“Here they come. Right on time.”
I looked up from wiping the countertop to see Ethel, the older waitress looking at something out of the window. I shook my head.
“They always come here, Ethel. And you get mad every time until they tip you.”
Ethel snorted, tucking her towel in the waistband of her apron. “Well who knew that thugs could have manners enough to tip?”
I laughed. For all of her blustering, Ethel didn’t mind the bikers that frequented the truck stop where we waitressed. Unlike her, it wasn’t just something to do to kill time. She didn’t have to work. She and her husband Earl owned the place. It had been open forever it seemed. I remembered coming here when I was a kid with my dad.
No, Ethel could work or not. It was her choice. I wasn’t so lucky. I had to work. I had a mouth to feed. I liked working here. Earl was a good boss, fair and decent. He paid me pretty good too, for a waitress. And my tips were my own. The hours weren’t bad either. He understood that I needed to be available for my daughter.
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