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Well, that, and I haven’t actually gotten a job I’d want.

“No, not like that,” Mrs. Stevens says. “Lighter. Springier, like the notes are sassy.”

I still take piano lessons, but it might be out of habit at this point.

I was a music theory major, and I’ve taken piano lessons since I was twelve, so you’d think that by now, I’d be teaching lessons instead. Or maybe I’m still taking lessons because my teacher has my dream job and she lets me help her most weeks.

After another twenty minutes of somewhat rewarding torture, my lesson’s finally over. That’s when the fun part starts. “I thought you might want to take a look at this one.” Mrs. Stevens hands me a sheet of music.

“Who’s it for?”

“The Honda dealership.”

“And?”

“They want it to be fast, upbeat, and staccato.”

I lift my eyebrows. “They said staccato?”

Mrs. Stevens laughs. “Of course not.”

The world around me disappears as the notes on the page begin to play in my head. Her jingle isn’t bad, but it’s soggy in the middle. Right when it should really pop, it sinks. “This line is the one that needs work,” I finally say. “You should bring it up a third, and maybe cut the weird chords here.” I point.

“Like this?” Mrs. Stevens’ fingers fly over the keys.

“More like this.” I sit next to her and she shoves over. As I’m showing her what I meant, I have another idea. It’s a good one.

“Oh, that’s much better.” She plays it twice, and then she tightens it up a bit more, condensing two measures into one to segue better than mine. The bridges are always the trickiest part. Almost an hour later, when I leave, it’sperfect. She lets me sit in on the conference call when she plays it for the client.

To the car dealership, the melody is probably the least exciting part of their commercial, but Mrs. Stevensand I know that we’re making the magic happen. The reason people will remember the commercial, the reason they’ll think of Holdam Honda is because we did our job.

Of course, it’s not reallymyjob. It’s hers.

But still.

One day, hopefully. I have applied for over a dozen jingle jobs in the last year, but they’re hard to land. It’s a job that can be done from home, and it’s a job that most everyone who can play basic musical instruments is qualified to do. But you canwork from home, and for an introvert, that sounds magical enough already.

Add in the bonus that you’re able to take the notes I love so much and turn them into a limitless number of new songs that will stick with people, and it sounds like nirvana. Being paid to create music that people will hear, and I can do it in my pajamas in my own home?

Please and thank you.

Unfortunately, with as long as working on that jingle took, I barely have time to shower before my shift. My long hair takes forever to dry, so I always try to blow dry it before heading in. I’m going to wind up with water all down my back, but hopefully my hair will cover the damage itself. Sometimes I wish we had a more flexible dress code, but it’s nice not to stress over what I’m wearing as I pull on the same boring black pants and white button-down shirt that I always wear.

Our uniform could turn a supermodel into a frump, but when you start out at barely five feet tall, and you already have almost nothing in the way of curves, it’s a death knell. When I pass the mirror, it could be a teenage boy staring back.

Not that it matters. When I wait tables, I disappear. It’s actually my favorite thing about the job. Yes, I haveto interact with a never-ending stream of people all night long. And yes, the other wait staff and cooks are talking to me constantly, but it’s not the kind of thing that requires thought or effort. It’s, “table five needs this cooked longer.” Or “they need water at table six.” None of them care about me—the diners or the staff—and I like it that way. I’m a tool to them. I show up with a pleasant expression, bring their waters, their mojitos, and their whiskey neat when they ask for them. Their food is hot. Their drinks are cold.

And I get a decent tip.

They promptly forget me, exactly like I want.

There’s actually one guy who literally comes in every single Friday night at eight p.m. He has eaten at Red Horse for more than three years, since a few weeks after I started working at the Westchester, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know I’ve been his waiter every single week. He’s a pretty good tipper, so that’s just fine by me.

Actually, I like it that way.

I don’t have hard feelings about being invisible. In fact, it’s the one thing in the world I’ve always been best at. Waiting tables is the kind of job where people noticing you and remembering you is a liability. The less they think about their waiter, the better you’re doing your job. It means their drinks are never empty. Their check is never wrong. And their food is donejust right.

The key to that, of course, is making sure the chef and other cooks like me best.

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