Thank you to the waiter

⏱ ~4 min reading

Tarasik and his dad went to a small coffee shop on the corner. It was the first time his dad had taken him alone—without his mom, without his sister—to lunch. Tarasik felt almost grown up.

The coffee shop was quiet. Checkered curtains hung on the windows. On each table was a small candle in a glass ring. It smelled of coffee and fresh pastry.

They sat down by the window. A waiter approached them, a young man in a white shirt, with a towel slung over his elbow. The man had a cheerful face, but it was obvious that he was a little tired.

— Good afternoon! What would you like to order?

Dad looked at Tarasyk.

"What's wrong with you, son?"

"Pancakes with jam. And juice. Can I have apple juice?"

— You can.

The waiter wrote it down. He smiled.

— And you?

— I'll have coffee and an omelet with cheese.

— I will.

The waiter left. Tarasik watched him go. The guy was carrying three plates on another table at the same time — two in each hand. It seemed magical.

"Dad," said Tarasyk. "Why can he do that?"

"Because he learned. It's his job.".

— Is it a job to carry plates?

— Carrying plates, being polite to people, remembering orders, clearing tables. It's a lot of things all rolled into one.

Tarasyk nodded. He hadn't thought before that being a waiter was a job.

After a while, the boy brought him pancakes. Three large pancakes, hot, with raspberry jam. Next to them was a glass of apple juice. The straw stuck out, striped like a candy cane.

Tarasik looked at his plate. He looked at the waiter.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

The waiter stopped for a second. He was already putting down his fork and knife. He looked up in surprise.

— Thank you, young man. Enjoy.

His voice sounded different than when he took the order. Warmer. As if little Tarasik had given him something.

When the waiter left, Dad looked at Tarasyk.

"Did you see his face?"

"Yeah. He seemed happy.".

— Do you know why?

"Because I said 'thank you'?"

— Because they often don't tell him. People come, order, eat, pay. And leave in silence. And he's a human being. He's also pleased when he's noticed.

Tarasik thought for a moment. He took a fork and dipped it into the jam. The pancake was warm, the dough fluffy. In his mouth it was like a sweet cloud.

Dad ate an omelet. Pancakes and an omelet are different flavors, but the dinner seemed equally good.

When the plates were empty, the waiter came over again.

"Tea? Coffee? Dessert?"

"Can I have the bill, please," said Dad.

Tarasik looked at the waiter. There was a small stain on his shirt—probably from coffee drips. He was smiling a little tiredly, but still—smiling.

The waiter brought the bill. Dad gave him the money. Tarasik watched as the boy took it.

"Thank you," Tarasyk said a second time.

"No, I'm thanking you, my friend," the waiter replied. "Come again.".

When they went outside, Tarasyk followed his dad and thought. He thought about the word «thank you.» Before, it was just a word for him. Like «hello» or «goodbye.» But now it has become different. A word that does good to both the one who thanks and the one to whom.

"Dad," Tarasyk said. "Why is 'thank you' so special?"

— Because it's the simplest of all kind words. Anyone can say it. A child, an adult. Free. But it's like a little coin. It falls into someone's heart and chirps there.

— Is it chirping?

— It rings softly. And the person feels a little warmer.

Tarasyk imagined coins chirping in people's hearts. From the waiter - from him - "thank you." From the salesperson in the store, to whom his mother said "thank you" in the morning. From the neighbor, for whom his father held the door.

If everyone said "thank you," people's hearts would ring like a whole bunch of little Christmas bells.

Tarasik looked at his father.

— Dad, thank you.

"For what, son?"

"That's why you brought me here. And for the pancakes.".

Dad smiled. He picked up his son in his arms — even though Tarasik was already big. Tarasik hugged his dad around the neck.

Something chirped in Dad's chest too. A small coin. From his son.

We were going home on the tram. Tarasyk looked out the window at the city that was running away. And he thought about how many people were waiting for their "thank you" today. And how many - they had to say for themselves.

From that day on, Tarasyk said "thank you" a lot. To the saleswoman. To the cleaner at the kindergarten. To the bus driver. To the aunt who gave him a fallen hat in the yard.

Human hearts chirped softly. And Tarasykov's was the loudest.