Thrown into the fire

Vroom. My mom and I drove a mile to the quaint European-style cafe. It was packed. I took my work papers and opened the door to a kids' baseball team and a harried-looking waitress.

"Hey, just a sec," she said.

Her name was Jessica, and she knew what she was doing. Irene, the Greek woman who had called me, was too busy to introduce herself.

"How impersonal," I thought.

Jessica did her thing, while I followed, feeling and looking out of place.

"Always take the pizza tray out first . . . get their drinks, then orders . . . know the menu like the back of your hand."

I felt like crying.

"Too much, this is much too much," I thought rapidly.

I was about to find out how crazy waitressing is.

Jessica and Irene had a shouting match in the middle of everything. Customers were making "Oh geeze" faces, while I stood there putting on an act of complete composure.

Next, the kitchen door slammed open, and Miss Jessica, who I was counting on for waitressing knowledge, screamed one final "I quit!" and walked out.

I looked around.

The cafe was still full, and I was the only waitress.

So much for training. This was the real deal.

I took my apron, my tickets and my pen, and finished what Jessica started. I knocked down a European painting, spilled soda on a boy's back and apologized like there was no tomorrow.

Waitressing is not for the faint of heart.

Irene still hadn't said hello, but instead looked grumpy as I messed up orders. When everyone had left and my shift was finally over, I had made $29.52 in tips. After Irene apologized for the spectacle, I left sweaty and dehydrated, knowing that I would start on Monday.

Only I was already ahead of the game.