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"oh christ," i say, wiping my black hands on my apron. "is there any way to open the basement door without getting grease all over your hands?"

don glides by with a tup full of hummus. "it's a kitchen, dude, there's no way to do anything without getting grease all over your hands."

i smirk and swat him on the arm, leaving a black smudgy handprint. "har har. i get it. but i'm busy, i have to go serve customers. what am i supposed to say, 'hi, i'm jill, i'll be your waitress. don't mind the hands, i just gave my car an oil-change'?"

"right behind you!" calls meg, carrying a tub of ice.

don chops vegetables. "it's not my problem," he says over his shoulder. "have fun."

i playfully give him the finger, signalling the end of the pugilistic banter that's a standard in the kitchen. i run past the grill where dave is flipping chicken. i book it to the bathroom to wash my hands, trying vainly to get the last traces of grease off of my fingers; i only succeed in turning them a sickly gray.

i'll probably be moving so fast that the customers won't notice, though.

two minutes later: a large black man and his pretty girlfriend are taking forever with their drink order. i feign patience and say solicitously, "should i come back?" i've got about 6 tables to take; that wasted time in the bathroom really hurt my efficiency. "no, no," says the man. "what kind of gingerale do you have? is it seagrams?"

i pause, uncertainly. we make our 'gingerale' by filling a glass three quarters of the way with slice and the rest with pepsi. i usually smile and say yes when people ask if we have gingerale and then proceed to fake it and hope they don't complain. "uh," i say. "i'm not sure what brand it is, exactly..." i glance back into the kitchen through the window.

"oh," says the large man confidently. "just bring it to me. i'll be able to tell what brand it is."

i grin. "okay," i say. "be right back."

i take another flurry of drink orders, scrawling on my notebook in uppercase. i shove it in my left pocket and run back to the kitchen - i start back to the soda fountain to fill drinks when dave shouts "jill!" and slides number 301's lunch order onto the pickup counter. hot food takes priority, so i change direction and grab the food, stabbing the yellow kitchen copy of the check on a metal spike. while i'm balancing the four plates on my arms, i shout over my shoulder, "hey bern, guess what?"

the blonde waitress hunched over the register asks me "what?" in her cute raspy voice - like a little girl who smokes a pack a day - and then waits until i've given my customers their food, asked them if they needed anything else, and scurried back to the kitchen. we resume the conversation without pause while she punches numbers into the register. "this guy thinks he's gonna guess what brand of gingerale we carry."

she giggles. "good luck. let's hope we don't get busted." she winks and carries a tray of waters out onto the floor; tania breezes past with an armful of used glasses and plates while i make a glass of "gingerale" and carry it outside to the large black man.

"well?" i ask, after he takes a sip.

he swallows, squints, and smiles at me. "definitely seagrams."

i have five hours and forty-three minutes left to go.