“I’m gonna be late; I’m gonna be late,” I think, easing the accelerator all the way to the floor. Just minutes earlier, I cranked out a 15-inch story on the County Commission’s latest actions, but already my thoughts are elsewhere.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
I know it’s a 45-minute drive, but every time I think I can do it in 30.
When I finally do barrel into the parking garage, I’m already five minutes late. Walking quickly through the door, I scan the restaurant for my manager’s eyes. Not seeing them, I head to the back room, where I shed my khakis and dress-shirt and don a pair of clean, black pants, greasy, well-worn Wal-Mart shoes and an apron stocked with ink pens.
Just a minute to clock in, say what’s up to everyone, read the nightly special and that’s it. I’m sat with a table of four: time to get the night started.
Like most restaurant servers, I didn’t think I’d be at it this long. (more…)
