Clock in, and stand around for 10 minutes. Talk to your co-workers. You are all complaining, this is your family.

Clock out, count your tips. You have a coffee can full of rubber-banded ones in your closet, the bank thinks you’re a stripper.

YOUR FEELINGS DON’T MATTER BY JESSE STEIN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 58

Turn on the shower, let the steam waft. There is bone cold, gas station-quality coffee in the pot, coffee doesn’t go bad, not for days, drink it in the shower. Brush your teeth in the shower.

Gargle some mouthwash and limp into your 2000 Bloody-Bird-Shit-Red Hyundai Elantra, find that White Folk Singer with so many emotions who sings so soft, and breathe. Don’t forget to breathe.

Smoke two cigarettes and feel bad about it, but not for too long. Walk through the back door and nod at the dishwasher, smile through the insults lobbed at your yellow teeth by Chef, he’s been at work since 8:30.

Clock in, and stand around for 10 minutes. Talk to your co-workers. You are all complaining, this is your family.

Stand close to the bar, so that when the GM strolls into the dining room, you can pretend that you’ve been working this whole time, you even got there early, the success of this business is tethered to your soul. Set up the bar. Make sure you loudly complain about the minute discrepancies left behind by last night’s closer. There are rules.

Enjoy these spare minutes of relative silence before the playlist starts and the 25 songs that haunt your life for 45 hours a week blare over the mounted speakers that were installed in 1991. Happy hour starts in 30 minutes, smoke another cigarette, don’t forget to breathe.