'Vega' - Ashley Swank

Staring up at Vega, the brightest star in the constellation Lyra, –and coincidentally, the only star visible in the sky tonight–I hum along to a collection of music that flows easily, though erratically, from Janelle Monae to ALL CAPS to Ke$ha and Lady Gaga.  As the last chord of Oh, it is love ends; I take one last drag of my cigarette before tossing it carelessly into the pile of rocks masquerading as the decor of the restaurant I should be inside cleaning.  I move up and off the hood of my car slowly, not wanting the moment to end.  I sigh deeply as I brush off my apron and straighten my shirt, here’s to my last shift ever here.

I walk into the twin glass doors; setting off the sensor that tells those in back a guest has entered the building.  Kay looks up from her paperwork and I say, “No worries, it’s just me.”  I sit down across the table from her and say breathily, “This is the best last shift ever.” She laughs.  But truly, it is.

It’s been a steady night.  Not steady enough to call it busy, but nice enough that I’ll probably walk out of here with a respectable $80.  I spent my half hour break outside of the restaurant, taking bites of our ‘homemade’ mashed potatoes between pages of The Invisibles and puffs off my cigarette.  My phone playing quietly in the background, it was the most relaxed and content I’d probably ever been in the last six months.

My smoking habit is new, stemming from two unrelated set of circumstances.  The first being that the only time a server ever really gets a break is the occasional smoke break–and when you work a 12-hour shift, it’s nice to just get a few minutes outside with no one questioning your motives.  The second is I’ve always seen something poetic about writers and smoking.  Irrational and illogical as the second one may be, it’s actually my primary driver.  I have very probably been wooed by the marketing campaign of big tobacco.

It’s muggy out tonight and while my co-workers and guests complain of the heat, I find myself embracing the warmth.  Lying outside, it feels like I’ve been wrapped in an invisible blanket while the wind whispers softly in my ear.  Sitting inside the far too cold restaurant–though Kay contends it’s too warm–, I wrap myself in my black, ISU jacket.  I wonder vaguely if there could be any meaning or relevance to Vega being the only star I could see.  After all, I live in a relatively rural town in Iowa; stars are a sight so often seen, their magic has been lost.