Waiter Variation

 

A young man, about twenty-three years and four months, entered the back door of Mario’s Authentic Italian Restaurant. Once through the chunky, white back kitchen door, he removed his fur-lined hat and rubbed his bony temples. He was overtired, overworked, and over everything. He had just come from his second job, a dusty pet shop on Pilgrim Street. He was really dreading this shift because it generally featured an overabundance of wealthy snobs. Sure, these nights usually produced larger-than-usual tips, but he hated their elitist demeanor and ability to buy whatever they damn well wanted. The intense weather gave him hope that it would be a little less busy tonight. He tied the black cotton apron around his tired waist and committed the night’s specials to memory.