Help’s Kitchen

(I work at the continental breakfast bar at a chain hotel. My job is to make sure the food is constantly filled and the tables are wiped down. A little boy, maybe three or four years old, is sitting with his parents. The boy is screaming, throwing food, and in general causing a racket. While wiping down tables, I hear their exchange.)

Boy: “I don’t want to go!”

(Despite his mother trying to reassure him, he continues to scream.)

Father: “You know what? Fine. We’ll leave you here. Come on, honey.”

(The father makes a big show of gathering his wife’s purse and their nearby bags. The boy looks extremely satisfied. I chime in.)

Me: “Oh, no! Don’t do that!”

Boy: “…Why?”

Me: “That’s what my parents did to me! The hotel wouldn’t let me stay in my room, so they put me to work serving breakfast!”

Boy: “They wouldn’t do that!”

Me: “Well, I was too little to make food, so they had me crawl under the fridge and clean it because it was so dusty.”

(I cast a glance toward the kitchens.)

Me: “You could probably fit under there.”

(Any skepticism on the boy’s face is long gone. He bursts into tears and apologizes to his parents. His mother calms him down. As the family leaves, the father mouths ‘thank you’ at me. I made a child cry, but I got a positive review online from the family!)