It's just another day.

I’m running late. Again. Marjory called early this morning. Could I come in for a few hours?

“You know I wouldn’t ask,” she said. “But I have a wedding to do, can you shampoo, please?” Marjory promised to pay me next week.

That made me a few minutes late for my shift at Johnny's Market. Carson raised his eyebrows when I ran in. He kept circling around my lane all day. When I turned my drawer in, he claimed I didn’t balance and made me wait while he counted again. He docked me the dollar seventy-six I was short. What could I say? I let Mrs. Phillips have the two potatoes.

Now I am late again. Yawning I circle the block again. The neighborhood is trying to work its way up, but it’s not quite there yet. For the third time I pass the boarded-up candy store where the dealers used to fight for territory. Now, there are teens sneaking beer and cigarettes. On the next block I try not to look at the empty lot where that body was found a few months ago. Bits of crime scene tape still flap from small stakes. There used to be a doctor’s office before it burned down.

Finally, I park my rusted-out car in front of the pharmacy and run the two blocks to the restaurant.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry!” Preempting Chef’s scolding I’m halfway out of my coat as I hurry through the kitchen.

“You’re out front. Jason called in. Go!”

"Who’s on dishes?” I ask while I tie a clean apron over my black pants.

“You!”

“Time and a half” I bargain before pushing through the swing door into the small dining room. All but one table are in use. Kevin nods with relief when he sees me and tips his head toward number 7, the dirty two-top near the kitchen door. I grab a bin, clear the table, and spread a clean tablecloth.

Taking a quick inventory, I see that number 4, the six-top has two couples, one of the men is talking loudly and incessantly. Numbers 5 and 6, are enjoying their coffee and desserts. Number 3 has a couple with a young boy. Near the window at number 2 is a pair of lovers gazing into each other’s eyes. The table near the door, number 1, has a single male.

Back in the kitchen I move what’s in the sink into the dishwasher and set pans to soak.

“Number three and four pans! Rush!” Chef shouts. The man cannot talk in a regular voice. There are two number four skillets in the sink, which I scrub, dry, and hang on the rack on my way back to the dining room.

“Go ahead and clear the first course at number 4. I need to serve the soup before I have to send it back.”

Three of the four people have finished their appetizers, I gather those empty plates. The talker has barely touched his.

“May I take your plate, sir.” I ask the large fellow the moment he stops his monologue to take a breath.

He pauses and sighs dramatically. Then slowly turns to look at me. Moving his eyes from my shoes up, he lingers at my breasts, which don’t deserve that much attention. Then he turns to his table mates.

“Are you that hungry, my child, that you are eyeing my leftovers.” His smirk is as cold as his voice. One of his table mates chuckles, the two ladies gaze at the tablecloth.

“It has been more than ten hours since I ate, yes sir. But I’ll wait for Chef to make it fresh for me. Thank you. May I clear your plate? Sir.”

Having lost interest in me, he pushes the half-finished dish to the side. I catch it before it falls off the table. As I walk away, he loudly comments about good help and such.

Near the window the lone man is carefully dissecting his dinner, a notebook at his elbow. I refill his water glass and ask if I can get him anything else. He shakes his head and returns to his deconstruction. I assume he’s a food critic.

At the other two-top the young couple still only has eyes for each other. Kevin bets that the fellow will pop the question before dessert.

As I am about to disappear into the kitchen, the front door opens, letting in cold air and Mr. Franklin. He walks to table 7, the one I just cleared. It’s been a little over three months since his wife passed. They always had dinner here on Tuesdays. Mr. Franklin now comes alone.

The six-top should have finished their soup. Chef wants to know if he can put the steaks on. Since I’m already in the doghouse at that table, I clear the three empty soup plates. Then I step back, but not out of that windbag’s sight. I am far enough away that it doesn’t look as if I’m eavesdropping, though everybody and the neighbors can hear him.

“…and, you know he’s such a small-minded person, I just had to set him straight. I told him he had too much dialogue in chapter three and not nearly enough in chapter five. He just wouldn’t see it my way, you know … Why are you standing over there. Would you like to come and sit down? You can hear better.”

“Are you finished with your soup, sir?”

“Soup? Take it, take it. You!” he waves at Kevin. “Another bottle. But something better than this.”

Back in the kitchen, I empty the dishwasher, reload it and scrub three skillets. I collect Mr. Franklin’s entrée plate and refill his coffee.

“How are you, dear?” he asks. “Shall I go beat him up for you?”

I laugh but decline his offer. Mr. Franklin is eighty, both in weight and years.

While Kevin opens a new bottle of wine, I set out four fresh wine glasses at number 4. One of the ladies smiles apologetically at me before studying the tablecloth again.

The food critic left a tip which I hand to Kevin. We’ll divide the spoils after closing. We know that the six-top will be the last to clear, the payment will go on someone’s credit card and the tip will be less than fifteen percent.

Kevin was right. The young guy pops the question, she says yes, all smiles and tears. The parents and their son congratulate them on their way out. I clear both tables and take away two of the plates at number 4. Back in the kitchen the dishwasher needs emptying and reloading.

“Sit!” Chef shouts at me and places a large bowl of ravioli on the kitchen table. I’m famished, haven’t eaten since that lone slice of bread this morning. I’m afraid to sit, though. Afraid I won’t get up again. As cashier at the market, I’m not allowed to sit, my part-time job shampooing at Marjory’s beauty shop doesn’t give much downtime either. If I sit down, I might fall face-first into the alfredo sauce. All the glasses still need to be washed and whatever is on the stove now. No, I better eat standing up.

As predicted, the last four linger. Finally, Chef goes out front, thanks them for coming, graciously accepts their praise and firmly ushers them out the door.

“Harley!” he shouts from the dining room.

“What?” I shout back, elbow deep in soap suds.

Grinning from ear to ear, Chef saunters into the kitchen waving some paper. “Mrs. Santa Claus brought you a gift.” He holds two fifties under my nose.

“Get out-a here. That’s my share for tonight?” I assume it’s half the tips.

"No. Kevin’s still counting that. One of the ladies who was with the asshole came back and shoved this in my hand. ’For the girl,’ she said. ‘With our apologies’ she said.” Chef pushes the money in the chest pocket of my shirt.

“Holy crap! I didn’t expect that.” I dry my hands and take a closer look. I never knew whose face was on a fifty. “I can pay the rent.” I mumble.

Chef nods and goes out front to pour a glass of wine for all of us to thank us for working on Christmas Eve. Kevin sets the room up for Thursday. Carl and Manny finish cleaning the stoves and push a few more pans and cookie sheets toward the sink before they clock out.

At one-thirty, I am the last one to leave. Grabbing the small bag of leftovers for Toots, my cat, I turn off the last of the kitchen lights and lock the back door behind me. It’s cold, my old winter coat is too thin for this weather. Two and a half blocks later I stare at the spot where I left my car. My very old, very dilapidated car. It’s gone. All that’s left is an empty spot and a no-parking sign.

Don't cry. Damn it! Don't cry. The tow place won't be open on Christmas day. The extra day will take all my tips and then some. Where am I going to get my rent money from? The buses don't run this late. I can't afford a taxi and good luck getting an Uber. The only thing moving tonight will be Santa's sleigh.

Don't you dare cry!