Specials - Shane Koyczan

She won’t tell you about the specials unless you ask her to.

She says, «You are expected to participate in this life so don’t be shy to ask questions.»

Tammy’s real name is Dorothy.

Its the first thing you’ll learn about her,

when she points to her nametag with a finger like a switchblade that’s been

flirting with a waterbed, looks you in the eye and says, «This isn’t me.»

She’ll go on to tell you that Tammy is the best waitress in the whole wide

world.

If mountains had heart strings, Tammy woud have them curled around her fingers,

and she would be mining hard rock for heavy metal.

Skipping each love-me-not flower petal, until all that remains is the love,

love me.

Dorothy doesn’t ask if you want coffee.

She pours it hot, careful not to hit the brim, just shallow enough to leave

enough room to turn up the volume with cream and sugar if that’s how you take

it, I don’t even drink coffee.

But I can see that she has danced this dance so often that her steady grace

depends on this routine.

She’s been subjected to cruelty over empty cups of coffee, treated as if she is

somehow responsible for your long night or rough morning.

She holds a pen like a warning and is not shy to remind you that she doesn’t

take orders, she takes requests.

You can tell her what you’d like, but if you’re not polite about it,

she’ll point you to a sign that reads: Shoes and shirts are nice,

but manners are a must.

If you wanna be served, you better dust off your ettiquette.

Better sit like you did back in whatever grade that mad it clear to you that

your teachers are not your parents, and that any mess you make remains your

responsibility.

Dorotthy has set the bar so high for world’s best waitress, that I wonder about

Tammy.

How could she hold a candle to this woman who’s kicking wisdom into me as

swiftly as she’s kicking the bullshit out.

She tells me about dreams.

She says, «My dreams are helium balloons, and I’ve made the mistake of letting

go a few too many times but I still got this one.

Tied it around my finger like a wedding ring, because even though I don’t

believe in marraige, I’m gonna bring this one home.»

And I want so bad to ask her what her dream is.

But today I’m thinking maybe its enough that she has one.

Maybe its enough that she’s holding on to something in a world where everything

else floats away.

Maybe this one should stay her business, this one thing that she shouldn’t have

to explain to anybody.

Kinda like the fact that she gave up softness a long time ago.

I know because she wears her eyes like two diamonds, cut into spheres,

and she will look at you hard.

The other diners would call her blunt, not me, I would call her up-front.

LIke that kid at the front of the class that always has his hand raised