Sometimes I spend all day trying to get inside your mind. Aimlessly scrolling a mental catacomb--searching for some psychological explanation from a college textbook, or some empathetic connection that would allow me to understand the nascence of your behavior.
Do you even see me--smiling at you while I pour your latte or bring you an extra side of chimmichurri or when you change your mind and need all the food togo? Am I just another body to you? Another pair of tits with a decent smile walking across the floor?
How does your lower-back feel after walking on a woodfloor nonstop for 8 hours? Do your feet enjoy those blistering worn-in clogs you’ve had for years because you can’t afford to invest in a new pair? How about the burns on your forearms-- the cuts on your fingers-- the smell of Rwandan coffee and tuna melts no amount of detergent can cleanse?
Why not add the daily objectification? Does it feel good when the father ordering snickerdoodles for his toddlers comments on the way your ass looks in those jeans? Or when someone tries to order ‘you’ to add sweetness to their coffee.
Have you ever gotten by on a minimum wage job? Have you ever had to decide whether to feed yourself or your dog? Has your income ever been dependent on the whims of those more privileged than yourself?
I am ever in your service. Day in and day out, I meet your needs with speed and a smile. I am in pain every day, but you’ll never see that. It’s the beauty of service. You will never understand unless you do it. And once you do, this is no longer an adage for your eyes to read, because you will know--with the scars and the residual customer frustration one may never shake.
I am a person, same as you. I need to exact same combination of elements to exist in this universe.
Next time you stop by, I hope you’ll keep this in mind. And I hope you tip accordingly.
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