the salad ladies usually arrive between twelve-thirty and one every lunch shift. they come in groups of two, pulling into the parking lot in shiny new sedans, fluffing their helmet hair as they open the door and clip inside on one-inch heels. though there are never more than two of them, they insist on sitting at a four-top rather than a two-top. “can we sit at a bigger table?” they ask. with their shoulder-padded jackets, large sunglasses, and suitcase-size purses, they’re going to need the room.
when you go to their table to get a drink order, they ignore you. you put two beverage napkins on the table and smile sweetly, ready to retrieve for them whatever beverage it is they desire, but they don’t look at you. they continue talking as though you were never there, were never born, never existed, giving you no chance to interrupt with a “how are you today?” or a “hello” or even a hurried “drink?” depending on what sort of mood you’re in, you either wait politely until they acknowledge your presence and order drinks, or you leave and don’t come back until you feel like it. when they do finally order, it’s iced tea or weak iced tea or iced tea with extra lemon or iced tea with a straw or water or water with lemon or water with lemon and a straw or water with no ice and lemon and a straw. sometimes it’s water and iced tea.
true to their names, the salad ladies order salad, but not right away. after you bring their drinks, they sit, menus unopened, picking with manicured fingernails at the bread you brought them. some of them talk quietly, leaning forward with their elbows on the table. some are louder, gesturing boisterously with bejeweled hands and expressive faces. either way, their laughter is piercing.
as you take their order, you look down from your notepad at their faces. they glance vacantly at you through tired eyes, makeup smeared haphazardly over freckles and crow’s feet. you can see where their mascara has flaked onto their cheeks, can smell their morning coffee (with skim milk and sweet n’ low). they want to split one salad between them, with no croutons or added grilled chicken. vinaigrette dressing. you picture the dressing mixing with their lipstick to form bright pink oily rings on the edges of their tea and water glasses.
salad ladies eat slowly; you don’t need to collect their salad plates for nearly half an hour. when you do, you ask if they’d like some coffee or dessert, which they decline. you bring their check (with the salad and water and tea, it’s no more than ten dollars), which they pay quickly with a credit card, after which they sit at the table for another half-hour, talking animatedly, reviewing lists on pieces of paper, showing family photos to one another. in the waitstation, scowling at your dollar-fifty tip, you realize that someday, you might be a salad lady. you vow then and there to find some way to go straight from thirty-five to sixty, skipping middle-aged salad-ladyhood forever.
oh, i don’t know.