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David Welch

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Posted Friday, May 18, 2001, at 8:30 PM ET

Being a server means that I get to walk in and out of people's lives. They sit at my tables, in the section that I'm assigned to cover, and with these people come their conversations and joys, anger, and sadness. Some tables want to share, some want to talk, and others wish to be left alone.

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It's usually easy to tell what kind of table they'll be—talkative or not—based on their posture and gestures. If a table wants to be left alone, they won't make eye contact. When I approach a quiet table that doesn't want to talk, their shoulders tighten up at the same moment that their noses sink into their menus. Little is said at these tables, only what is needed. They'll order their food and drinks, and after that communication is often conducted with gestures. If their wineglass is empty, I'll quietly ask if they want another, and they may simply nod, carrying on with their existing conversation.

When I walk through my section with a water pitcher, refreshing glasses that are in need, there is no way to avoid hearing about people's lives. I hear slices of conversations about everything, from vacation plans to work. I overhear discussions about domestic duties and in-laws, financial difficulties and arguments.

Some tables want to talk. They will ask questions or look for recommendations. They may share something about their lives, where they're from or what they plan to do after the meal. Sometimes they'll share something personal, like the couple that held hands throughout the entire meal, radiating something that indicates love. Just after ordering they told me it was their anniversary and that this was their first time out of the house together since the birth of their daughter. Later, after their meal and before their dessert, they shared a wallet picture of their daughter just after she was born.

Guests share any number of things with me. They'll tell me about their vacations, where they lived before Portland, or where they plan to move next. They tell me about their families and how their youngest daughter went away to college this past fall, making their house seem quiet and empty in her absence. They sometimes ask my opinion about a debate they may be having, and although I hate to take sides, I'll always try to be honest without stepping over the line.

Sometimes I do cross that barrier that separates me from the customer, but it's usually with regulars. Like the man that would frequent the restaurant with his mother. He was in his late 40s, and after serving them several times before, he told me how he grew up in Portland but moved to St. Louis for work. He said he had only moved back to Portland recently so he could be with his mother, who was sick. She said she was mad that chemotherapy was taking her hair but that she was happy the hospital was close to the restaurant because it was her favorite place to eat.

Several months later, the man started coming in alone. His mother had been moved from outpatient care to the ICU, and he would come in to eat after he visited her at the hospital. I would see him several days a week, and although I didn't wait on him every time, I would always make it a point to say hello. I would ask how he was and how his mother was doing. We called each other by name, and he always seemed comfortable updating me on his mother's condition.

He came in alone again last night. He wasn't seated in my section, but when I saw that he was finished with his meal, I went over to visit. As usual, he asked how things were with me. I told him about anything that was new, and then I asked how he was. He replied that he wasn't well, that his mother had passed away the day before. He said that the funeral is tomorrow, and after that he plans to return to St. Louis. He said he was glad to have seen me before he left town, and then he wished me luck with anything the future may bring. I told him I was very sorry to hear about his mother, and likewise, I wish him all the best. As he got up to leave, we shook hands and said goodbye. I put my hand on his shoulder as he left, watching him walk past the bar and onto the street. I waited there a moment, standing next to the empty table, before returning to my section, and to my guests.