torture?

I finish making the drinks and take them over to the table with a pleasant smile. As I walk back to the counter, I see a mother trying to tend to her toddler when the toddler tosses its teething rattle on the floor. I quickly walk over and pick it up.

“Thank you,” says the mother appreciatively.

“If you like I can go and wash this out back for you; try and get the floor germs off,” I kindly offer.

“Would you? That would be so wonderful, thank you” she says, looking touched and surprised.

“It’s not a problem; will only take me a moment. I’ll be right back,” I smile at her.

I quickly go into the kitchen, wash the teething rattle under the hot water with some soap, make sure it’s perfectly clean and dry, and then return it. The toddler looks happy to have their rattle back and the mother looks relieved and grateful, and I feel good for doing a good deed. Everyone wins.

I see a few empty tables, so I go to pick up their bill. I try not to look as disheartened as I feel when I open the receipt book and find my table generously graced me with a one dollar tip. I take in a deep breath and walk over to the till to settle the bill and my “tip”. One of the downsides of this job is that it relies so heavily on tips and customers just aren’t interested in tipping. I can’t really blame them, especially in this economy. Everyone is struggling and can’t afford to part with a dime, but such a small tip still stings.

I go back to the table, load the plates and glasses in my arms and make my way out to the kitchen, using my butt to push open the swinging door. I carry the dishes over to the sink and stack them, ready to be cleaned. I scrub my hands down my apron as I turn to leave the kitchen, but I almost jump out of my skin when I find myself face to face with the diner’s line cook.