I'm a waitress and a poet. Sometimes these two roles intersect: I try to focus in on "the image" of a customer who's ordered something specific. What does calves liver say about you? How about French-toast-style bread pudding? So far many assumptions commonly made based on food prejudices have been wrong.
In the case of a woman I call “Veggie Burger,” she is not super friendly and organic-crunchtastic as one would guess. She’s actually a big time complainer and one of the most impatient and unhappy people I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how her husband puts up with it.
And then there are the old men who order spaghetti and meatballs. You expect them to be pretty uptight and a little mean, but they turn out to be the sweetest customers and the best tippers.
How about the guy who always orders orange juice, even with dinner? Is he concerned about his tooth enamel, because if so, I should really give him a straw. Does he have super evolved health consciousness? Is he warding off a cold? Was this his favorite childhood drink? I have so many questions and only one object- a citrus beverage- to act as the answer. So in the spirit of trying to use my day/night job as fuel for my writing, here’s a little poem (it’s bad) that I wrote the other night as an exercise in streamlining my money making talents with my love for lyricism:
orange juice
you ask for
orange juice,
and we’ve joked
about this drink
for weeks—whether
you’ll have that or
cappuccino instead—
and I want to tell you,
“forget the OJ
and take me,”
but I carry the cup
to your table. this glass
of orange juice
is nothing. it’s all the things
I could give you:
watercolor sketches
of west end avenue,
free tickets
to the new museum,
my body to hold
as you sleep,
homemade lentil
soup on saturday
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