The Tip

The phone alarm startles me awake. I still haven't found time to change the alarm volume so it doesn't give me a heart attack. Every. Single. Morning.

I fumble to turn it off and slide out of bed, quietly, trying not to wake Sam this early. He's still getting over the flu and might be able to go back to work today. He needs all the rest he can get. I know he's not ready to go back; he's been so sick. I feel guilty for hoping he can go back so we can afford rent this month.

I wrap my blanket around me and creep to the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, I look like I haven't slept in a year. There's a sudden, heavy cramping low in my stomach followed by a rush of hot, wet, liquid in my underwear. I drop my head and moan, then search the bathroom for supplies.

My favorite light blue, silky underwear, are now stained dark red. Perfect.

I search the cabinet above the toilet and below the sink and find one tiny panty liner that is definitely not going to cut it for today, but it's all I've got.

I clean myself up and change into my least favorite pair of underwear; thick cotton, black and gray striped granny panties. Comfy, but not cute.

A wave of nausea hits me and I want to lie down in the cold floor. No time.

I throw on my green, Carl's Diner t-shirt, a pair of jeans that press uncomfortably into my low belly, my non-slip shoes, tie my apron on and throw my hair into a bun. No energy for hot tools this morning.

Once I'm fully dressed, I rewrap in my yellow blanket and lie on the couch for a few more minutes of rest before it's time to go. Benny hops on top of my feet and rests her long snout on my shins. "Hi, Bens," I whisper.

When I finally peel myself off the couch, the nausea is still going strong and I feel a light throb in the back of my head. I feed Benny and take a Midol from the pantry.

I walk into our bedroom and lightly touch Sam's forehead. He feels cool. No fever. Good. I rest my hand on his chest for a second, then sneak out.

It's early morning and dark on my way to the restaurant. I roll the windows down and the cool air gives me a little relief.

The Quik Stop is open, so I stop on the way and buy some ridiculously overpriced tampons to get me through the day.

When I get to the restaurant, I unlock the front door to let myself in. Mrs. Earnestine is already in the kitchen cooking and setting up for the day. She says, "Good morning, baby," when I walk in, and offers me a hot biscuit from the sheet pan she pulled from the oven seconds before. She grabs it from the hot pan without flinching and hands it to me on a plate. I take it and thank her.

The inside of the restaurant feels steamy and smells like bacon. I brew four pots of coffee and six gallons tea—sweet and unsweet—then refill all the salt and pepper shakers before it's time to open the restaurant at six.

The throb in my head has spread to my eyeballs; the midol isn't working. I down some coffee then click on the open sign. There is a line of people waiting at the door when I push it open. The bell on the door jingles.

Mr. Hunter takes his usual table in the back corner. I wave to him and yell to Earnestine, "Mr. Hunter is here!" She's already halfway finished cooking his breakfast. I serve him his usual coffee with two pink sugars and one cream. Earnestine spreads his steaming food across the counter before he's taken his first sip.

When he's done, he thanks me, downs his coffee and leaves his usual two dollar tip.

Three more tables walk in and I rush to take their drink and food orders. Then another table enters. Then two more couples. There must be something happening in town today; we're never busy this early. I’m scattered in multiple directions. Regina isn't scheduled to come in until ten.

The back of my head aches like someone is squeezing my brain. I try to ignore the pain and ever increasing nausea as I scramble to take orders and deliver food. My heart beat is in my throat; palms sweaty against the handles of mugs and pressed to the bottoms of hot plates.

I don't know how much time has passed, but the restaurant is almost full and I am deeply in over my head. My shoes squeak across the concrete floor as I speed to refill coffees, teas, sodas, and take orders. The chatter is overwhelming.

A lady with puffy, white hair begs me to turn off the AC because, "It feels like a meat locker in here." I apologize to her and wipe sweat from my forehead.

Another lady with massive hoop earrings complains that she wanted her eggs cooked over medium, but "the whites aren't even cooked." So I smile, apologize, and take her plate back to Earnestine for a re-do. Earnestine mouths off a few curse words while she struggles to cook food for the entire restaurant.

The door bell jangles and a table of eight old men walk through the door, and officially, the restaurant is full.

I push the last two open tables together and all eight men squeeze in.

I am in the weeds. I can't remember what I’m supposed to be doing. There are dirty tables everywhere and I have no time to clean them. Someone wanted a Sprite refill but I can't remember which table. I look to table twelve and try to remember if I took their order. I don’t know.

I put on two more pots of coffee and lean against the wall for a second to regroup. Earnestine sets ten thousand plates on the counter. Another wave of nausea hits me hard and I feel a little dizzy.

I take some breaths, regroup and carry the heavy plates to table sixteen.

"Who had the ham and cheese omelet?" I ask.

No one answers me, they stare.

"Ham and cheese omelet?" Louder this time.

My wrist cramps under the weight of the heavy plate. Then a small lady at the end chuckles, "Oh, is that mine?" She laughs and takes the plate from my hand without looking at me. I somehow deliver the rest of the plates without my head exploding.

Then I realize, I never took a drink order for the eight old men.

I apologize for the wait and stand at the end of their table.

"What can I get you guys to drink?" I pull out my order pad, ready to write it all down. I squeeze the bridge of my nose.

All the men look like different versions of the same person; all dressed is checkered button down shirts, belts, and dress pants.

The balding man at the head of the table wears a gold cross around his neck. "Smile, girl. It's Sunday,” he laughs.

I grit my teeth, swallow, and repeat the question. "What can I get you guys to drink?" I keep a straight face.

"She' doesn't like my jokes," Cross necklace chuckles to the man with a big belly sitting next to him. They both scoff.

I find it impossible to smile at someone who has just instructed me to smile. And I find it impossible to smile as I try my best not to throw up my guts while they, very slowly, order their coffees with water, chatting amongst themselves, not looking at me.

I take two steps toward the coffee pot, then I am running full speed for the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I splatter the seat with bubbly orange vomit.

Once the heaving has stopped, I rinse out my mouth and splash water in my face. Sweet relief washes over me for a minute. My reflection is pale.

Coffee. Eight coffees. With water.

I shuffle toward the coffee pots. Halfway there, cross necklace claps his hands in the air, “We sure could use some coffee over here.”

“It’s coming!” I smile at him. I pour the coffees and arrange them in a neat circle on the flat, brown serving tray. I place a spoon in each mug, then add a bowl full of creamer cups in the middle.

I balance the tray on my right hand. The restaurant is clearing out. Woody, the dishwasher clocks in and clears and dishes from dirty tables.

“Thanks so much, Woody. It’s been a killer this morning.” I say as I pass by.

He nods to me, “I got you.”

I serve the coffees. Cross necklace has his arms folded over his chest. “We’re ready to order. And we’ll take those waters when you come back.”

He starts ordering before I pull out my pad and pen.

No one else at the table is in a hurry to order. I fight for their attention as they talk amongst themselves.

“Excuse me, sir. What can I get you?”

A laugh escapes my throat when I get to the sixth man and he’s not ready to order.

“Oh, give me just a second, will ya?”

I stand at the end of the table. Invisible. Waiting for the man’s breakfast order. My whole body aches. I look at the clock. One more hour. I yearn for my warm, yellow blanket.

A lifetime passes, and I get all their orders turned in. As I walk away from the table, I hear one man say, “Customer service just ain’t what it used to be.”

It was meant for me to hear but I pretend I didn’t. My energy is spent.

My stomach gurgles. I lean against the wall and eat the cold biscuit Earnestine gave me hours ago and wait for the men’s food.

I sit at the empty table, hidden in the back, and rest my head in my hands. The throbbing continues. I’m freezing, now.

Maybe a minute passes, when I hear big footsteps crossing the floor behind me. When I look around the corner, Cross Necklace is standing at the drink station pouring coffee into his mug.

“I’ll get that,” I hurry to grab the coffee pot.

“Don’t even worry about it,” he scoffs, doesn’t look at me, then ambles back to his table.

When their food is ready, I rush to deliver their plates.

“Does everything look okay?” I ask the table.

No one looks at me. They go on talking amongst themselves. I trudge back to my table in the corner.

Regina clocks in and tells me to go home. “You look awful, girl.” She pats my head.

“I know,” I mumble. "Just waiting on my last table to leave."

I go back to my hiding table. Goosebumps cover my arms. I press my palms into my eyes sockets.

I refill their coffee at least five times, but they don’t see me. I hear them talking politics, complaining about their wives, giving reports of their latest doctor’s visits. Im refilling coffees when a white-haired man says, “those idiots in the White House just want to give it all away for free,” and bangs his fist on the table. I jump mid-pour and spill coffee on the table. The old man glares at me like I’ve slapped him in the face and says, “You going to clean that up?”

My mouth drops open a little and my face burns. A pile of unused napkins sits directly in front of the tiny spill. My hands are full with a coffee pot and water pitcher.

I walk away before the rage escapes.

That table is on their own.

After what feels like an hour, the men finally get up to leave. They pay Regina at the cash register and give her a long list of complaints about the service they received today.

The bacon was cold. Eggs, too runny. Service, just terrible. “She’s a flighty one,” says Cross Necklace, and laughs to his friends.

My ears are hot. Brain on fire. My hands shake a little. I bury my head in my arms and wait for them to leave.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and stand up, face to face with cross necklace.

He presses his hand into the top off my shoulder and stares at me, “Can I ask you something?”

I don’t say anything. Blink.

“Can I pray for you? You seem like you’re having a terrible day. Let me pray for you.”

I step back and throw his hand from my shoulder. “No, thank you.”

He waves a twenty dollar bill in my face, like I'm a child. “This is for you. Take it. Your tip. And I’m going to pray for you anyway.”

I step back again. Tears pool in my eyes. I'm not sure why.

“Absolutely not. No. I do not want your money.” I turn away from him and tear off my apron.

The door bell jingles as the man exits.

My hands tremble as I count out my tips and cash out for the day. I leave my apron lying on the counter. I don’t need it anymore.

A twenty dollar bill, crumpled into a ball, lies in front of the door. I kick it out of the way on my way out and drive home.

Sam is at work when I crash into our bed and cuddle up with Benny. The thermometer reads 102.8. I sleep the rest of the day away.

Tomorrow, I’ll find a new job.