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When I Asked My General Manager if I Could Start Training as a Soup Bar Attendant
by Crystal Lane Swift Ferguson His response was, “Your height is my only concern.” “Come with me,” I said. There was so much strength in my voice that I hardly recognized it as my own. He followed me to the kitchen of the Souplantation. On a shelf, just to the right of the row of kettles, about five inches above my head were four stacks of cylindrical soup containers. The clean, heavy, metal vats were stacked eight to ten high. I positioned myself just below the shelf, heaved my weight from the center of my foot to the ball, to the toes. I rocked forward, caught the edge of the bottom vat with my right hand, pulled it about an inch over the ledge, and propelled the pile down toward my shoulder and awaiting left hand, while simultaneously spinning to catch myself on my slippery Doc Martins (of course I hadn’t worn my recommended Shoes for Crews that day) and set the pile on the waist-high counter behind me. I couldn’t hide the streams of sweat cascading down my forehead, cheeks, and dripping down onto my once crisp, clean white Oxford. My General Manager, Lance, flashed a teasing grin, then handed me a step stool. “Or you could always just use this.” |
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