I blankly stared at the glowing screen in front of me and instinctively raised my warm cup of coffee to my lips and took a much needed gulp. I planned out the night in my head; which reservations would go where and which server they would have. I had been doing the same thing for almost a year already and I was comfortable in my position.

“This is something I wouldn’t mind doing until I leave for college”, I thought to myself.

The loud buzzing of guests enjoying their drinks at the bar fell to background noise as I noticed in my peripheral that some people were entering the vestibule. I set my now getting cold coffee down and prepared to greet the group with a routine but seemingly genuine smile. I politely but casually asked how they were doing and if they had any reservations; two questions that were drilled so hard into my head that I would say them in my sleep. An older, bald headed man, who I presumed to be the host of the party, stepped forward to answer my question.
He intrusively leaned on my host stand and confidently said, “Johnson, party of 6”.

I scanned through the list of reservations and found the one with the last name of “Johnson”.

“Such a cliche last name”, I thought to myself with an internal sigh and eye roll.

I dragged their reservation across the floor plan on the computer -which identically matched the physical one in the restaurant- and let go over the table I would take them to. The man jutted into my train of thought.

“The nicest table you have, sweetheart”, he said, as if his request was going to change what table I was going to put them at.

“Oh wait, let me just mess up the whole rotation and double-seat a server just so you and your friends can have ‘the nicest table we have’, as if that exists. News flash: they’re all the same.” I laughed to myself in my head.
My hands automatically picked up the appropriate number of menus and as courteous as I could be, I instructed them to follow me to the dining room. To fill the sometimes awkward, silent walk back to the table, I regretfully made small talk with the man who had such a basic last name.

“Have you dined with us before?”, I asked him, as I do with most guests.

The host walked closer to me and leaned in to answer my question with a smirk.

He slyly said, “No, but I wish I have”.

I ignored his insinuation and stepped further away from him to continue on to the table. When we arrived, I indicated to them with my hands that this was where they would sit. While the majority of his party began to take their seats, he slowly looked me up and down with primal eyes as if I was a piece of juicy steak he would order for dinner. I had never been so appalled and uncomfortable while working.

He then demanded, “You got a boyfriend?”, as if he had the right to know anything he wanted about me.
I wanted to scoff in disgust but my job required me to act professional and sweet because, “the customer is always right”. So I held myself back from reacting how I usually would.

I slapped a smile on my face and flatly stated, “I’m 15”.

His confident smirk turned into an “O” and all he could say was the same thing mimicked on his lips: “oh”. He took his seat and I handed him his menu, hoping he felt as disgusted in himself as I felt about him. The chatter of everyone else in the restaurant found its way back into my ears and realized I had to complete my job.

I addressed the whole table to say, “Your server will be right with you, enjoy”.

I gave them one last smile and turned away to walk back to my host stand. As I strutted back to my little castle of comfort and protection, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself.

“Men are really something”, I thought with pity.