Day 18: Truckle

Later than I would have liked, but before five, at least.

It wasn’t the requests themselves that grated on David’s nerves, but the tone in which they were given. As if his very status as a waiter was reason to be hostile, or condescending. As if he had no other tables to wait, and thirty seconds wait for the check was delivered was a hanging offense. As though tipping was a foreign concept, something to be done only rarely.

“Waiter!” someone cried. “I ordered a Cobb salad with a half order of dressing. But my salad is Caesar, and it is drowning. Fix it.”

Okay, sometimes it was the orders too.