Her words, like her Facebook messages, surprised me. I never thought Dorothy had a bad aftertaste from the job. Everyone had liked her because she was warm and sociable. She was friends with the other waitresses, and she’d maintained a more or less stable relationship with Diego, the night manager, for years. Along with the cooks, they were a kind of clique, and when the restaurant closed, they used to stay drinking at the bar or go to some after-party. Sometimes they invited me, but I always bowed out saying I had to study or wake up early. The truth is, I didn’t go out with them because I thought I’d get bored. They didn’t seem interesting enough—people I thought I’d have nothing in common with and nothing to talk about.

“I thought I was the only one who suffered,” I told Dorothy, laughing. “Well, me and Denka.”

“Denka . . .” said Dorothy, looking to one side and twisting her mouth in an undefinable grimace.

Denka was another night waitress, a student like me. Her real name was Zdenka, she was of Serbo-Croatian descent, and she had a thick nose and red hair and skin. She lived with her mom in an apartment across from Apumanque, so she could allow herself the luxury of a taxi to get home early. She was considered a rich cuica, and no one really understood why she worked; clearly, she inspired resentment in those of us who had no choice. That, combined with the fact that she wasn’t a particularly likable person—she yelled, complained, and exaggerated—meant she wasn’t treated well and had to put up with unpleasant situations.

The general atmosphere in the restaurant wasn’t very friendly, or not for everyone. The service industry night shift is a savage and hostile subculture. Many of the waiters did coke when they worked so they could keep up with the pace. And given that the salary was based on tips, the competition was tough and unfair. Friday’s was a petty autocracy, which meant that Diego’s friends had the best tables and the easiest tasks. That’s what I mean when I say I suffered. It was one of my first serious jobs and maybe I blew things out of proportion, but I remember many times when I couldn’t take the pressure and I had to lock myself in a cubicle in the employee bathroom to cry. The only thing that consoled me was the thought that all that suffering was temporary. I was only in my first year of college and a professional job seemed far away, and that’s why I began to nurse the idea of applying for a literary grant in poetry—a classmate had won one without doing much—that would keep me away from Friday’s and any other job. I think I never wanted to be a poet more than I did then.

“Poor Denka,” I added, laughing.