I work at an Inn. It’s this time, somewhere between 6:00 am and noon where I join my coworkers in the usual motions of the Swift House. It’s a predictable dance. My day goes as follows: clock in, open, wait tables, bus, restock, sweep, close, clock out. It’s this cycle that peddles the operational functions of the Swift House. Clock in, open, wait tables, bus, restock, sweep, close, clock out. Beneath, however, lays the small talk and the inside jokes and Dunkin’ Donuts runs. There are often smiles and bright good mornings. Frequent atta boys and heart to hearts.
I work at an Inn. I specialize in the art of small talk. I know my lines and my automated responses. I keep up with the weather and hold a list of “must-see” destinations in my apron pocket. The conversations are more or less the same. Parents visiting kids or a wedding getaway to Vermont. They ask me about me and I ask them about them. I’ll sometimes throw in the occasional hope or dream which is always followed with a remark along the lines of, “It’s good that you know what you want to do when you’re older.” I really have no idea what I want to do when I’m older, But I’ve decided I’m ok with that. I say something different every time, entertaining each passing interest. And each time, I’m met by the same enthusiastic advice given by each passerby looking to bestow a bit of wisdom upon the young impressionable girl with a whole future ahead of her. “You have your whole future ahead of you,” they say.
I work at an Inn. On paper, my job is as follows: seat customers, wait tables, direct foot traffic, manage the floor, clean the tables, answer the phone, refill the drinks, set the dining room, restock the shelves, polish the glasses, clear the dishes; on paper, my job is simply a job, but I work at an inn, and I love what I do. I love the brief small talk and the constant good mornings. I love the inside jokes and group photos. I love the after-work parties and early morning starts.
I work at an Inn, and when asked about what I do, I keep it light. “I’m really just a waitress,” I say. But to me, it’s much more, and yet in itself, it’s so ordinary. I have to argue that’s what I love the most. It’s a simple delight, the perfumes of freshly brewed coffee, the fireplace illuminating the dim dining area, the older gentleman seeking a cup of tea, and the footsteps of the early risers above me. It’s a joyous experience, one I share with a continuous carousel of strangers moving through the Inn. While one might wish to bask in the extravagance of depth and motion, I find great gratitude for these simple moments as it is within these still times that I may experience the utmost of happiness. It is living only in the subjunctive that one may fall victim to a blinding glare of what could be, and what Is not.
I work at an Inn. A divinely Quotidian pleasure of simplistic beauty and peace. A place where I may find deep gratitude for the overlooked and unseen. A mindset I hope to carry with me past the delicate stained windows of the Swift House.
I work at an Inn.
