Bring your own apron.” The first night was brutal. The customers were rough, construction workers who smelled like sweat, truck drivers passing through, groups of teenagers who ordered water and split one plate of fries. No one looked at her like a person. They looked at her like an inconvenience. Hey, waitress, where's my coffee?
This burger's cold. Take it back. What’s taking so long? We've been waiting 10 minutes. She smiled through it, apologized, brought more napkins, more ketchup, more coffee.
Her feet ached. Her back hurt. She got home each night and collapsed into bed, too exhausted to even shower. The tips were terrible. One night she made $$11 in five hours.
Another night, a table of six people left her 37 cents. Lou didn’t seem to notice or care. “You’re doing fine,” he said when she asked if there was anything she could do better. “Just keep the food moving.” After a month, she’d gotten used to it. The grease smell, the sticky floor, the way her body hurt every morning.
She’d gotten used to being invisible again. Except this time it felt different. At the Meridian, she’d been invisible because she was staff. Here, she was invisible because no one thought she mattered. One evening, a woman and her daughter came in.
The daughter was maybe 7 years old with pink barrettes in her hair. Amara took their order, smiling at the little girl. When she brought their food, the mother looked at her plate and frowned. “This isn’t what I ordered.” Amara checked her notepad. “You ordered the chicken sandwich with...” “I said no mayo.” There's mayo on this.
Amara looked at the sandwich. There was no mayo, just lettuce and tomato. I don’t see any mayo, ma'am. “Are you calling me a liar?” ““No.” I just...” “Get me your manager.” Lou came out, listened to the woman complain, then took the sandwich back to the kitchen. He brought out a new one, identical to the first.
Here you go, ma'am. Our apologies. After they left, Lou pulled Amara aside. “You need to learn when to just agree with the customer.” “But she was wrong.” Doesn’t matter. Customer's always right, even when they’re not.
Amara thought about that on the bus ride home. The customer's always right, even when they’re cruel, even when they’re lying, even when they treat you like dirt. She thought about the old man at the Meridian, about how he’d needed help and she’d given it, about how that single act of decency had cost her everything. Was that wrong? Should she have looked away?