My Two Cents (1977)

Me with my first born. Do you see my black eye and
the pain behind the smile?

At eighteen years of age, I already endured my share of hardships that  included emotional and physical abuse, as well as poverty, racial tension and abandonment. But the one thing it all taught me was tenacity. And then some.

The morning as I applied makeup to cover my black eye, I looked forward to my new job waitressing at a restaurant located in Skylake Mall on North Miami Beach.

I was glad to see that the place wasn’t a typical greasy-spoon kind of a diner.

The mornings welcomed aromas of freshly brewed coffee, combined with the lingering whiff of bacon and pancakes from the cooking area. When the kitchen door swung open, dishes and pots rattled from within.

Considered green, an outsider, the new kid on the block, I was the youngest waitress there. But I didn’t mind. I scurried about taking orders, my hair tied in a ponytail with a clip. I wore a short white dress, white shoes, and a black apron with deep pockets filled with chewing gum, a pen, an order pad, a couple of bobby pins, lipstick, a matchbook, and my daily tips.

I busted my tail for those tips.

The waitresses I worked alongside with were cold and snappy; been around the block or two. This diner was their turf, their bread-and-butter. The manager reasoned anyone younger gave these older gals a run for their money. Instead, they had me running in circles. Those seasoned servers barked orders in gruff voices, as if I was their esclavita.

I was still learning the ropes and a bit overwhelmed.

I’ll show them. I’ll pull my own weight.

By and by, I got the hang of things. I excelled in carrying a couple of plates in one hand, balancing two more on my forearm. The chef was Cuban, an older man, and took a liking to me. This counted for something. When you called out an order, it needed to be right, without any hic-cups. Correct orders produced happy customers. Happy customers tipped.

Weeks later, I won half of the waitresses over. Their hard lines softened. They gave me pointers about what worked and what didn’t: how to clean my station properly, turn in orders, run the cash register, even hinted on which customers liked what. The rest left me alone. I was grateful for that; I had trouble enough in serving some regulars who dined . . .

“Hey lady,” the voice of a girl no more than ten called out to me. “Yer gonna take our orders, or what?”

“Sure am,” I chirped, trying to keep a positive attitude. “What will it be?”

Pippi Longstockings and her big sister dined here before and sat at my table. The two red heads rode in a fancy car and wore designer clothes, boots, and multicolored chokers. The “I’m-better-than-you” etched on their powdered faces. I knew the older sister schooled the younger one on what to say.

“My usual bagel, the way I like it . . . burnt,” Carrot-Top crooned, “with cream cheese, and orange juice over ice. Got it?”

I popped my gum and turned to Pippi. “And what can I get you?”

“Hot-chocolate and three pancakes . . . .” Pippi grinned, batting her lashes. “And . . . leave out the batter,” she whispered.

I ignored the snide remark and wrote down her order. “Coming right up.” I darted away.

Within ear range, little rich girl hissed, “Spic.”

My blood boiled. I bit down on my tongue until I tasted blood.

After the Red Hens ate and left, I cleared their table, half expecting to find a hate note instead of a tip.

Nada. 

“Oh Miss-sy,” another familiar voice summoned, and motioned for me by snapping his fingers.

This sunburned “Bubba,” a construction worker, who wore a stained plaid shirt over a beer belly and blue jeans a couple of sizes too small, frequented the diner daily. Never alone. When possible, he waited for a table in my station.

Just to make my life miserable.

I walked over with three glasses of water.

Bubba held up a cigarette. “I need a light,” he smirked.

Here we go again, amusing his friends at my expense. I’m so not in the mood. I reached for my matches, lit his cigarette, jotted down his usual order and took his friends’ requests. 

     

His demands were persistent.

“Bring me the morning paper will you, doll? The ‘King of Rock ‘n’ Roll’ died.”

“More water.”

“Another napkin.”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek.

“Hey, my friend’s coffee’s gone cold.”

“My ashtray’s full. Make it snappy, kiddo. Haven’t got all day.”

Time to put this chump in his place in front of his pals, I mused. Slapping the bill down, I asked, “How come ya never leave a tip?”

Bubba’s face turned a lovely tomato red. “Why should I?” he retorted. “You just ain't good enough, girlie.”

My own face turned colors; I stomped away and stuck a second stick of gum in my mouth.

They soon left.

When I returned to their table to help clear it off, I noticed Bubba left a tip, sitting neatly beside his plate.

Two pennies.

Who does this sinvergüenza think he is? I’m not a sangana. Can’t he see I’m a hard worker, trying to do my job? I need to prove myself to my man; want to make him proud. I have a daughter that I need to buy things for.  

The next day, a new server worked the floor; he and I switched stations. Ah, so young and wet behind the ears, I chuckled to myself. Yep, green as anything.

In no time, the lunch crowd swamped us. But wait. What’s this? Bubba strutted in with three of his pals, and headed for my usual station.

The newbie became flustered in taking their orders. They were now harassing him. I must give my new coworker a hand, I thought.

Newbie fumbled with the vegetables and the condiments at the salad bar.

“Here, let me help ya,” I offered. “I know the way this customer likes his chef salad. Comes in here all the time.”

Newbie thanked me for my assistance and moved on to the iced tea dispenser. By the time he came back, I’d finished the salad.

“There ya go,” I said to Newbie, pointing to my creation. “Just the way he likes it. He’s quite picky, tu sabes?”

“Oh, t-thank you so much,” Newbie replied, nearly spilling his drinks.

“No problema,” I smiled. “Here, I’ll take the salad to his table.”

As I left their table, I heard Dancing Queen play on the jukebox, and felt a familiar tune of my own creep into my soul.

Several minutes later, a commotion stirred. “What kind of joint y'all runnin’ here?”

Bubba’s voice carried clear across the crowded restaurant. I turned to see my “favorite” patron, flushed-red, gesturing forcefully between Newbie and the manager. They stormed out of the restaurant and never returned.

When the coast cleared, I approached Newbie. Porbre muchacho looking a bit spent.

“Mira, those clowns, they're something else, okay?”

“Sure are,” Newbie answered, wiping his glasses and the sweat off his forehead. “Weird thing though,” he continued, gazing at me as if studying me. “After that one dude finished eating his salad, he declared to have found something at the bottom of his bowl.”

“He did? What was it?”

“Two cents.”

(excerpt from A Mary Heart - works in progress)