A Cater-Waiter to the Elite

Dear Diary:

Once there was an intrepid young man who, freshly draped with the lush greenery of an Ivy League degree, saw the world at his feet. Those feet soon became calloused and blistered, however, by the demands of an interminable sentence of hard cater-waiting (just punishment for his majoring in English).

This most-likely-to-succeed, ever-aging dreamer fell in line with a stream of anonymous drones dressed in slop-stained polyester tuxedos, ladling out untouchably rich food French-service-style to the very brand of socialite from whose loins he had himself sprung as a wide-eyed child of privilege a distant generation before.

Having nearly lost sight of himself and his dreams alike, he at first couldn’t even hear the balding blueblood at the Metropolitan Opera’s gala opening banquet, who, as the dessert plate went down (from the left, of course; a floating island, what else?), said: “You’re much too clever-looking to be in this line of work. What do you really do?”

Startled beyond recognition, our protagonist could only sputter, “No guest has ever asked me anything about myself before.” (“Guest” is catering verbiage for “them.”)

The generous titan awaited an answer.

“I’m a writer.”

As the kind old chap opened his mouth to give what promised to be a fully soul-restoring appraisal of the scribe’s still-untapped promise, he was cut off by his adjacent wife, who didn’t trouble herself with looking up as she snapped:

“I want more coffee.”

And with that, the young fellow returned to form and went to do her bidding.

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