around nine in the morning, the head waitress casually strolled into the diner.
By then, I had already been working dutifully for over two hours.
She clearly looked down on me, though her sharp tongue wasn’t driven by malice. She casually offered me a piece of her mind.
“There’s no need to show up so early,” she said, leaning against the counter. “Who comes to a diner for a meal at eight in the morning?”
She glanced over at me, taking in my rigid posture, and shook her head.
“And stop dragging yourself around with that gloomy face,” she added. “You’re a waitress, not a mourner at a funeral.”
I kept my eyes fixed on the tray in my hands, saying nothing.
“Keeping your head down like that won’t earn you an extra penny in tips,” she continued, her voice growing firmer. “Didn’t you come out here to work just to put food on the table?”
She gestured toward my neckline.
“Your collar is way too low. In our line of work, we all wear high-collared dresses. Pair that with a nice silk handkerchief—that’s what the customers fall for.”
I could tell her words came from a place of practical advice.
I also knew that if I remained stiff, refusing to smile or flatter the patrons, she would suffer for it too.
The tips were split equally among all the waitresses.
I didn’t dislike her. In fact, I harbored a strange sense of respect for her.
She was simply doing whatever it took to make a living and survive.
I understood deep down that for a poor woman, this seemed to be the only path left to earn money.
Yet every fiber of my being resisted following in her footsteps.
I saw the reality clearly.
If I wanted to keep living and eating, a day might come when I would have to be even more shameless than she was.
“Just not today,” I whispered to myself.
Until I was driven completely into a corner with no options left, I refused to compromise.
That inevitable dead end was always lurking in the shadows, waiting for women like us.
The only thing I could do was delay it for a few more days.
Thinking about this helpless fate filled me with rage and resentment, choking me with a heavy sense of injustice.
It turned out a poor woman’s destiny was never hers to control.
I kept my head down and worked faithfully for another three days.
On that afternoon, the manager stepped in and handed down a final ultimatum.
He gave me a two-day trial period. If I wanted to keep the job long-term, I had to start acting and working just like the head waitress.
Standing nearby, the head waitress chimed in, her tone a mix of mockery and persuasion.
“Customers have already been asking about you,” she said, crossing her arms. “Why keep playing innocent? There’s no point in acting dumb.”
I remained silent, staring at the floorboards.
“We both know the kind of position we’re in,” she pushed on. “There’s no need to put on airs. Plenty of waitresses end up marrying rich bank managers. Who says our status is lowly?”
She gave a small, confident smirk.
“Be bold, shed that pride, and we can be riding around in luxury cars enjoying the good life too!”
Her words struck a raw nerve, sparking a sudden flame of anger inside me.
“And when are you getting your luxury car?” I retorted, looking straight at her.
Her bright red lips curled into a scowl of instant disdain.
“Don’t get sharp with me,” she snapped. “Just do your job and stick to your lane. Blessed with good looks, yet you don’t even know how to use them!”
I couldn’t stomach the atmosphere here any longer, nor was I willing to force myself to stay.
I took the five cents I had earned with my own labor, turned on my heel, and walked straight back to my rented room.