Ninety-one dollars was the last of the money that went towards the drive to Colorado. All night she had been a tired waitress of a woman delivering french martinis to a professor with a red bow tie who kept asking her for too much, like: Another napkin, or Oh dear! I dropped my fork, or More apple butter if it does not cost extra, please and, of course, her name. While lines of hungry students and their out-of-town parents inched their way up the wheelchair accessible ramp, quickly reaching the trachea of the hostess, Bow tie just sat there looking all academic and pleasant. She felt like saying “Digest your food somewhere else, Professor. We’ve got a line and I want more tables” but her telepathy was not strong enough. He calculated her tip with an actual pocket calculator. Really? He knows what to give. How much she needs. Sir, that tip is paying for motels and tolls. Gas and snacks. Keno games she will play too many of at a bar in Bassett, Nebraska. She is leaving at six o’clock tomorrow morning so she needs slack to be cut, Bow tie. A tired waitress of a woman in a little, old college town is freaking poor. There is a big trip ahead of her. She delivered him so many french martinis. So many. And after each initial sip, he would look up at her and say “Now that’s a drink.” Oh, finish your silly drink already. She needs to clock out. Roll socks. Write a check for August’s rent. Shower, set the alarm, and fall asleep to either the Cosby show or 93.9’s the River.