It was a gorgeous day in downtown Toledo, Ohio and the windows of my 1993 Fifth Avenue New Yorker (dubbed the Great White Whale) were cranked wide open to the sunny breezes. I was employed—always a plus—and on my way to work. I was in a good mood, despite the fact that I was forced to wear a horrific uniform. In my ever-burgeoning career as a starving artist, I had managed to end up in a private social club, schlepping mediocre steaks with bland beans and overly sour-creamed baked potatoes, and refilling endless cups of wan coffee. It was not unusual for a gal with a nasty case of New York theatre to get involved in the food service industry. In fact, I predicted this for myself.
As a child, whenever some hapless soul asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would always reply, “A waitress and a movie star.” My mother was mortified. “But don’t you want to be a doctor and take care of all the sick people? Or fly to the stars and be an astronaut?” she would wheedle. I would have none of it, of course. The epitome of glamour was to wear a little white apron over a Mel’s Diner pink frock, snap gum at people when requesting their order, while jotting down every high-maintenance detail (in illegible shorthand of course) on my mint green pad. That and walking the red carpet in a tiara. Interesting that even at the tender age of four, I realized that the two were intrinsically related. So, through various bizarre twists of fate that are common to those pursuing elusive dreams, I ended up here in Toledo eating our staff meal in the staff cafeteria before my unionized (staff) eleven dollars per hour no-tip shift. At least I enjoyed my co-workers. I tried to spruce up my polyester vest with as much zippy lipstick and fragrance as possible. We receive a free meal daily and today’s appeared to be a big pan of shiny orange crap.
PREVIOUS PAGE
