[ tip your server :: their stories ]

Part IV of IV. All names have been changed for privacy.

Coffee shops are interesting in the mornings, especially around 8 a.m. or so. Women in the business world straighten out their suit jackets - another 12-hour day follows their daily caramel latte. Older men add a newspaper to their coffee order and sit in the same corner seat for hours reading that USA Today cover-to-cover: the Yankees lost last night. We're sending more troops overseas. Gas prices are continuing to skyrocket.

Oftentimes before I'd begin early-morning breakfast shifts I'd be there, too, ordering myself a cup of their house blend (add skim milk and one Splenda, please) and a muffin and be on my way to serve dozens of guests of my own, who would want coffee and muffins too, and who even liked shredded cheese on their grits. I'd accommodate their requests, even if it took an extra 45 seconds to refill the ingredients reserved for salads and other items in the "prep area." Time is money in a restaurant whose guests expect pleasant service, fresh food and subsequently, a toothy grin to boot.

Some seemingly important things - like caffeine to start an early morning, MLB and even the injustice of a three-dollar gallon of gas all began to quickly fade away when I was awakened to reality beyond my doorstep and my comfortable lifestyle in small-town, northern Ohio: realities of food stamps and of broken-down apartments and of alcohol dependence; of one-night stands and of domestic violence and of this place, this kitchen, defining stability and security in the life of these servers.

These were their stories:

Karen, who - without a doubt - was one of my favorite coworkers, ran out of food stamps in late July and couldn't afford formula for her four-month old for at least another four days. One afternoon when we were in the midst of a shift change, Karen and I passed one another and I noticed that she had slimmed down and was wearing a brand-new pair of khakis with her pink oxford shirt. She hadn't bought any clothes for herself in six months, she said. Karen loves Mountain Dew and zucchini, but only indulges every so often.

Dawn - the super-server - had a birthday and was scheduled to work (we needed her that morning), but was so hurt by her husband refusing to spend time with her on her "damn birthday" that she left - in a hurry, unable to force out a word.

Matt - the associate manager - who believed his career was dependent upon 12-hour days, and of nodding in full agreement during meetings with the regional manager, had to support his wife, and his daughters. In a heartbeat, Matt's heart would soften if you asked to see photos of his beloved family.

Stories of getting "stiffed" and later catching up with a $20 tip from a few college students; real-life things like poverty and brokenness both intensified and forgotten about (even if for a shift) in the kitchen. On the floor. In that place.

No words or stories can adequately describe what is out there - beyond this place we call home, and in the lives of those who live-out service, day-in and day-out. But as future businessmen and women - and maybe even doctors or lawyers or teachers - we must see beyond their aprons and frizzy hair; their off-day mistakes and confused orders.

A $4 tip becomes $40, and $40 buys formula and pays apartment rent; $40 isn't ten medium cappuccinos, but an oil change that has been on the back burner for months, or a credit card bill payment that is two weeks overdue.

Tip your server.

(15 to 20 percent is adequate for tipping a server at a restaurant. If you are part of a large group and the restaurant - like the one I worked at this summer - does not have an automatic gratuity added on to your bill, consider at least a three to four percent increase on top of what you usually give if you are in a smaller party. Tipping.org is also a good Web source.)