10:58

I looked at the clock.  10:55 p.m.  Perfect!  "I might be out of here before 11:10 tonight!"  I thought to myself smugly.  All my tables had been cleaned; my charge slips and cash were all in order.  All I had to do was run my "checkout" and I would be a free woman!  At least until the next day when I had to be back.  The balls of my feet, my lower back, and my knees ached, telltale evidence of working two double-shifts in a row.  Tomorrow, however, I only had one shift left, and then (drumroll, please) the much anticipated DAY OFF.  The comfort and ecstasy that accompanied the mere thought of those two tiny words swept over me like the bubbles that would make up the luxuriating bath in which I would be soaking later.

I turned around, facing the grill, which stands right in front of the entrance to our restaurant, to reply to something one of the line cooks had just said to me when I saw Them.  They were running, literally running, through the heavy revolving door and down the stairs that led into our version of a lobby.  At 10:58 p.m., 10:58 p.m. mind you, out of breath and giggling, the two girls, probably no more than 20 years old, rushed up to the hostess' stand and blurted out the words that strike fear into the heart of any waiter or waitress.  "Are you closed yet?"  

The hostess whom they had verbally accosted drew in a sharp breath as the color drained from her face.  She smiled weakly and said softly, "Not yet."  It was true.  We didn't technically close until 11:00.  And it was only 10:58.  The entire front of house staff had frozen where they stood.  I caught a glimpse of one fellow server with a tortilla chip raised halfway to her mouth, motionlessly watching the terrifying scene that was unfolding before her.  I turned back at our ashen-faced hostess, who looked up from the chart she had consulted, which told her which server was next to be seated.  Grabbing two menus from the stack in front of her, she said robotically, "Right this way, ladies," as she led them into the dining room.  Slowly, her eyes swept the room, searching, before they finally rested on, you guessed it, Me.  My heart sank as I let out a long sigh.  I felt a hand clasp my shoulder and give it a squeeze.

"Sorry, girl."  That was all my sympathetic co-worker could get out.  He simply shook his head, trying, not well, to hide his feelings of relief.  "Ah well," I responded, "c'est la vie."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."  I shook my head, forced a smile onto my weary countenance, and turned to face my fate.

"Good evening, ladies.  May I start you with a beverage?"

Two hours later, I left the restaurant, not much the worse for wear, and with a few extra (they did tip me 20% exactly) dollars in my pocket.  Was I exhausted? Yes.  Did I wish I could have left two hours earlier?  Most definitely.  Did I have to be back at the restaurant in nine hours?  You betcha.  Was I happy to have made a little more money than I would have without my late table?  Sure.  What I really gained, though, was the furthering of my conviction that everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, should at some point be required to wait tables at some point in their lifetime.  I left, contented with the prospect that the day may come for those girls when they too will have their own metaphorical 10:58 moment.  To be fair, I just hoped they would get at least the appropriate, albeit metaphorical, 20%.