At the Waffle House

Three line cooks. Three waitresses. Two managers—man facing the customers, woman calling out orders, smothered, covered, over easy, steak & eggs. Left-side cook sets up plates, keeps waffles coming. Right-side cook grills the meat, replaces the egg basket over the center cook’s head as he turns out omelets, hash browns and eggs. The waitresses float back and forth, setting down full plates, picking up empties, refilling coffees, bringing more toast for all last night’s prom goers, some still in their gowns and tuxes, this morning’s soccer players in their dirty uniforms next to rumpled dads, and all the extra personnel in town for Military Week, line out the door. And all I can think, when the manager listens to one of her waitresses complain about some wrong and answers, “Communication is key”—meaning I hear ya and I got your back, but now’s not the time for any more of that, and the waitress walks off, still fuming but nodding her head—is we need more of this, whatever this is I am witnessing here in Goldsboro, NC, nine-thirty in the morning, the early morning rain outside already beginning to sizzle a little on the asphalt and all the lights turning green.