Read Online Waiting; The True Confessions of a Waitress by Debra Ginsberg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Debra Ginsberg
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enough possibility that something might happen between the two of us in the future to drive me mad with longing. Ray and I had gone through rather an intense few months hashing all of this out, our confused feelings for each other further complicated by stringent academic demands. By the end of the semester, I found that despite having deep feelings for Ray, I was still in love with his friend. It was an impossible situation. I needed desperately to get away and sort out my muddled emotions. I wanted to be in a place where nobody knew me and where I would have to rely entirely on myself. Kitchen or no, Yellowstone seemed like the perfect place to do this.
I decided to take the job.
In the weeks before I left, as we divided up our pots, pans, and pathetic collection of furniture, all I heard from Ray was how he couldn’t believe they hired me instead of him. He wasn’t convinced our relationship was over and he believed he knew what was best for me. “You’ll never make it there,” he warned me. “You don’t like hiking and you hate snow!”
“This job has nothing to do with snow” was my response.
My parents thought that working in Yellowstone was a great idea. They felt I’d grown entirely too dependent on Ray (they’d never gotten over the fact that I’d moved in with him against their express commands) and too immersed in the cloistered environment of school. I had been the first child to leave the house and go away to school (although school was only a half hour away, I didn’t live at home and visited only on holidays), and the growing pains as I attempted to separate from my family had been particularly intense for my mother and father.
With all this psychological baggage packed securely along with several sticks of incense, a thick notepad, and some warm socks, I boarded a bus to Wyoming. The bus took a convoluted route to Yellowstone, driving first to Tacoma, through Montana, and down into “Big Sky” country. It took two days to get there. In Tacoma, I was befriended by a trucker on his way to Bozeman.
“Why don’t I take you out for a sandwich when we get to Spokane?” he asked. “I know the city really well.”
“OK,” I agreed, although I sensed I probably shouldn’t. But after all, I wondered, what could really happen? We were both captive on the bus, and he would be getting off before me. He didn’t seem like the type to kidnap me and force me into slavery. This was to be the first of several leaps of faith I made on my journey.
At first it seemed as if overriding my instincts was the right thing to do. My trucker was personable and acted like a benevo lent uncle. He bought me a grilled cheese sandwich in Spokane (we ate very near the bus station at my request—I wasn’t a total idiot, after all) and told me about his life on the road, an ex-wife in Idaho, and a ten-year-old son he adored but didn’t get to see very often. I drank coffee and he ordered beers for himself. By the time we reboarded the bus, I felt he was an old pal and something of a protector.
Deep into Montana, in the dark of night, my trucker decided to become more than a friend. I sat next to the window and he sat in the seat next to me. Gradually he edged closer and closer, until I was wedged against the glass. Since I was obviously not taking any of his hints to get cozy, he finally began pawing at me in earnest, sliding his hands along my legs first and then pro gressing up. When he made a move for my breast, I slapped his hand off and said, “Please don’t do that.”
“Aw, come on, honey,” he said. “It’s real dark. Nobody will see.”
“No,” I said and contemplated bursting into tears. I felt he’d let me down, somehow, and now I was going to have to hate him for the rest of the trip. Mostly, though, I just felt incredibly stu pid for not anticipating this scenario. Because I felt totally responsible for getting myself, literally, into such a tight spot and because I was more than a little
I decided to take the job.
In the weeks before I left, as we divided up our pots, pans, and pathetic collection of furniture, all I heard from Ray was how he couldn’t believe they hired me instead of him. He wasn’t convinced our relationship was over and he believed he knew what was best for me. “You’ll never make it there,” he warned me. “You don’t like hiking and you hate snow!”
“This job has nothing to do with snow” was my response.
My parents thought that working in Yellowstone was a great idea. They felt I’d grown entirely too dependent on Ray (they’d never gotten over the fact that I’d moved in with him against their express commands) and too immersed in the cloistered environment of school. I had been the first child to leave the house and go away to school (although school was only a half hour away, I didn’t live at home and visited only on holidays), and the growing pains as I attempted to separate from my family had been particularly intense for my mother and father.
With all this psychological baggage packed securely along with several sticks of incense, a thick notepad, and some warm socks, I boarded a bus to Wyoming. The bus took a convoluted route to Yellowstone, driving first to Tacoma, through Montana, and down into “Big Sky” country. It took two days to get there. In Tacoma, I was befriended by a trucker on his way to Bozeman.
“Why don’t I take you out for a sandwich when we get to Spokane?” he asked. “I know the city really well.”
“OK,” I agreed, although I sensed I probably shouldn’t. But after all, I wondered, what could really happen? We were both captive on the bus, and he would be getting off before me. He didn’t seem like the type to kidnap me and force me into slavery. This was to be the first of several leaps of faith I made on my journey.
At first it seemed as if overriding my instincts was the right thing to do. My trucker was personable and acted like a benevo lent uncle. He bought me a grilled cheese sandwich in Spokane (we ate very near the bus station at my request—I wasn’t a total idiot, after all) and told me about his life on the road, an ex-wife in Idaho, and a ten-year-old son he adored but didn’t get to see very often. I drank coffee and he ordered beers for himself. By the time we reboarded the bus, I felt he was an old pal and something of a protector.
Deep into Montana, in the dark of night, my trucker decided to become more than a friend. I sat next to the window and he sat in the seat next to me. Gradually he edged closer and closer, until I was wedged against the glass. Since I was obviously not taking any of his hints to get cozy, he finally began pawing at me in earnest, sliding his hands along my legs first and then pro gressing up. When he made a move for my breast, I slapped his hand off and said, “Please don’t do that.”
“Aw, come on, honey,” he said. “It’s real dark. Nobody will see.”
“No,” I said and contemplated bursting into tears. I felt he’d let me down, somehow, and now I was going to have to hate him for the rest of the trip. Mostly, though, I just felt incredibly stu pid for not anticipating this scenario. Because I felt totally responsible for getting myself, literally, into such a tight spot and because I was more than a little
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