The End.

Dear Talid,

I’m writing to give you my official two weeks notice. I no longer am able to work for this restaurant. Thank you for everything.

I look forward to visiting.

I quit today. I was asked to put it in writing.

Giving my notice via email wasn’t the dramatic ending I was hoping for. I imagined quitting to be monumental. Dramatic. Colorful even. I had hoped for that single moment where I told the large party who wanted separate checks at the last minute during Sunday brunch that “No. We don’t do that here, and by the way, it’s selfish of you to ask. You see how busy this place is, right? So, given that you’re one of ten tables in my section that all need something at the same time, this little itemization you’ve asked for, this sudden separation of the checks will take thirty minutes, and frankly I just don’t want to do it. Have a nice day!”

Or. Something much worse, yes. I’m envisioning the woman wearing a white blouse and a leopard skirt who didn’t leave a tip after serving her for over an hour. She actually wrote a “0” under the tip line. I’d given good service. Her order was correct. The food hot. What went wrong? Oh, her husband smiled at me a few times. That’s definitely my fault. Of course. I’m imagining walking by the woman holding a glass of wine in my hand and — oh no, oops! — I’ve accidentally spilled the drink all down the woman’s shirt, ruining it. But, it was a mistake. I’m so sorry. Let me buy you a cookie to take home. Then I face the woman, smile, and flick her off.

Or my personal favorite. My hefty manager shouts, “Did you take chocolate chip pancakes to table five instead of blueberry?”

“Um….” I glance at the table. The child has chocolate smears all over his mouth.

“Yes. I must have accidentally grabbed the wrong ones. I’m sorry.”

“Wake up Alice! Those chocolate chip pancakes are for table thirty one — not five. Don’t you even know what your own table orders? Pay attention next time!” he reprimands, loudly. But this time, instead of apologizing like I’m so used to doing, I walk up to him, take a bite out of some food item he’s holding, and tell him a few choice words. I untie my apron, drop it in a heap onto the floor, and walk out the front door. I’m free. At last.

But nothing of the sort happened. I just wrote an email. So very anticlimactic. But maybe it’s better that way. After all, sometimes the fantasy is better in your head anyway.

I made this decision last night and today I followed through. I’ve come up with another job. Something creative. I can set my own hours. I’m trained in the field. And … I’ll have time to focus on writing another feature film. I’m letting go of being comfortable and I’m scared to death. But I heard someone once say “Nothing worth it is easy.” And nothing I ever did that meant anything was.

Alice can be reached at AliceActress@yahoo.com.

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