The Secret Lives of Working Men

By Emily M. Z. Carlyle

“What is your real occupation?” a rich man asked a waiter at an expensive restaurant.

“How do you mean, sir?” the waiter asked, pen poised over his fine, glossy notebook.

“No waiter I have ever met was a real waiter,” the rich man explained. “One was an actor; another – a sculptor; a third – a scriptwriter. Or an inventor. Or a model. Or something. So I’m curious – what’s your real calling?”

The waiter allowed himself a small tight-lipped smile as he gestured at his white apron and black bowtie. “You’re looking at it.”

“Come, come now, surely you don’t consider this the right job for you.”

“But it is. This is what I’ve always done. I even went to waiters’ school.”

The rich man stared at the waiter. The waiter discreetly tapped the empty page in his notebook with his Parker pen. “Would you like to order now or do you need a little more time?”

The rich man ordered a copious meal for one. No more words passed between him and the waiter until the time came to settle the bill, when he replaced his credit card on the little silver platter the waiter offered him with a
calling card as thin as a wafer.

“Call that number any time you decide you’ve outgrown this place,” the rich man said off the waiter’s politely inquiring look. “I’ll have a position waiting for you.”

“I am content with my present employment, sir.”

“Did I say you’d be doing something different from what you’re doing now? You’ll just be paid a lot more.”

The waiter held the calling card undecidedly. “Take as much time as you like,” the rich man said. “Sleep on it. I am an eccentric millionaire with a love of real people. I can wait for you.”

After his shift, the waiter went back to the small apartment where he lived since his divorce. His wife used to say he lacked ambition. He still kept her picture on the TV. He poured himself a drink and walked around the
apartment while he listened to the late-night news. He stared through the window at the dingy back alley outside. He had another drink. Finally he went out, still in the white shirt he’d worn at work.

The sprawling mansion at the address on the calling card was dark. The waiter went around the back, where a single light burned in a kitchen greater than the kitchen of the restaurant where he worked. He knocked on
the back door. The rich man opened; he, too, was in his shirtsleeves.

“The servants are all asleep,” he explained off the waiter’s mildly surprised look.

“I came here to ask you something,” the waiter said. “‘Eccentric millionaire’ isn’t really a calling. So, I was wondering, what is your real occupation?”

The rich man grinned broadly and held the door open for the waiter. “There’s a clean apron by the stove. Put it on. I always like to have a light snack before bedtime.”