Day 13. Just Keep Swimming...

Work had been going well, relatively speaking. Bashir started me on additional morning shifts, which, despite yielding less tips, were far preferable because he spent ninety percent of his day in the back office.

Less Bashir = Happy Lauren!

The woman in charge during the day, Patricia, has been working at the restaurant for over eighteen years. The two of us got along quite well, and it was nice to have a friendly face at work, someone with whom to share the moments of the day.

Or to explain the moments of the day, as the case may be. Like when the Mean Man, who comes in everyday to sit at Table 21 and eat his Big Breakfast in silence, snapped at me again for clearing his empty plate before he was ready. “The service in this place,” he mumbled angrily, shaking his head in accusation. (At first I was taken aback by his roughness, but Patricia assured me he was sour in general, and quite rude to everyone.) But I digress... 

Patricia is a remarkable woman, kind and sympathetic, but I could see that the past five years (since Bashir’s family has owned the restaurant) have worn her down.

“What was this place like with the old owners?” I asked as she handed me a frothy latte, my early morning treat as long as Bashir had yet to arrive to work.

“Oh,” she sighed, not knowing where to begin. “Every day was full of people, all three sections. Not like this,” she gestured toward the empty restaurant. Her thick Mediterranean accent colored her speech, and I smiled as she reached back into her memory.

“All the time there were people,” she continued. “But not so today. He does not understand that to take, you must first give. He just takes, takes, takes and doesn’t give. And look now, he has trouble.”

Patricia told me about the previous owners, a loving family who valued her opinions, and how they had asked her to work in their other restaurant outside of the city when they sold this venture. “But it is too far to drive. This restaurant much closer, and so I stay.” She explained, with a hardness in her voice and a depth in her grey eyes.

I wanted to help her, to free her, to show her a way out. But who was I to do that? Just another 20-something traveler, passing by on my way to better things. So instead I simply enjoyed her company. I asked her questions about her life, I told her stories about mine, and I marveled at her uncanny ability to remember every regular’s order.

I didn’t mind the day shifts. I might go so far as to say I looked forward to them. (Well, ok, that’s probably not true. The boredom and the infrequent yet still unsettling visits from Bashir were enough to prevent me from fully enjoying my mornings.) But there were certainly moments I took pleasure in. Like meeting two travelers on the patio from my hometown, and learning that one of them was born at the same hospital as I was, in Takoma Park! Or, watching three seventy year old ladies, life-long friends perhaps, giggling uncontrollably as they attempted to share a towering eight-scoop ice cream cone.

This job was, after all, only temporary. And if Patricia could stick around for eighteen years, then I could certainly get through a few months. At least, that was what I was telling myself.

Love,

the traveling (and now coffee-addicted) stahr...