Runner, please.

Hands.

Behind.

86 zucchini.

Heard.

There’s a slight ringing in my ears, and it is not coming from the bell in the kitchen. Fervently, I tap buttons on the kiosk screen: roasted beets, arancini, margaritas, a pizza with olives and chicken. As I am pressing another button — kids’ lemonade — the screen freezes in place, taking no input. It goes dark. Restarting. Damn.

I turn on my heel and peel away from the counter. The chatter and music fills me to my eardrums and I am slightly short of breath. Around me, there is a full dining room. There is one empty table left, littered with plates. The napkins are carelessly tossed upon chairs. The host, who is in charge of these things, is scurrying by with a stack of takeout boxes much taller than herself. I shift my trajectory slightly and reach for the plates, sticking my finger into a wet splotch of marinara sauce. I hardly register it. Someone leans across their table to ask me for salt. I beam at them. “Sure thing!” I recite brightly. My brows drop into a furrow when I turn my back to them. I am determined. They’ll get salt. He needs a new fork. This table still needs their drinks. The bartenders are swimming in tickets. When I drop these plates off at the dishwasher, I’ll need to check on a pizza. Reset this table. Turn down the music. Go to the bathroom at some point. This is the flow state.

At three o’clock, I was a student. I scribbled in my notebook: five readings, two papers, one quiz, and a discussion post. The weather was good, and my peers were spreading out across the lawn, taking off their shoes and opening their laptops. They were fighting screen glare and sunshine. I was fighting with my work shirt and apron.

At four o’clock, I began to cross the veil. It was undetectable at first. It started as a fog slipping over my mind. Thoughts of group projects became silent prayers that this was the night I made rent. The uncomfortable talk I had with my academic advisor melted away like ice in the deli cup I was clutching. My coworker tapped me on the shoulder and said, “I’ll stock the station if you fill water bottles.” I agreed.

This was the beginning of the end. A single phrase, and I was slipping into an altered state of consciousness. I crossed over. Water bottles. Silverware. Table number 406.

Now it is seven o’clock. I slam the plates down in the dish pit, too hard. The dishwasher gives me a look. Sorry. It’s cool. There’s no time for anything else. We are all on the same page.

This is my only chance. I am ripping at my apron as I beeline for the bathroom door. I don’t need to use it. I need to breathe. I have been placating and docile for several consecutive hours, and I need to prepare for the bottom half of my shift.

There is a moment’s reprieve. I am checking my phone when I see a text: “When can you have your part done?”

I grimace. I begin calculating. Close at nine, leave by ten. Bike home, that’s ten-thirty. Shower, open my laptop, and it’s eleven. “Eleven-thirty.”

“It’s due at midnight.” I am pressurized. I am a bottle of hairspray. It’s too much. I tie my apron back on and try once more to access flow. I am not hairspray. I am fine. I am high on it. I can still be high on it.

The bathroom door swings and I am through. The host flags me down. “Table on the patio.”

That makes eight tables. One is a party of 10. Something clicks, and I am back.

There is a high that comes with waiting tables that is indescribable to all those who have never done it. It is a form of meditation, rising above the riptide of angry customers and frustrated managers. Time becomes illusionary, thin, and something inside of you bubbles to the surface. It is a higher sense of presence and being. You might not even know it was there had you not clocked in. The mundanity and emotional devastation of life on the outside slips away. It is as if it was never really there.

It is nine o’clock, and I am reviewing my tips. Twenty. Twenty-five. Forty-five. Fifty-five.

In the end, I have $123. I needed $115. I will make rent. The veil lifts.

Five readings.

Two papers.

One quiz.

Discussion post.