Minimum Wage Pie By Nickalas Adams   The waitress sweeping the floor moves slowly, in a manner which reminds me of dying. I sit in my booth with its high padded back and clear divider extending even higher. I keep wondering how an hourly wage lasts in a society that has historically demanded more. Maybe it’s just that people have too much else to be concerned with, like paying the bills their wages nearly cover so the satellite TV isn’t shut off. I stare up at the TV now, but only so I can watch the young couple behind me out of the side of my eye. They look hung over.  After all, it is Sunday. They have the remainder of the week to…