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koganbotThe waitress was a cheerful woman, almost boisterous, in the way that waitresses at diners are encouraged to be. Working-class broad is the stereotype, and that's the way she came across, in her early thirties and good-natured, a little heavy but nicely buxom and attractive. What few people knew was that she was from a solid middle-class family, her mother a statistician and her father an accountant. She'd been an honors student in high school, though she was eventually kicked out of the honor society because she wouldn't bother attending meetings. She didn't go to college, but she hung around coffeeshops in Cambridge, Massachusetts, getting a job at one or another as a waitress or counterwoman, bantering with the college students, who were generally sad, there to do schoolwork or to plug away at their masterpieces. Sometimes there'd be combative ones, who'd sit together and plan the overthrow of the government, or would create new literary theory, or have conversations about whether to break up their rock band.
She didn't think she minded this life until she was on vacation in eastern Colorado, in a Denver suburb called Aurora, and she was at a diner, the sort that served truckers and secretaries and cops and some businessmen who didn't want to spend a lot, some high school kids after school, none equivalent to the sad or combative fellows in the coffeehouses of Cambridge. It suddenly hit her that she didn't want to return to Cambridge, or to her boyfriend and his cat. She walked up to the counter, asked, "Is the owner here?" and he was in back, one of the cooks. She said, "I'm looking for a job. I've had experience waiting tables and making coffee and sandwiches in Cambridge. Could you use someone?" The cook had a good feeling from her, thought for a moment, said, "You know, Sarah wants to cut down her hours, and we could use an extra hand on lunches." So she got the job part-time, took a week to go back to Boston and break up with the boy and arrange to transport a small number of possessions. She'd provided employer references, just to assure her boss that she had no history of stealing, though he never did check them.
So, there she was, she had a new job and, without necessarily intending it, a new persona. Her hair was slightly punky, but it grew out of that, and she discovered that she was a natural at talking to truckers and kids and so on; and she also discovered she didn't have to hide her knowledge or intelligence, either. Now, having moved to full-time and working into the afternoons, she'd converse with a few of the high school students about Heidegger or whatever other homework they were having difficulty with.
During one lunch shift she was waiting on a regular - a cop - who'd come in with a couple of his cousins from out of state. She asked if they wanted soda or anything else to drink, and then if they were ready to order; the cop nodded, but this was followed by a long pause, which she finally interrupted by saying, "Fire when ready, Gridley!" The cop had heard her say this before, knew it was some saying or other, though he wasn't sure from where. The cousins, however, had never heard it, but thought it was hilarious. So they began to refer to each other as Gridley, saying, "Well, Gridley here would like a hot reuben sandwich on rye, while I'll have the soup." And throughout the meal they'd be saying, "Pass me the salt, Gridley," and such.
A few days later the cop returned for lunch, after has cousins had gone home to Florida, and she greeted him cheerfully, asking him, "How are the Gridleys?" He smiled, "Back in Florida, still holding their fire." He'd actually looked up the phrase on the Internet the night before, read about the Battle Of Manila Bay and Commodore Dewey's sangfroid. Now his life was enriched in this small way, the waitress adding a bit of boisterous eloquence to his lunchtime.
She didn't think she minded this life until she was on vacation in eastern Colorado, in a Denver suburb called Aurora, and she was at a diner, the sort that served truckers and secretaries and cops and some businessmen who didn't want to spend a lot, some high school kids after school, none equivalent to the sad or combative fellows in the coffeehouses of Cambridge. It suddenly hit her that she didn't want to return to Cambridge, or to her boyfriend and his cat. She walked up to the counter, asked, "Is the owner here?" and he was in back, one of the cooks. She said, "I'm looking for a job. I've had experience waiting tables and making coffee and sandwiches in Cambridge. Could you use someone?" The cook had a good feeling from her, thought for a moment, said, "You know, Sarah wants to cut down her hours, and we could use an extra hand on lunches." So she got the job part-time, took a week to go back to Boston and break up with the boy and arrange to transport a small number of possessions. She'd provided employer references, just to assure her boss that she had no history of stealing, though he never did check them.
So, there she was, she had a new job and, without necessarily intending it, a new persona. Her hair was slightly punky, but it grew out of that, and she discovered that she was a natural at talking to truckers and kids and so on; and she also discovered she didn't have to hide her knowledge or intelligence, either. Now, having moved to full-time and working into the afternoons, she'd converse with a few of the high school students about Heidegger or whatever other homework they were having difficulty with.
During one lunch shift she was waiting on a regular - a cop - who'd come in with a couple of his cousins from out of state. She asked if they wanted soda or anything else to drink, and then if they were ready to order; the cop nodded, but this was followed by a long pause, which she finally interrupted by saying, "Fire when ready, Gridley!" The cop had heard her say this before, knew it was some saying or other, though he wasn't sure from where. The cousins, however, had never heard it, but thought it was hilarious. So they began to refer to each other as Gridley, saying, "Well, Gridley here would like a hot reuben sandwich on rye, while I'll have the soup." And throughout the meal they'd be saying, "Pass me the salt, Gridley," and such.
A few days later the cop returned for lunch, after has cousins had gone home to Florida, and she greeted him cheerfully, asking him, "How are the Gridleys?" He smiled, "Back in Florida, still holding their fire." He'd actually looked up the phrase on the Internet the night before, read about the Battle Of Manila Bay and Commodore Dewey's sangfroid. Now his life was enriched in this small way, the waitress adding a bit of boisterous eloquence to his lunchtime.
