In between my college studies I waitressed.

The job was generally quick paced and it was great to leave work with cash in my pocket. I particularly loved finishing my shift with no need to think of or do anything work-related, until I returned.

My coworkers were often middle aged women who had made waitressing their career. I learned about sciatica from one of them, and heard of bad backs, corns on the feet, and other hazards of the trade. There were few young waitresses and I was the only student. Even though it was clear that I would be moving on, they never held it against me.

I took pride in doing my job well. I spoke the parlance of the kitchen: whiskey down was rye toast, eighty-six meant we were out of something. I learned to carry six coffee cups with their saucers in one trip, but one mishap where I burned my hand, made me adjust my technique to something less impressive. Ditto for carrying two full armfuls of plates-no burns just a mess.

The wait staff was exclusively women and the bosses were always men. Like elsewhere some were kind and others less so.

One evening, I asked my not-so-nice boss if I could leave directly at the end of my shift. My coworkers were all fine with it and I would do all the necessary preparation beforehand. He grudgingly agreed. That evening was very slow and I had no problem finishing all my duties. But he said I had to wait until the others were done too. “If you don’t like it you can leave and not come back.” It was not the first time I had witnessed his bullying attitude. I briefly considered the circumstances. I had never quit a job before, but school was starting again soon and I had some savings. If need be, I could find another job elsewhere.

I walked out the door.

I’ve always been grateful that I could.