I could feel bile rising in my throat before I had even reached the front door. My first day on the job and I could already sense my flight response kicking into full throttle. The sun was hot on the back of my neck, an unnecessary evil. It was just a diner, on a corner of my hometown that most blue-collar workers paid a visit to during the happy hours. It was a charming spot but lacking design-wise, and overlooking the Pacific City beach on the far north side. I was shocked I had gotten the job at all, but they were low on staff and I was inexperienced enough for the minimum wage they loved to pay. My anxiety gripped me, crafting increasingly terrible scenarios. It was one of those moments I wished I had a paper bag on me. Or a Xanax. But even through my reluctance, I persevered, pushing through the door with a jolt before I could change my mind. I rushed straight through the staff room door by the counter. Behind me I could hear a-ha's latest hit mutedly floating as ambience through the dining room: “I'll be gooooone, in a day or twoooo…” I was immediately met by my training manager, Trina, sorting through receipts at the small circular table by the fridge most employees took their lunch at. Her blonde curls were unruly and there was the stain of mascara smudged in the crow's feet of her eyes giving her a crumpled and weathered look. She was a mom of an empty nest, whose kids hardly visited or called. Her husband had died when they were young, and she tried her hardest to keep things afloat, but to no avail. She had racked up an impressive amount of debt trying to keep her family alive, let alone happy. And as hard as she tried, she couldn't restore what was lost. Now she worked out of comfort. There was nothing waiting for her at home, and every time she reentered that decrepit trailer she was reminded of that. She looked up at me. “Oh hey kiddo, I forgot you were coming in today. Go ahead and throw your uniform on, and I'll be in the kitchen in a few minutes.” She gestured toward a folded shirt with a name tag on top that sat on the small table under the bulletin. Today there was a small take-one poster for a dog-sitting job and a post-it drawing depicting Gil, our head cook, in a bikini with boobs. If said man had seen the sketch, he hadn't said a word. I grabbed the shirt and threw it over my tank top. It was a heinous off-white t-shirt with red and yellow stripes down the sides and a giant “Henrick's Shoreside Eatery” in a bold sans serif. As I pushed the swinging door to the kitchen open, I buttoned the plastic name tag under my left shoulder and was greeted with the smell of whatever was on the grill and an earnest half-grin from the known and beloved Gil. I flashed him a smile and went to the ticket line to see was up. Over the past few weeks, I had tried to test my memory and how well I could retain an order without having anything to write it down with. I created a three-part system: drink, entrée, side (bonus: sauces). Once I have the whole order, I can recite the items in my head in repetition, risking nothing getting forgotten. As I scanned a family order ticket, I went through the steps; coke, water, beer, apple juice, fish and chips, Cobb salad, bacon cheeseburger, chicken strips, fries, fru– Trina pushes open the door before I get the chance to finish and find myself more startled than necessary at her entrance. She gives me a weary yet amused look, but quickly moves on. “Okay, here is how the kitchen works and what you need to do to keep it that way…” We spend the next couple of hours one-on-one, working through the different aspects of serving and cashiering one problem to the next. By the time I gained some confidence, and Trina's sighs of exasperation became less frequent, she announced she was going on break and pulled a beaten pack of cigarettes from the pocket in her apron. I allowed myself to breathe for a moment, and with my first genuine smile that day, I got back to work, but this time all on my own. I waited a few tables and earned a generous tip from an old fisher named Samuel, who told me a few (most likely embellished) stories of his adventures and I couldn't help but get wrapped up in it. By the time I got back to the kitchen, Trina still hadn't come back in from her break. Deciding it was about time for mine since the slight rush had died down, I pushed through the staff room door only to be met by a ghastly sight. The blood seemed to have left my body as I became frozen in the face of Trina on the floor, her eyes wide open but her body unmoving, a bottle of xanax weakly clenched in her palm. I felt a presence behind me suddenly and turned swiftly to find Gil, who quickly pulled me away from the scene and phoned the authorities. Later, I would find out that I was being trained to take her spot at the eatery, and that her passing was not an unexpected one. She was a broken woman, one who missed her husband. And I would never forget my first job.