Working as a waitress in a small diner on Route 66 isn’t just about refilling coffee cups and balancing trays — it’s like watching a movie that never ends. Every day, new characters walk in, each carrying a story they might never tell, but somehow, you catch a glimpse of it between the lines of what they order and how they smile.

Last week, a man in his seventies sat at the counter — neat suit, trembling hands, and a pocket watch he kept checking every few minutes. When I asked if he was waiting for someone, he smiled and said, “Just keeping a promise.” He told me he used to come here every year with his wife until she passed away. He still shows up on the same date, orders her favorite pancakes with extra syrup, and leaves the second fork untouched. I didn’t know whether to smile or cry — maybe both.

Then there are the truckers. They roll in at odd hours, smelling like diesel and rain, tired but kind. One of them, Big Mike, always tips exactly $7, no matter his bill. He says it’s for “good luck” — for me, not him. There’s a comfort in those small, steady gestures. You start realizing that generosity doesn’t always come from abundance; it comes from habit.

But the story that stuck with me most was the young woman who walked in crying one night. She sat in my section, barely touched her fries, and then asked if I’d mind talking for a bit. She’d just quit her job, left her boyfriend, and was driving without knowing where to go. For some reason, she said she felt safe here. By the time she left, she was laughing, and she wrote on her napkin: “Thanks for listening, stranger.”

Sometimes, I think waitressing isn’t just a job — it’s a front-row seat to humanity. You see people at their best, worst, and everything in between. And every once in a while, amid all the noise of clinking cups and sizzling grills, you catch a moment that reminds you why being here — just seeing — feels enough.