IN THE DAYS BEFORE the angels on high summoned me to the food industry, I liked to believe that I led a fairly stress-free, happy-go-lucky lifestyle full of stress-free, happy-go-lucky people.
Then came the punch in the stomach, and all went askew. At sixteen, I marched into a restaurant, threw down an application, and had a job in merely seven minutes. Two and a half years of that bologna had me swearing up and down, up and down I’ll never. Do this. Again.
There is something about bullshit that I find absolutely enrapturing. It’s like a chocolate-covered sardine. You see the outside and take it for what it is: a sweet, innocent confection of decadence. One bite of that thing and you realize how disgusting it truly is. But, you keep on eating it because after all, it’s covered in chocolate. That’s the beauty of bullshit! It’s so sweet.
I bought myself a case of these sardines when I was sixteen, and have been gnawing away at them since. Recently I decided to open up a new can, in celebration of working at a new restaurant.
“I thought you said you’d never do this business again?” said my conscience, so clean.
“Shutup,” my money-hungry belligerent twin snapped, throwing down another sardine before signing the papers.
Here I am, now covered in your yakisoba, your sweet-and-sour, your snow peas and baby corn. I have relentlessly refilled your beverage as if my life depended on it. I have made you a priority, while you made me the monitor of your soup, your salad, your godforsaken edacity. I am not a human, but a serving automation programmed to satisfy your every want. I am disposable, just like your stir-fry, just like your egg drop soup, just like the greasy napkins you wiped your face with. Just like every goddamn hair on your head.
The best customers are those that, have either been in the business before and know what you’re going through, or those that honestly believe what you’re doing is worth a darn. That said, families with small children and teenage boys do not fall under either of these circumstances. In fact, they are damn near the opposite. As teenage boys go (or just teenagers in general), they love to eat their weight in food, take advantage of bottomless refills, and then pretend like the service they received was “dec,” maybe even nonexistent. It isn’t until they garner their bill that they suddenly — gasp — are “poor.” Why pay the young woman serving us when we can get by just as well believing that all this food conjured up itself? I can see the thoughts churning through their head, so often dead on. Taste that? It’s sweet bullshit!
Nearby, the Johnson’s sit with their 2-3 screaming, chocolate-milk chugging finger-eating children — the kind of kids that break the crayons. Never mind that little Tommy just tossed three-quarters of his meal on the floor, and the other quarter on the table. Ma and Pa Johnson are a pocket full of sunshine so long as the friendly waitstaff cleans it up, and for what? For a couple of bucks, maybe nothing. Sweet bullshit!
When all is said and done, I paste on that smile, that beautiful hook, line, and sinker. Do I catch something? Not always. If I were you, I’d think busting my ass at your expense was worth a lazy pittance, too. After all, it’s not as though I am making a server’s wage. The clock on the wall says I’ve been here five hours, and you, cold-hearted consumer of deep-fried immortality, were a waste of my time. Go home, now, and think about what you’ve done. Really.
Not to say that all customers are like this — just the ones I loathe.
If there is one thing that restaurants should offer their employees in place of a Christmas bonus, it’s anger management, ideally. With a job comes a price. For me, it was the happy-go-lucky, the stress-free. I can no longer make the trek back from work without thinking of 1/2 – 1 person I’d love to throw something at…hard. Before my food service days, these thoughts only occurred 1/2 – 1 times in an entire day.
I could just as easy quit my job, but I’m not going to. I’m going to stick this out for you; the hump-busting, diet soda squandering, stir-fry philandering. I love cleaning the bathrooms you use! I love being sprinkled with piping hot garbage juice! I love your sweet, sweet bullshit! Dear customer, consumer, loyal lard-licking patron of Mongolian haven — it’s all for you! I am eating these chocolate-covered sardines for you!
I am a human, hear me out! You can have your stir-fry, and eat it, too. Just pretend that you appreciate my service — please.
Sincerely,
Your friendly neighborhood waitress
approximatelyes.com 