By Kristy Barry
She flirts with the boys and makes a run for rye toast. Her laugh is a staple in the diner as well as her distinctive response of "You got it, sweetie" when a customer asks for something.
Vivian waitresses at the Central Diner in downtown Newark, six days a week from 6 a.m. until 4 p.m. She goes home after work to take care of her 90-year-old grandmother with dementia.
Yet Central Diner is also a social hangout for Vivian, a chance to meet new people with stories to tell. "I can tell you everyone's life story. Sometimes I just say ‘Good morning,' and here it comes," she says. "Maybe I'm a good listener."
She has soft black skin, a round frame and a pen stuck in the middle of her hair bun.
She scoots off for a chicken sandwich at the counter. I ask her what she does with difficult customers. "I have nice customers, and if they aren't nice I give 'em to Donna!"
("I heard that," says Donna.)
Vivian knows how to make people feel at home at Central. She has four children, and she's used to balancing a lot of plates with a side of cottage cheese.
Last year, her youngest son was hit by a car and shot in the throat playing basketball on a street court. "If he didn't turn his head, he'd be shot in the back of his head," she says, shaking her own head.
"More coffee, guys?" Viv says, not allowing the conversation to droop. The college student in the booth says, "You know you make everyone come here, right?"
"Aw, bless you, baby."
When she was little, she didn't dream of pouring coffee and taking orders. She says she wanted to be an accountant because she loves numbers. "Then, I fell in love—and out!" she says, referring to her marriage of 25 years that took a dive when her husband suddenly jumped ship.
"My life took a little twist in a wrong direction, and the only good thing that came out were my children. I don't regret that, although I could sell them out for a couple hundred," she cracks, throwing an elbow.
She jokes about money because one of her struggles is remaining self-sufficient after being married so long. Her son needed two operations, but her waitressing job doesn't offer health insurance. She had to resort to charity care.
A few months ago the doctors told her she had congestive heart failure. "If you don't give your body any rest, it'll conk out on you. I came home, was talking to my grandma and couldn't talk all of the sudden. Next thing I know I passed out. Nothing felt wrong."
She woke up with a breathing tube in her mouth and thought it was a chicken bone lodged in her throat. "I could smell the chicken," Vivian said, poking fun at herself.
She lives on South 12th Street in Newark in a building in dire need of repair, she says. She'd like to save money to move out of there but has a lot on her plate.
"My family keeps me goin', especially my grandma because I know she really needs me. I bring her snacks. I'll be really lonely when she's gone. I've been with her since I was two." They've cooked together, shopped together and played Bingo together.
Donna starts complaining to Vivian about a guy at the front counter who is "degrading her like a dog."
Vivian comes to the rescue, and from the back you can hear her charming the crotchety man who was ruffling Donna's feathers. "What can I get you, sweetie?"
When asked about her love life, Vivian responds by saying, "Love life? What is that? Put this in the paper, maybe I'll get lucky." Vivian said that her love life is the Lifetime channel, and the remote is her man. "Sometimes I miss that, the closeness. But it ain't over yet. I'm still in there."
Vivian strolls back and sits down in the booth. She pauses, then says she'd like to start dating again. She just needs to get some things straightened out in her life.
"I'll have to move to another state! Always wanted to move to Seattle—far away from everybody. Heck, I probably won't go nowhere."
She stands up and walks up to another table and takes their order instead.
Kristy Barry is the executive editor of the Observer, the student newspaper of Rutgers-Newark. Posted January 2008Vivian waitresses at the Central Diner in downtown Newark, six days a week from 6 a.m. until 4 p.m. She goes home after work to take care of her 90-year-old grandmother with dementia.
Yet Central Diner is also a social hangout for Vivian, a chance to meet new people with stories to tell. "I can tell you everyone's life story. Sometimes I just say ‘Good morning,' and here it comes," she says. "Maybe I'm a good listener."
She has soft black skin, a round frame and a pen stuck in the middle of her hair bun.
She scoots off for a chicken sandwich at the counter. I ask her what she does with difficult customers. "I have nice customers, and if they aren't nice I give 'em to Donna!"
("I heard that," says Donna.)
Vivian knows how to make people feel at home at Central. She has four children, and she's used to balancing a lot of plates with a side of cottage cheese.
Last year, her youngest son was hit by a car and shot in the throat playing basketball on a street court. "If he didn't turn his head, he'd be shot in the back of his head," she says, shaking her own head.
"More coffee, guys?" Viv says, not allowing the conversation to droop. The college student in the booth says, "You know you make everyone come here, right?"
"Aw, bless you, baby."
When she was little, she didn't dream of pouring coffee and taking orders. She says she wanted to be an accountant because she loves numbers. "Then, I fell in love—and out!" she says, referring to her marriage of 25 years that took a dive when her husband suddenly jumped ship.
"My life took a little twist in a wrong direction, and the only good thing that came out were my children. I don't regret that, although I could sell them out for a couple hundred," she cracks, throwing an elbow.
She jokes about money because one of her struggles is remaining self-sufficient after being married so long. Her son needed two operations, but her waitressing job doesn't offer health insurance. She had to resort to charity care.
A few months ago the doctors told her she had congestive heart failure. "If you don't give your body any rest, it'll conk out on you. I came home, was talking to my grandma and couldn't talk all of the sudden. Next thing I know I passed out. Nothing felt wrong."
She woke up with a breathing tube in her mouth and thought it was a chicken bone lodged in her throat. "I could smell the chicken," Vivian said, poking fun at herself.
She lives on South 12th Street in Newark in a building in dire need of repair, she says. She'd like to save money to move out of there but has a lot on her plate.
"My family keeps me goin', especially my grandma because I know she really needs me. I bring her snacks. I'll be really lonely when she's gone. I've been with her since I was two." They've cooked together, shopped together and played Bingo together.
Donna starts complaining to Vivian about a guy at the front counter who is "degrading her like a dog."
Vivian comes to the rescue, and from the back you can hear her charming the crotchety man who was ruffling Donna's feathers. "What can I get you, sweetie?"
When asked about her love life, Vivian responds by saying, "Love life? What is that? Put this in the paper, maybe I'll get lucky." Vivian said that her love life is the Lifetime channel, and the remote is her man. "Sometimes I miss that, the closeness. But it ain't over yet. I'm still in there."
Vivian strolls back and sits down in the booth. She pauses, then says she'd like to start dating again. She just needs to get some things straightened out in her life.
"I'll have to move to another state! Always wanted to move to Seattle—far away from everybody. Heck, I probably won't go nowhere."
She stands up and walks up to another table and takes their order instead.
REPRINTED FROM THE NEWARK METRO
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