95 and Rising

Struggling with the large double doors and a tray full of white wine I made my way outside...

It's the middle of August and approaching the high 90's.

A table full of suburbanite housewives decided it would be a great idea to move from my section to the patio.

Not such a great idea for me.

My crisp white uniform is starting to wrinkle and soak through in the blistering heat, the fact shirt can't breath through isn't helping matters.

Back to the ladies, they're wearing dainty white summer dresses and sun hats with shades on.

More than one of them has a large diamond ring on their fourth finger.

Excessively large rings.

Rich ladies, and not the type that have earned a cent or done any work for it, its 2:30 on a Tuesday, and they're not in power suits.

You know the type I'm talking about here.

The sweat gets in my eyes and I nearly drop the tray as I feel the sharp, salty sting.

I manage.

I always manage, if only just.

I start delivering their wine glasses to the table when one of them comments...

"I just love your little uniforms, they're so classy."

The others nod in agreement.

"It would look some much better and professional if only you buttoned the top button and tightened your tie."

She looks over at the other waiter as he takes an order, "I've noticed he doesn't have his tie up all the way either, why?"

"Ma'am, its ninety five degrees out." I state.

"And?" She asked.

I'm dressed for winter weather, long sleeve shirt and tie, black slacks and full lenght bistro apron, no polo shirts and Bermuda shorts like they probably wear down at Glen Oaks or whatever country club she's used to.

"It's ninety five out, do you really want me sweating in your food?"

Her friends snicker and the logic of my appearance dawns on her.

"Well you have a point." She said.

I smile and walk off.

I think about the weather, others have it worse, I've had it worse.

I remember digging stones and boulders out of cornfields in the July heat so the combines would not hit them and break...

My old roommates coming home caked with tar and sweat after a hard days work.

The guys working down the street on a new office building, dark with the burn of summer.

The lady fiddles with her ring and wipes a small glimmer of perspiration from her brow.

There's an old saying, you'll make more with your mind, not your hands.

I think about the tuition check I just sent in, first time I'll see a classroom in almost five years.

The mind, that's the way to go.

She used hers.

And married up.

Me?

I'll manage.