Shadow Play

1 “Rebecca, order's up!” Joe hollered from the kitchen behind me. I flashed my gritted teeth in a look that was probably more creepy carnie than patient waitress, as my customer changed his mind for the third time. I wanted to scream at him that it was lunch, not solving the national debt. I had started my day by opening a letter from my landlord announcing a rent increase and things had only gotten worse from there. I dropped my phone on the way to work and shattered the screen, and as if that hadn’t been enough, I was currently in the middle of waiting tables during a particularly busy lunch rush. “What did you say the special was?” the overweight man with grease stains on his shirt asked casually, oblivious to my rising frustration. “Meatloaf—how about I check back with you in just a minute?” I started to step toward the next table where a customer sat with an empty glass and had been eyeing me for nearly ten minutes. “No, no, I've got it. How about the Ruben, I'll have that with some fries. Do you guys have Coke, cause I hate that RC Cola, just not the same.” “Pepsi, actually.” “Ugh, why's it so hard to get a Coke in this damn city? Just bring me a water.” I gave him a grimace and hurried to the thirsty man at table five, got the ticket for table two, and ran back to the kitchen to get the order Joe had signaled was ready. “The f**k, Rebecca, food's getting cold,” Joe grumbled under his breath. He was a third-generation Italian whose father had started the small diner twenty years earlier. He had a strong New York accent and a receding hairline but was otherwise not totally unattractive and more importantly, he was decent to the waitresses. Days like these, though, we all got short tempered. “I know Joe, doing my best.” I loaded up a tray and carried it to table seven where two older couples sat with matching scowls. After I set each of their plates on the table, the man sitting closest to the window shook his head. “I knew it, this is cold. Feel it, it's cold now.” He fingered the pile of vegetables and picked up the chicken breast, waving it around in the air like silly putty in a child's hand. If it wasn't cold before, it certainly would be now. I visualized taking his full glass of ice water and slowly pouring it over his balding head. I couldn’t follow through, but the thought was enough to bring a smile to my face. “I'm very sorry, let me send that back for you.” “Don't just heat it up, it'll get rubbery,” he added as his companions dug into the food on their plates. “Yes sir, I'll have a fresh plate prepared right away.” I took the offending dish back to Joe and explained the problem before racing back out to clean up a now empty table two. Just looking at the booth weighed me down. Crayon markings on the table, food covering every square inch in sight, and a suspicious puddle on one of the benches. And for my troubles, a $1.50 tip. A dollar fifty—who does that? That's no way to treat another human being. My despair morphed into anger. I took out my frustrations on the formica table and cushioned benches as I threw dishes into a tub and wiped down every surface, including the puddle with the tell-tale ammonia scent of urine. I couldn't keep doing this. I had been in the city for two years and I was getting nowhere—every day ate away more of my soul. At some point I wouldn't recognize the girl I was anymore. Doing my best not to scowl or snap at my customers, I finished out my shift. What I had wanted to do was take off my apron and walk out the door without looking back. For months I had thought more and more about my lack of progress finding a job using my art history degree. My attempts to make best of my situation were soured by feelings of failure and unmet potential. I had an incessant itch to make a change in my life and that impulse could no longer be ignored. When people told me that I should have known better than to get a liberal arts degree, I always insisted that the arts were my passion. The joy I got in my studies outweighed my worry of finding a job after college. I was confident that if I gave my job search enough time, and was open minded about an entry level position, I would work my way up to becoming a museum curator or similar position in administration. What kind of museum I worked for was, for the most part, irrelevant. I wanted to be a part of the cultural world around me. After my shift, I sat in the back office to wait for Joe. The office was grungy, smelled of grease, and was crowded with supply boxes and random crap that had been set down and forgotten. I perched myself on the only chair not stacked with papers and wondered why I had not forced myself to do this a long time ago. When Joe finally walked in, I felt empowered and confident that I was making the right decision. “Hey Becca, what're you doing in here?” Joe sat back in his scarred leather desk chair and sorted stacks of papers. “Joe, I'm giving my notice. It's time for me do something else.” Despite knowing I was doing the right thing, my voice came out soft because there was a part of me that felt bad for leaving. He stopped what he was doing and let out a sigh. “Yeah, I knew this day would come. You're better than this place, Bec. Go get a job with that fancy degree of yours.” I gave Joe a warm smile. I should have known he’d be supportive. I had been working for him long enough to know he’d want the best for me. “Thanks, Joe. I'll give you two weeks, I'm not going to leave you hanging.” “Good to know, now get outta here, and good luck on the job hunt.” I gave him one more grin and left the diner with my head held high and determined to find a job that would be fulfilling. Branching out my search beyond New York would open up a myriad of options and I was confident I would find success. Not only that, but for months I had found myself searching travel websites for deals and daydreaming about exploring new cities. I felt an inexplicable pull to pack my things and go, and it was growing stronger every day. Normally on my walk home I would have taken my time and enjoyed the unseasonably warm weather, but the adrenaline brought on by quitting my job without a new position lined up kept my steps quick and my mind racing. Making sure to avoid Angry Arnold, the homeless guy who lived outside my building, I ran upstairs to my third-floor apartment and booted up my laptop.