Rude Service

“It must be hard for you, working a job like this with your disability,” someone says to me, not for the first time. 

“It’s not so bad,” I say through a forced smile as I pick up their used dishes. Be polite, I tell myself. You have to be polite.

“Well, with all the noise, I don’t know how I would manage,” the woman says, she’s no longer looking at me, but instead at her friend as she fans her pale skin from the hot summer air. 

“I think the hardest part would be the family life,” her friend says back, before taking a long sip of water, holding the plastic straw between multi-colored claws. 

“I’ll be back with your food momentarily,” I say as I walk off, tray in hand. 

But the two middle-aged women don’t hear me, focusing instead on their conversation about how awful my life must be. But they’re wrong. I know they’re wrong. Despite my disability, I have never thought my life was awful. In fact, I think it opens up a whole new world that they could never experience. But of course, there’s simply no sense in explaining the unexplainable to a person who's not going to try and understand. So I ignore their words, however hurtful, as I always have. 

“Daphne, table three says they’re ready for their bill,” my friend Wilbur says. 

I like Wilbur; he asks questions like the others, of course. But he asks them with a genuine curiosity to know what living in my shoes is like. Not with passing indifference, looking at me as though I am a spectacle to be gawked at. 

“I’m on it,” I say, grabbing a hot black tray full of food and a little black book with the bill. 

Being in front of the customers is annoying, and I would compare it to being under a microscope. Everyone loves to watch the servers as they dash around the dimly lit restaurant, judging them on their form and performance. But being in the kitchen is nearly unbearable, with the suffocating heat and the constant crashing of pots as people yell out orders. The dining room is annoying, but the kitchen is hell. 

I do a quick stop at table three and drop off their bill. They hardly notice me as I set it down, so I head to table four with the middle-aged women. As I set the tray down on a stand, the comments pick up exactly where they left off. 

“So, did it happen in an accident? Or were you born with it?” The clawed friend asks as she not-so-sneakily tries to pull up her low cleavage shirt. 

“I was born with it,” I say, placing a plate of chicken parmesan in front of her. “Do you want cheese on that?” 

The woman waves me away, and I place a plate of lasagna in front of the other woman, who is wearing one of the ugliest blond up-dos I’ve ever seen. Complete with dark, ugly shit-colored streaks. 

“I couldn't imagine having a child with your condition; it must have been so hard on your mother,” She says, her friend giving a nod of sympathy. 

“Would you like cheese on that?” I say, ignoring her remark. 

With another wave of her hand, I take my leave. I stop by table three again, grab the bill, and head into the hot kitchen, which is more than welcoming now, just to get away from the eyes of table four. 

Ringing up the balance, I feel a soft tap on my shoulder from Jason, my manager.

“Leave your book, and go on break,” He says. 

“What?”

“I heard those women over there and the way they were talking to you. Leave your service book and go take a break. I’ll handle your tables for a while.”

“Are you sure? It’s the middle of rush hour, and I’m more than capable.”

“I’m not questioning your capability. We simply don't tolerate that kind of behavior towards our workers, and I want you out of the line of fire for a while. Be back in ten, and I’ll speak with table four.” He says as he takes the service book from my hand. 

I give him a nod and head to the break room. It’s empty, which was no surprise considering the time of day. I sit on the gray, cheaply made couch. While it may be uncomfortable to most, it serves as a welcome embrace to those who stand all day long. The fan overhead buzzes with the flow of electricity, and I grimace as the flickering lights add to the noise with their ever-annoying ringing sound. 

I suppose I can let loose for a little while. After all, I’m being given ten minutes. I might as well enjoy them. I reach behind my ears and remove my cochlear implants.