Yellow spirit

A while back, two years ago, a friend from school, when he started working, got his first job as a waiter at some kind of exclusive condominium in the city. The guy always told me the tips were good there, that money was changing hands, that it was worth it. I needed money at the time. I couldn’t play poker alone, so one night he told me, “Go work at a house.” It was a 15-year-old girl’s birthday party. I thought, how hard can it be? Just serve people, that’s all. I went. I went upstairs. At first, the hard part was the organization: tables, plates, people who didn’t know what they wanted. I think the hardest part was getting everyone to eat. After that, it was all downhill, because everyone was drunk and no one was making any clear demands. I had to stay until two in the morning. I stayed. I sat there, talking to the housekeeper, taking my shots of aguardiente. Around one o’clock, they didn’t really need me anymore. The party had become private, closed off, and I was just in the way. I stayed seated. They paid me. Not much for me. But I understand that for many—for people whose reality isn’t distorted like mine—that’s fair pay. I suppose. The funny thing is, they gave me two bottles of yellow liquor because there was so much left over. So much. The irony is that they wouldn’t let me take any food. There wasn’t any left over, or at least nothing for me. Anyway.