There is not enough work for the waitresses. They need more customers in the restaurant. The waitresses have gathered at the back of the restaurant where I am sitting at a table. They are just standing around. They are awkward, impatient. They are five of them. They are all middle-aged and wearing white shoes, black skirts and white blouses.
They need more customers.
I take another bite of chicken fried steack. Three waitresses are absent-mindedly staring at me. I pile up some corn on my fork. Perharps they want to remember what a customer looks like. I take a sip of ice water. Now there are four waitresses staring at me.
The fifth waitress is looking at the front door. She wants it to open and a party of four peaople to come in and sit down at one of her tables. But she’ll settle for a sixty-year-old woman who just wants a cup of coffee and a piece of pie.
I return to another bite of chicken fried steak.
The fifth waitress joins the other four waitresses in staring at me but I’ve done all I can to help. There’s nothing more I can do. If only I could eat five chicken fried steaks at five different tables, my life would be much simplier.