The funny thing about the graveyard shift is that it can be one of the most boring or most interesting times to be a waitress. While no two nights are the same, most have a similar cadence.
At about 11:00 pm, the theater kids come in. Eight of them joke and jostle, each ordering a glass of water; all of them sharing one order of mozzarella sticks. Occasionally, one kid will have a fresh $20 bill (I imagine it as a birthday gift from a grandparent or allowance granted from mowing the lawn), and they’ll throw in a basket of fries. Sometimes they’ll leave me change as a tip. Other times, gratuity is too much to ask of a broke high schooler.
At about midnight or 1:00 am, there are a few shift workers who come in. I never know if they’re construction or factory workers. I just know they’re quiet, dirty, and ravenously hungry. They are short on words, but know to say “yes, Ma’am,” “No, Ma’am,” “Please,” and “Thank you.” Sometimes they come in pairs or trios who hash out the day’s events in deep, hushed voices, their elbows on the table as they take large bites of their burgers between sentences. Their heavy boots leave remnants of the job site under the table for me to sweep up later.
At 2:00 or 3:00 am, things get more interesting. A 24-hour cafe is always lively after the bars close. The people and their stories are varied, but they have something in common. One couple is drunk and passionately in love. A group of guys are drunk and celebrating a friend’s promotion. A group of college kids are drunk and swapping stories about what they’ve gotten away with by using their older sibling’s ID. Two women are drunk, one consoling the other after a rough breakup.
At some point in the evening, Joe might come in. Joe is the closest I have to a regular, mostly because he’s the only customer I know by name. I remember the first time we met. I was only about a week into the job, and he walked in like he owned the place. His long, grizzled grey hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, though loose strands clung to the rims of his tinted glasses. He strode across the room, his black cowboy boots making enough noise to announce his presence. He slid into a booth and looked at me as if he had already asked me a question.
“The other gal always knew to bring me a cup of coffee,” he said bluntly.
“Now I do, too,” I said with a flat smile.
I poured the hot, dark liquid, the burnt coffee smell tickling my nostrils.
He looked at me quizzically. “So you’re the new gal.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“The other gal called me Coffee Joe.”
“That’s a bit redundant, isn’t it?”
He stared at me for a second before bursting into a thunderous roar of laughter. “You’re alright,” he said with a broad grin.
I returned the smile and continued on my way, coming back occasionally to fill his mug. After he had paid his tab and left, I returned to the table to wipe it down. In the middle of the table was a dollar bill, folded into a ring with the “1” in a perfectly creased square in the center.
There’s a surreal lull between 4:00 and 5:00 am. The restaurant empties. The kitchen is so quiet you can hear the industrial refrigerator humming from the dining room. This is the true night; the shift from yesterday to today. I sweep and tidy. I fill salt and pepper shakers. I finally feel the tiredness one should feel at the close of the day. At 5:30 am, the next waitress arrives, bright and chipper. Her shift will be completely different than mine. Her restaurant is not the same as mine. I clock out, remove my apron, and go home to bed.
11:00 pm comes early.
Things That Start With J 