@Emily Chen

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Their stories

On The Job

The Gatekeeper: My Life as a Host

The front door of our restaurant is more than just wood and glass. It is the distinct, heavy line between the relentless, rainy bustle of the city and the curated warmth inside our dining room. As the lead host, I am the gatekeeper of that line. My entire shift is a constant, high-stakes negotiation of logistics—managing tables, tracking the passage of time, and navigating the unpredictable ebbs and flows of people’s moods. Guests, as a general rule, hate to wait. It is a universal truth of the hospitality industry. Unfortunately, when that impatience hits, they often look for the nearest target, and more often than not, that target is me. I have dealt with the entire spectrum of human behavior. I have had grown men raise their voices until they were bright red because their table wasn't ready at exactly seven o'clock. I have had people press folded twenty-dollar bills into my palm, whispering requests for priority seating as if we were operating a secret underground club rather than a neighborhood bistro. I have listened to elaborate, transparent lies about non-existent reservations from people who clearly forgot to book ahead. Every shift feels like a mental game where I have to win by losing the ego. No matter how insulting someone is, I have to maintain a facade of serene, polished politeness. I start my work thirty minutes before we officially unlock the front door to study the floor plan like a commander reviewing a battlefield map. I need to know exactly which tables are tucked near the noisy, clattering kitchen where the heat is intense, which servers are currently underwater with large parties, and who among the staff has the speed and rhythm to handle a high-volume rush. The phone is a relentless companion. It never seems to stop ringing, creating a background hum that blends with the noise of the floor. People call to ask if the patio is open despite the pouring rain, if they can bring their dog into our cramped dining space, or if we can squeeze a party of twelve into a space meant for six. I have to juggle those ringing calls with the physical task of greeting the people walking through the door. It takes an immense, exhausting amount of focus to keep track of every moving part. The hardest part, without question, is the complaints. When a guest arrives at their table and declares it is too cold, too close to the door, or too loud, the burden of resolution falls squarely on my shoulders. I have to listen, empathize, and scramble to find a solution that doesn't ruin the server’s flow. I also have to act as a buffer between the kitchen staff, who are often incredibly stressed during a rush, and the customers who are waiting impatiently. Sometimes, when the kitchen gets backed up and the orders are piling up too high, I have to make the call to stop seating entirely. That is when the front area becomes electric with tension. People lean against the velvet ropes, their body language broadcasting their irritation. They sigh loudly, they stare at me, and they check their watches every thirty seconds. I have to stand my ground against those who seem to believe that their reservation is the only one that truly matters. Yet, for all the chaos, the job has its quiet, golden moments that make it worthwhile. recently, an older couple came in to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary. They were dressed up, smiling, and simply happy to be out of the house together. Watching them walk toward their table, holding hands, made the previous hour of yelling guests fade away. I also remember a family that sat in the corner booth, laughing so hard at a story one of the kids was telling that the people at the next table started smiling too. In those moments, I realize I am not just managing a seating chart; I am helping create memories. I am the very first person they see when they arrive, a beacon of order, and I am the last one they say goodbye to as they head back out into the night. I take a quiet pride in making the start of their meal feel effortless, even when the back of the house is total chaos. It is a delicate, difficult balance of math and moods while I desperately try to protect my own peace of mind. By the time I finish my six-hour shift, my voice is usually raspy and thin from talking, and my feet throb from the unforgiving, hard tile floor. I am tired in a way that goes deeper than just muscles. But as I finally reach over to turn off the reservation tablet and dim the lights, leaving the dining room in a soft, empty glow, I know I did a good job. I held the line for another night.

@Emily Chen

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Corporate

The Empty Chair Phenomenon

Kevin sat in the desk right next to mine for five years. We shared the same morning routine, the same lukewarm coffee, and the same quiet complaints about the flickering fluorescent lights above our cubicles. He was a constant presence, a steady rhythm in the otherwise chaotic hum of the office. Then came that day. I arrived at my desk at 8:15 AM as usual, set down my bag, and turned to say something about the weekend. But Kevin’s desk was empty. Not just empty in the way it looks when someone is grabbing a coffee or heading to a meeting. It was barren. His monitor was gone, his keyboard was missing, and the surface of the desk had been wiped clean, devoid of the usual clutter of sticky notes and pens. The computer tower under the desk was gone, and there wasn't even a stray paperclip left behind. It was like he had never existed in that space at all. I sat there for a moment, waiting for him to walk in, but the minutes ticked by and he never showed. The silence where his typing used to be felt incredibly loud. When I finally asked my manager, Sarah, about it, she just gave me a confused look. She said she had no idea who I was talking about. I thought it was a joke. I said, Kevin, the guy in the red tie who sits right here. She just shrugged and told me to get back to the quarterly reports. I felt a cold chill run down my spine. I went back to my desk and opened my inbox, searching for his name to see if he had sent an email about leaving or changing departments. Every single email thread we had ever shared was still there, but they were all empty of text. They were just files full of pictures of kittens. Random, fuzzy kittens. I stared at the screen until my eyes burned. It made no sense. I checked the company directory, scrolling through the list of employees, but Kevin’s name was simply missing. It was as if his entry had been scrubbed clean. I found his old blue coffee mug tucked away in the back of the shared breakroom cupboard, but it looked brand new. It was spotless, without even a faint tea stain at the bottom. I tried to talk to my other coworkers, Dave and Linda, who had also worked near him for years. I asked them if they noticed Kevin was gone. They just stared at me blankly, their expressions shifting into polite, hollow confusion. One by one, they told me they didn't know who Kevin was. It was as if everyone had collectively agreed to erase him from their memories. The whole week was a blur of anxiety. I kept glancing at that empty desk, half-expecting him to appear, but the space just felt colder and more foreign every day. I could not stop thinking about it. Was I losing my mind? Had I imagined a coworker for five years? That evening, I decided to head down to the basement where the company kept the archives. It was a dusty, cramped room filled with boxes and old office photos from company parties and team-building retreats. I spent hours digging through them. I found a photo from last year’s holiday party. I remembered standing right there with Kevin, laughing at some bad catering, but in the photo, my hand was resting on the air, and right next to me stood a tall, lush potted plant. I flipped through more pictures, my heart hammering against my ribs. In every single shot where Kevin had been, there was now a tall, green plant sitting in his spot. It was the creepiest thing I had ever seen in my life. The company was so incredibly focused on being fast and cheap that they treated people like disposable parts. If you didn't bring in enough money, or if you were deemed a liability, they didn't just fire you; they acted like you had never been there at all. They wanted the transition to be invisible. I stared at one photo, my thumb tracing the edge of the leaf on the plant that stood where my friend should have been. The plant seemed to wink at me. A sudden, sharp shiver ripped through me. I dropped the photos and ran back to the elevator. I realized then that the company would replace any of us with a plant if it meant saving a few dollars or avoiding an awkward conversation. The sheer coldness of that realization snapped something inside me. I started working much harder right away. I became terrified of being invisible. I didn't want my desk to be cleared out or my emails to turn into pictures of kittens. I buried myself in my work, making sure I was always visible, always productive, always profitable. I have not seen any more ghosts or plant-people since then, but every time I walk past a potted plant in the lobby, I can't help but wonder if it used to be someone I once knew.

@Emily Chen

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