I push a loose tendril of hair out of my face as bend down to collect various dishes and cups from the table of the customers I’ve just served. I lift a coffee cup, and a five dollar bill comes into my line of sight. I smile to myself, and pocket the tip. I carefully balance my collection of plates and cups, and take them back to the dishwasher in the kitchen.I’ve worked at Marco’s Café for just over two years now. It is a quiet, hole in the wall place. The whole place is full of dark, reddish wood and black leather furniture. The aroma of coffee fills the air, as well as the scent of freshly baked bread. I had discovered Marco’s at the end of my freshman year in college. I certainly couldn’t afford to eat there- it was geared toward more sophisticated clientele, rather than appealing to the usual college-town crowd- but I could certainly apply to work there. As luck would have it, another server had just left, and I was hired almost as soon as I applied for the job.