It started, like many traumas, with eye contact and hope.
I was ordering lunch. Nothing dramatic. A turkey sandwich. No mustard. Sparkling water. I said it with poise. Clear diction. A gentle smile that said, "I'm emotionally balanced and tip 20% like it's a religion."
He nodded. Then he said it:
"You got it, boss."
And that's when everything collapsed.
At first I thought it was good. Encouraging, even. Empowering. The world has few rituals left. Maybe this was one of them. A small, sacred masculine exchange. Man to man. Stranger to stranger. A whispered moment of social fraternity passed down from truck stops and locker rooms and gas station subcultures I will never truly understand.
But then the doubts crept in.
Why boss?
What did he see in me that said "boss"? Was I radiating entrepreneurial fatigue? Had I ordered like a regional manager?
What if it wasn't respect? What if it was containment?
Because here's the thing: There are levels to "boss."
There's the real-deal boss, the guy who owns the building and eats the same thing every day and nobody talks while he chews. Then there's the fake boss — the try-hard, Bluetooth-in-the-ear boss. The guy who refers to salmon as "protein."
And then there's the third category:
The pitied boss.
The man who is called "boss" because his power has vanished and all that remains is a ceremonial title. Like calling your divorced uncle "Coach."
I looked at my reflection in the napkin dispenser.
Do I look like a man who needs that? Did he clock my softness? My oat milk aura? Was I being gently propped up by a stranger in a graphic tee and indoor sunglasses?
I replayed my order. Was it the way I said "please"? The pause before "sparkling"? Was I too grateful? Did I bow?
This is the problem with language that pretends to empower. It creates emotional debt.
I walked away wondering who I was.
The other waiter said "brother." That felt warm. Familiar. Like a handshake you can hear.
But "boss"? "Boss" is complicated.
It's regional. It's coded. It can mean:
You are in charge.
You are clearly not in charge.
You just parked your Dodge Charger diagonally.
You are wearing Crocs, and we respect the audacity.
We are afraid you might write a Yelp review.
It's not gender-neutral. It's not class-neutral. And worst of all:
It leaves you wondering if you imagined the whole thing.
I tried to let it go. But I found myself standing straighter. Tipping more than I planned. Leaving with an air of resolve.
He had given me something. Or had he?
Was it a gift? A trick? A dare?
I couldn't stop thinking about it. That night I watched videos of mafia movies. I started calling my plants "team." I emailed someone back with the phrase "Let's circle back." I downloaded an app that tracks protein.
Was this who I was now? A man forged in the fires of unsolicited social elevation?
Or had I been played?
Because here's the dangerous truth:
Once someone calls you "boss," you either become one — or you collapse trying.
I returned the next day. Same waiter. New shirt. A more assertive walk.
"Turkey sandwich again?" he asked.
"You know it," I said, nodding like a man with access to legacy wealth.
He smiled. Then he said:
"You got it, chief."
Chief? Chief?
This was a promotion. Or a demotion. Or a test. Or all three.
I stood there, stunned, as he walked away.
Did I pass? Did I fail? Was I being rebranded against my will?
Chief. Boss. Captain. Big guy. Legend. King. Each one a possible life. Each one a possible end.
Now, I live with the memory. I carry it like a leather folio I don't know how to use.
"You got it, boss." It echoes.
When I close deals.
When I order sushi.
When I tie my shoes with a little more resolve.
He said it casually. He said it fast. But it broke something open.
Maybe I am the boss. Maybe I'm not.
But I know this:
No one has called me "man" since.