Zazen - By Vanessa Veselka Page 0,3

something run by a collective. You know, with art on the walls or some kind of theme.”

I got the job at Rise Up Singing through Credence. He dated a cook there a few years back, a girl named Jimmy. It has a “we all work in hell but that’s okay cause we don’t have to take out our piercings” kind of theme.

Jimmy and Credence met at the Pride March. I was just home from my first year in grad school and told Credence I’d help him with this rally. We went to the march to pass out leaflets for a demonstration he was organizing to try to pressure Payless Shoes on labor standards (700 million Chinese watch transfixed as Credence and Della hand out lavender leaflets and strain to bridge the gap between identity politics and general global class-based oppression. Strain…strain…). Jimmy was on the back of the flatbed with a bunch of other half-naked women cheering on gay Christmas and passing out dental dams and candy.

I started whooping when the parade went by and forgot to hand out fliers. Not Credence. He made sure everyone who passed us had a lavender quarter sheet on sweatshops and fully understood the connection between gender and class. Someone was throwing glitter in the air and it rained on me and I started crying. I always cry at Pride. I can’t help it. It’s like everything’s going to be all right and it’s all going to end well. I just can’t take it.

A big girl, as tall as me, and I’m tall, maybe 5’ 9” or 5’ 10”, jumped off the back of a truck and ran over to us. Her hair was short on the sides like she’d shaved her head in the past few months. The ends were blonde and the rest, brown. I thought she was Latina but she’s not. She was bare-chested, wearing jeans and suspenders. In her hand she had a plastic firefighter’s hat.

“I’ll take one,” she said.

Credence gave her a stack and started to talk about the campaign but she ran back to the parade to catch up with her float. She swung up onto the back of the truck, put her fireman’s hat on and smiled back at us before being swallowed by confetti.

Credence, whose hope never falters, didn’t find her obvious gayness to be a stumbling block. She did come to the rally and they hung out. He convinced her that she was committing some form of gender oppression by shutting him down just because he was a dude. That lasted about a minute. I’m pretty sure, from what I know of her, that today she looks on her two months of recalcitrant bisexuality like some sort of Mandan piercing rite; a final trial before being declared gay for life. They stayed friends though and she’s been a cook at Rise Up Singing since it opened.

So, I start waiting tables at Rise Up Singing. The walls on the outside are the color of egg yolk and there’s a mural of neighborhood black people enjoying gentrification on the side of the building. I bet that was one big Popsicle stick snap. SNAP! Toaster prize: one mural honoring multiculturalism on egg yolk. Y’all eat soy, right? Annette, do you like macaroni and cheese?

The owner’s name is Franklin. He started Rise Up Singing when every business on the street had bars on the windows.

“I like to think of myself as a coworker with lots of experience rather than a boss,” Franklin said.

I like to think of myself as a boss more than a slave but mostly I prefer to not think about it at all because when I think about it, I can’t stop.

“Okay,” I said.

Coworker Franklin lowered his voice and leaned in a little.

“We are mostly vegan but we want to be friendly and welcoming to our meat-eating friends so please bear that in mind,” he said.

I saw Annette’s face looming black and carnivorous. Try to be friendly, don’t make eye contact, back away slowly. Make macaroni and cheese. Side dishes are non-confrontational and potentially evocative of a southern heritage.

On my first day at Rise Up Singing I waited on both Mr. Tofu Scramble and his nemesis, Ed, Logic’s Only Son. They each come every day and sit at the counter with an empty stool between them.

Mr. Tofu Scramble: So, Della, is this your first day? By the way, do you know if Franklin has ordered spelt yet?

Ed, Logic’s Only Son: So what’s wrong with butter and