The ninja roll and the window

         I didn’t think it was possible for me to be involved in food service for as long as I have been.  The one reoccurring thought while I am at work is “I wish I could quit”.  I know it sounds cliché.  Who doesn’t dream of greener pastures just over the eight-hour horizon? Still, every time a customer walks in the restaurant I shoot a glance out the window as if it’s my only escape.  I can imagine hurling myself though the plate glass, deadly shards bursting forth like flower petals with me as some giant stamen right in the middle.  Like a bad CIA operative I fall to the ground with a ninja roll, spring up and run off into the sunset.  There at the counter of the restaurant, stunned patrons watch in horror as the crazy man behind the counter runs down the street bleeding profusely from the window he just jumped through.  But if I did that, I would be fired.  And if I was fired I couldn’t pay rent or eat those 99 cent double cheeseburgers I love so much, so out my mouth I utter with feigned genuineness …”How can I help you?”.

         I wonder if the customers I serve have any idea how much I want to jump through that window.  Can they see me staring through their massive heads at the window behind them as I offer some left over greens and cheap chicken in the form of our daily special?  I would venture a guess that even if they were privy to my fantasy they still wouldn’t care.  That is, they would never acknowledge that I, like them, have no desire to be cooking, cleaning, or catering to someone’s every culinary whim.  I understand it would ruin the dinning experience.  I also understand that if I took the cast iron fajita plate and I chucked it through the window I wouldn’t cut myself as I throw my body out onto the street.  The look on the faces of the young couple expecting margaritas would be priceless as I hurled their dinner through the bars of my prison like an epicurean impact grenade.  So priceless, in fact, that I may consider looking back at them as I spring up from my ninja roll.  Of course, if I did that I would be fired, then I wouldn’t have the money for my tall can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and blank CD’s to burn all my favorite albums, so of out my mouth comes “Can I get anything else for you?”.

         All day every day, “How can I help you?”, “Can I get anything else for you?”, “Here’s your check, thank you.”  All day every day, I smile.  I make small talk with those customers who like that.  I say nothing and nod my head with the solitary, not-to-be-bothered type.  All day every day I help people who can’t make food for themselves, or who can’t clean up after themselves, or who just need someone to serve them in some manner.  All day every day I stare out that window at my freedom. I am sure no one is in onto my plan.  No one suspects a thing.  All day every day I pretend to be happy, concerned, and caring about a stranger’s culinary desires. Then I clock out.  I drive to the fast food shop, curtly order my 99 cent double cheeseburger, and then on to the convenience store to grab my tall cans of Pabst.  Every day when I get home from work, I take off my shoes, and throw the latest pirated CD I have in the player.  I crank up the music and practice my ninja rolls.  When I get really good at the ninja roll, I am going to quit.  I am getting pretty good at it now, maybe I’ll quit tomorrow.