The Last Dignified Transaction

By Ben Leib

When I approached the table of young people, I didn’t recognize any of them.  “Hey guys,” I said, “how are you doing this morning?”

“Good,” they all answered.

“Hung over,” one of the boys said.

“Well, in that case, can I start you off with drinks?” I asked, “Water… coffee… orange juice?”

I’d been waiting tables at the Walnut Café for two years now, ever since I’d finished the coursework for my Master’s degree.

When I arrived with the drinks, one of the girls spoke up.  “Hey, you were my TA,” she said.

I examined her.  To me she was a perfect stranger.

“Oh yeah, I remember you,” I said.  “What class did I have you in again?”

“History of India,” she said.

I would never get comfortable serving former students.  Didn’t graduate school bestow some modicum of respectability, some prestige that precluded situations such as this?  And I only agreed to take the job because my debt seemed so overwhelming.  Just for a little while, I told myself, pay those credit cards down, pay those loans off, get back on your feet, and then it’s off to an existence you can be proud of.

“Did you enjoy the class?” I asked my former student cum customer.

“Yeah, it was really informative.  I’m not really an India person,” she said, “and I didn’t major in History either – I was taking the class for general ed. credits.  But I really liked the reading.”

“What was your favorite text?”

“Probably the Ramayana.”

“I dug the Vedas,” I told her.  “TAing that class was actually the first time I’d been exposed to them.  They read like sparse poetry, like something modernist and almost indecipherable, but with these kernels of wisdom, of the truth and the faith that modernists eschew.  Now,” I addressed the table, “are you guys ready to order?”

I was going to do big things, I told myself.  I was always telling myself that.  So, that in mind, I was looking for other jobs.  I was pursuing creative interests.  But in the meantime it was the café – small talk and a pervasive sense of personal degradation.

I returned to the table with plates of food stacked on my arm, announcing the dishes as I distributed them, “Eggs Benedict, ham and cheese scramble, rancheros con carnitas, another Benny here… Now,” I said once the food was on the table, “can I get anything else for you guys?”

I considered what my former student must think, finding her teaching assistant waiting on her at the local breakfast joint.  It was good money there and the hours were good, too.  But how did such a discovery bode for her own bright future?  What kind of advertisement was this for higher education?

As I was clearing their plates, I turned again to my former student, “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what grade did I give you in the class?”

“B+,” she said.  “I deserved an A for the amount of work I put in, but a B+ isn’t so bad.  I’m still getting out of here with a great GPA.”

I apologized and agreed with her that a B+ wasn’t a bad grade at all.

Grades were inflated anyways.  I knew that a B+ student probably deserved a C+, and I wasn’t remorseful about the marks that I’d given, though I was always deferential to customers.

The kids lingered for a moment, finishing their coffees and digesting their food.  They paid in cash and had me make change for them.  I stood by the kitchen door, eyeing them from a safe distance.  I watched as the table conferred with each other, cash in hand, peeled off bills, threw their tip on the table, grabbed their coats, and began to shuffle toward the door.  My student lingered, taking a final sip of coffee.  She didn’t notice me watching her, for she was eyeing her friends as they headed for the exit.  That in mind, she was unaware that I saw her as she reached across the table, swiped up the cash tip, and stuffed it into her purse.