A Time, a way, a lifetime a-way

︎︎︎ Evelyn Patneaude

︎ Jan 3, 2026

I am working at the All-You-Can-Eat Japanese Barbecue in Lower Manhattan. I am a hostess. I tap my nails on a tablet screen. I wear an earpiece and I say things like, “Host to Stephanie, Host to Stephanie: Is table ‘cat-two’ ready for a party of two?” into the mic, and they always say “Give me two minutes, give me two minutes,” or they say nothing at all. For two days, I worked at a bakery in Upper Manhattan. It was one of three locations. Each location was run by a different brother, all Greek. I listen to music the whole way home. It’s not really listening, to be honest, it’s just playing it in my ears. Tonight, the trip home takes extra long because there’s construction and they changed up the lines, and I accept that I’ll be confused and I’ll miss at least one part of it, a transfer or otherwise, so I just do it all slowly and without worry, and with music playing, for frequency or for drone or for vibrating feeling. It was hot, that afternoon, when I went all the way to Costco. And I was sweating, dragging a red wagon behind me. And I was hungry. And I spent money that day—$5.75 to wash and dry my clothes, $11.75 for shared custody of two frying pans. At the bakery, my job was to grab slices of cake and move them. Freezer to fridge. Fridge to other fridge. Fridge to tray. Tray to other tray. Tray to box. My feet were hurting, on the way to Costco, and you don’t get to sit or eat at the Japanese Barbecue. You just get to sell memberships. It’s called the “Chubby Club.” I ask a plump Asian American man in the lobby how he found out about our restaurant, in order to collect data for the demographics report due at the end of every night, and he informs me that he is already a member of another restaurant under the “Chubby Club.” I was hungry, when I was in Costco, so I sought out every sample in the store, and I even waited in line for a bite-sized piece of breaded chicken. This caused some stress later on when I realized that I was probably going to be late for my shift at the Japanese Barbecue. I spent the money on the pans and the food and on doing the laundry, and so there’s not anything in my room. A package that is addressed to me contains decaf tea packets and a salmon-pink bath towel.

I am entitled, I thought on the train home. “Am I entitled?” I asked on the train home.

It was all there, laid out for me, and I just put my hands on it and I rubbed them all over and I made a mess, I stressed us all out. I start to crave what already happened. I think, I was wrong, and the right thing cost tuition, the right thing was Mom, washing the sheets and chopping the vegetables, or it was naked and straddling in the summertime, with fingers in hair and in mouths, smiling and shy and looking away. I think, The secret must lie in one of these.

But another package, and I now have a mattress; tomorrow, the mattress cover.

Evelyn Patneaude used to write and work at a restaurant in Seattle, Washington, but she now writes and works at a restaurant in New York City.

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A Time, a way, a lifetime a-way

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A Time, a way, a lifetime a-way

FOURTH WATCH

Animal Story

Goldenrod

Revenge bedtime

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