On the short walk from the parking lot to the back door of the place where I work, I put on a black apron. The door is locked. I let myself in with a copy of the keys.

I get to the café before it opens, most days. Brew some coffee. Make sure the case is full of cake etc.. Switch on the oven and the panini machine and the machine that keeps the soups warm. The hour before customers arrive is busy, but quiet. There’s an easy repetition of the same simple tasks every shift. Prepare vegetables for the cook (usually me) – red onions, lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, chickpeas, olives, roasted red peppers. Restock the fridge from the pantry in the back. Wash some dishes. Slice enough bread to make a night’s worth of sandwiches. Make sure there’s enough beer and wine. If there’s time, make up a few plates with strawberries, cherries, brie, cheddar, gouda, an assortment of crackers.

Once customers arrive, I sometimes take orders at the register, like –

How can I help you?

Cup of soup of the day and a side salad, please.

That’ll be $11. Thanks.

If I can help it, I usually work back of house. I just feed people. Soup, salads, quiche, sandwiches, occationally a veggie burger or an avocado toast, soft pretzels with salt. It’s easy. I can do this without having to think.

When I was learning how to cook the food on the menu, the men I work with tended to hover and try to offer lots of helpful advice and detailed feedback in real time. No, don’t do it that way, try this – it works better. They quickly discovered how much I dislike being told how to do things when I’m working in my own kitchen. Most of them didn’t like me very much until they began to understand this about me.

Sometimes I’ll run an order out to a table, or make a latté at the espresso machine.

When I open a beer or pour a glass of wine for a customer, I am immediately transported across time into the collective consciousness of every bartender who has ever poured drink for anyone since the first civilization figured out how to brew their own booze. It’s kind of surreal.

We host live music every night. Usually jazz standards, sometimes bluesy gospel, sometimes classical guitar, sometimes unexpected genre bending collaborations. The music is sometimes too loud, but it’s nice to have something to listen to while I’m sweeping the crumbs off the floor.

There’s art on the walls – paintings or photographs from the artists in residence. It rotates each month or so, and we host art openings. Available for purchase, fun to look at.

I stay late enough to close down the kitchen at the end of the night. Put things away, pour out the coffee, scrub each the tables with a rag and a cleaning spray that smells like oranges, sweep and mop the floor, close the register, check to make sure all the cash is accounted for, wash all the dishes, take out the trash.

When everything is done, I’ll lock up and walk out to my car and drive home.

Something I think about often is the notion that I could dye my hair black, move away from home, change my name, and do this kind of work in any bar or café in any little town anywhere in the English speaking world. With a little work on my language communication and comprehension skills, I could probably work anywhere.

And it’s not perfect, you know? It’s not really what I want to do with the rest of my life. There’s more out there, for me, I hope.

But it’ll do for now.