Bad Waitresses

by Roxane Gay

Most of the time they aren’t willfully bad but there’s a sick three year-old taking a nap in the back on a pile of dirty aprons because the daycare doesn’t care for sick children and the manager insists they wear heels and short skirts and the combination makes it hard to concentrate because one step forward means their skirts hike up two inches in the back. There are the bills they can’t afford to pay, and some of them are in school to become nurses or members of the criminal justice system. They have bad backs and sore knees and tendonitis in both wrists. Shiftless husbands are back at home sitting on stained couches drinking cheap beer, their hands permanently tucked beneath the waistbands of sweatpants. When their shift is over they’ll do another or they’ll go to another job or they’ll wait at the bus stop for more than an hour because the car needs a new radiator and tips haven’t been good, not that they ever were. At home, after a good night of sleep and a brisk shower to wash away the thin film of grease that follows them everywhere, they have bright personalities, some of them. Others are just plain old bad to the bone, bitter, angry, all used up. They scowl wherever they are, even when they’re happy, the lines in their faces tucked between thin folds of skin, dark and deep. What really digs under the skin though is walking through the restaurant for eight hours, more, watching people eat. There’s nothing worse, they think. The sight of a mouth yawning open and snapping shut, the constant sight of partially masticated food sticking to tongues, that’s what really pushes them over the edge and makes it nearly impossible for them to force their mouths into a pretty smile before they ask you what you’d like.

posted by Roxane Gay