Ticket in. Fryer down. Order up. Behind you. On your left. Serve the food, clean the mess, run the card. Smiles and thank-yous. Watch them leave—lousy tip. Bus the table. Side work: roll the silver, marry ketchups, stock coolers. Quitting time. Beers at the bar. Home. Bed. Wake. Repeat.

Megan Deiger writes fiction, wrangles her seven-year-old, and makes music with her husband in Chicago, IL. She spent many summers as a server slinging wings and beer. It was fun. And awful. Follow her on Twitter at @birchparkps.