Iwas halfway through my shift and the line was out the door. My feet hurt and myshirt was soaked from a drink that had slid off my tray. I approached my tablewith a smile, hoping the couple would return the gesture.

It was a rough,but typical, night for a waitress. The two women sitting in the booth complainedabout the noise from the kitchen, thinking I was the hostess, then laughed as Idropped a whole tray of appetizers. I gave the women their bill, trying to fake asmile. I accepted their rudeness, low tip, and moved on to my nexttable.

There sat a party of ten who were only a few years older than me. Itried to ignore their smart comments and silverware clanging to the floor. Theircigarette smoke made my eyes water. Waiting patiently for them to order, I triednot to worry about the six other tables that needed my attention. The girls, ondiets of course, ordered salads which were all different: no onions, no peppers,no tomatoes. The salad dressing had to be on the side. I got a bit irritated withthe girls' giggling remarks about my stained shirt as I cleaned up the pop theyhad spilled.

The older, impatient couple at my next table immediatelycomplained about the dirty silverware, thinking I was the dishwasher. They werein a hurry and requested I rush their order. Of course the other busy waitresseswouldn't mind if I put my order in before theirs! I set their drinks down, hopingI wouldn't confuse the regular one with the diet, but they declared, "Thepop is too sweet, we want coffee instead." When they left, I guess I wasn'tsupposed to mind their 30-cent tip, as if we lived in the 1920s.

Myfavorite customers of the night were three guys who didn't look much older thanme and wanted a pitcher of beer. Not old enough to handle their order, I had toget another waitress (which I'm sure irritated her). When she turned them downfor being too young, I took over the table again. They made a few choice commentsthat made me laugh, and I relaxed a little.

My next table was an olderItalian gentleman sitting alone. He was one of our regulars, and assumed I hadtime to listen to his problems. He must have mistaken me for his marriagecounselor or psychiatrist. I really didn't mind listening to his stories, but myother tables eyed me angrily.

The crowd finally slowed and I begancleaning up. The salt and pepper shakers were emptied and run through thedishwasher, the booths wiped down, the waitress station stocked, and the floorsswept.

Ten minutes before closing time I thought I heard the frontdoors open and hoped I was dreaming. A couple entered and seated themselves at myclean booth. I wasn't in the mood for smart comments or ridiculous complaints. Tomy surprise, the couple was polite, patient and understanding, and I was able tosmile sincerely at my one and only nice table of the evening.