That was two years ago. His mother was healthy again. His brothers were doing well. But Mateo was still here, still wearing this uniform, still carrying trays of champagne to people who didn’t see him as a person at all. The worst part wasn’t the exhaustion or the low pay or even the rude customers. The worst part was walking past that hired saxophonist every single night and feeling something inside him die a little more.
He never touched a horn. He didn’t even let himself look at it for too long. It hurt too much. “Mateo, stop daydreaming and start setting up table seven.” The sharp voice of his manager, Mr. Peterson, cut through his thoughts. He was a thin man with a permanent scowl, always stressed about something, always ready to criticize the staff.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Mateo hurried over to table seven and began arranging the place settings with practiced efficiency. Dinner plate, salad plate, bread plate, fork, knife, spoon, all aligned perfectly. Wine glass, water glass, folded napkin. He’d done this thousands of times. He could probably do it in his sleep.
Other servers moved around him, everyone working quickly and quietly. They all knew the routine: be invisible until you’re needed. Be polite but not familiar. Never, ever draw attention to yourself. The guests were the stars of the show; the staff were just props in the background.
As Mateo worked, the guests began to arrive. They came in laughing and chatting, air-kissing friends they’d probably seen just yesterday. The women wore gowns that cost more than Mateo’s car, diamonds glittering at their throats and wrists. The men wore perfectly tailored tuxedos, their shoes polished to a mirror shine. They moved through the space like they owned it, which in a way they did.
This was their world; Mateo was just working in it. He recognized some of the faces from previous events. There was the tech entrepreneur who never said thank you, the fashion designer who always sent her food back, the lawyer who’d once snapped his fingers at Mateo like he was a dog. And then there was tonight’s host, Richard Westbrook, a real estate billionaire whose face appeared regularly in business magazines.
He stood near the entrance, greeting guests with a wide smile and firm handshakes, his ego filling the room even more than his six-foot-three frame. Mateo picked up a tray of champagne flutes and began circulating through the crowd. “Champagne?” he offered with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Hands reached out without looking at him, taking glasses without acknowledgement. He was a moving table, nothing more.