Light Pollution by: Jonathan Sencion, Digital Photo, 2018
A Hard Day’s Night
It’s been a long day; the sun went down hours ago and somehow, I’m still standing in the same place I was this morning. Most days at work are long, and when it’s slow in a restaurant, like it has been the past few weeks, servers, like me, find themselves with nothing to do. The one table I have sits five feet away from me. They paid out almost an hour ago, and are just sitting, chatting to one another. Normally I would be annoyed by this, but seeing as no one is here to take their seat, there’s no harm in letting them stay a while longer. Most of my co-workers have been sent home and Troy, the jolly general manager, has just told me that I must close the restaurant tonight. I am upset by the fact that it’s only nine o’clock and we don’t close for another two hours. My mind starts to drift as I think of what my friends must be doing right now.
Dee got off at three pm, so she’s had her freedom from work for some time now. She’s probably headed over to Morgan’s with the whole gang. Morgan lives in what can best be described as a glorified garden shed. While the house itself lacks space and a woman’s touch, the massive cedar deck he built around it is beautiful, and the perfect place for friends to gather. I imagine they are all seated under the canopy, fairy lights plugged in, mimicking the stars above, as they inhale some inspiration. Dave is playing his guitar, hitting a wrong chord every now and again, disrupting the otherwise beautiful melody. He’s playing some acoustic rendition of a Beatles song. The only thing missing, I feel, is me. I hate being the last one at work on a Friday. There’s no way to convince myself I’m not missing out. I bet the dogs are running through the wooded yard, waiting on dinner. Everyone’s dog is a menace, but my dog, Kid, he takes the cake. At only a year old he still has the energy of a puppy. I can see him ignoring Dee as she begs him to stay in sight. He looks and continues with his shenanigans, sprinting like a madman through the yard. Lost in my own world, it’s almost like I’m there beside them. The clear night sky opens up and rain begins to pour. Shaded by the canopy and mildly inebriated, it’s unlikely anyone would move. “Ma’am, excuse me, miss!” I’ve been summoned back to reality. “Could you get me a to-go tea before I leave?” the young woman at my table asks. “Why of course,” I say, a subtle degree of resentment in my voice. I bring her the tea, she thanks me, and I give her a pleasant nod. The night is slow but the tables are never-ending. I usually work the morning shift on Fridays, filled with elderly brunches and business outings, but the night is different. Most of my tables tonight have been young groups and couples, some of whom are fun to interact with.
I am sat once more, this time an older man, dining alone. He has a sad look in his eyes and his brow is wrinkled, I presume from stress. I greet him the same way I do everyone, with a large smile and my name. Before I can finish, he beckons for water. I hate when people do that. I can tell this will not be fun. I ask him if he would like any appetizers. He grunts and shakes his head. As I leave, I notice he is beginning a timer on his phone. ‘Really?’ I think to myself. The restaurant is empty and he’s timing his beverage order. I walk to the kitchen, calm and collected, but as I get out of sight, I race to grab his drink. Glass, water, lemon, straw, done. When I get to the table I glance at the clock. 56 seconds, not bad, it would have been better, but the water dispenser is the slowest of all. He stops the timer and I take his order. He begins his timer again as if I am in charge of ticket times. I let Franklin, our kitchen manager, know that we are on a time limit. We laugh for a while and talk as I wait for the food. After five minutes, I check his water for refills and check the time. 11 o’clock. I know I won’t have any more tables for the night, a joyous fact. I hear a chime from the kitchen and enter to see the man’s lemon pepper chicken in the window. I grab it and prep it, sprinkling parsley and garnishing with a lemon wedge. I round the corner and place the plate in front of the man. When he has finished his meal, I thank him and wish him a good night. All that’s left to do is clean my section. I do so as fast as I can, anxious to leave.
I swipe my card to clock out for the day, hop in the car, and head to Morgan’s. When I get to the isolated driveway, I step out of my car to open the gate. I realize droplets of rain are starting to fall. I get back into my car and follow the meandering path to the house. As I approach the deck, I see the familiar faces I know and love, gathered under the canopy exactly how I imagined. I notice a small glowing ember in Morgan’s fingertips. I laugh to myself. As I step out of my car, I hear ‘Dear Prudence’ on the guitar with a few slip-ups in notes and a quiet hum of off-key voices. I join my friends on the deck and look around. Kid and the other dogs run in the yard and the joy on my friends’ faces lights up the night.