$2.15 per hour and all that goes with it You need to be warned. The next couple of minutes could get ugly. I’m just in the perfect mood to be condescending, whiney, moody, and arrogant. I refuse to be kind, considerate, polite, or happy in any way. Those are both long lists of things I currently am and am not, but I forgot to mention the most important thing I currently am: a waiter. This is the source of all my bitch and angst. It is my hell.Ben Hutto We are the living dead. With plastic smiles and oodles of fake enthusiasm, we descend upon you. We will do anything you ask of us, because all we are is glorified beggars. We accept the blame in all things. It is, literally, our job. We will do anything for the table scraps that most people call: tips! That’s right! Spit spelled backwards is our driving purpose in this bloodsucking business. (Get it? S-P-I-T. The letters. Ah, screw it. It’s not that damn funny anyway.) The food’s wrong? That’s my fault even though I didn’t cook it. It took too long to get your order? Ditto on the former. Had a bad day and need someone to take it out on? I’m your guy, yet again. Hookers make money prostituting themselves. Pimps make money prostituting other people. Drug dealers make money prostituting other people’s misery. We have the glory in prostituting our pride for that 15% that you don’t give a damn about. Pathetic, isn’t it? I’m attempting to ignore it as I write this suit’s order on my pad. He’s one of these guys just devoid of all personality. I mean, he’s trying, but he just doesn’t have it. I look at him study our menu like a chimp doing a math problem and fight the urge to strangle him. I know he’s going to order the porterhouse “burned to a crisp and don’t be stingy with the crisp,” His wife knows it. Every server that’s waited on this asshole knows it. Hell, he knows it, but there he goes studying each item like they’re Egyptian hieroglyphics. Meanwhile, my other tables are rattling the ice in their glasses, muttering how shitty the service is, and plotting ways to deduct from that near nonexistent tip amount they were going to leave me. God, they are pissed, but here goes Mr. Crisp Porterhouse taking his time. So help me, I’ll scream if he orders the… “ Hell, I’ll take the porterhouse.” “ How would you like that cooked?” I inquire in my most kiss-ass tone. Please just say well done. Please just say well done. “ I’ll take it burned to a crisp and don’t be stingy with the crisp.” I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. His wife laughs like it’s the first time she’s ever heard it. (Come on lady, it wasn’t really that funny the first time he thought it up. It’s your turn.) My problem now is Mrs. Porterhouse. She definitely has a personality. No doubt about it, she’s a total bitch. “I don’t see anything I want,” she says in that slow nasal tone. “You wouldn’t by chance have chicken alfredo would you?” She knows we don’t have it. We’ve never had it. Does that stop her from trying to order it every time they come in here? No. She wouldn’t have a reason to bitch then. When I meekly reply “No, maham.” she tears into me like a pit-bull. I swear she lives to crawl my ass every time I can’t give her that precious Golden Fleece known as chicken alfredo. After a few minutes of fierce complaints, she assumes the salmon “will be all right,” and sends me away. Why me? By this time, three of my tables in this five table section are low on drinks and have been for quite some time. They glare and mumble as I hurriedly apologize and attempt to fill them. Of course, quite a few have put them across the table from me. I mean just out of reach. Ain’t that a bitch? At this point, I have three choices. I can: A. Say the hell with it and not bother. My tip is blown anyway! B. Knock my guest out of the way, push their plates on to the floor, and triumphantly fill their glasses. Or C. Meekly inquire if I can fill up their glass. At this point, they will give me that “Why are you bothering me? “It’s about time.” time” look and let me do it. I always choose answer C and dream of doing the other two. To top it off, it is my pleasant discovery to find that table four couldn’t wait for me to deliver his bill and has left me 30 dollars. His bill is $30.50. Gee, thanks pal. Not only did you stiff me, you screwed me out of two quarters. I wish someone would just shoe me in the groin. Maybe then I could go home. Where in the hell is my partner? This guy was 30 minutes late. He has caked himself in cologne, but the unmistakablesmell of weed is all over him. Fired, right? Wrong! My manager writes him upand tells him to help me get caught up. He had the nerve to ask if I was goingto split the tips with him. Thank God there were no steak knives around. Nowhe is probably in the back huffing on a doobie with the bus boys. I hate workingwith stoners. It’s not that I mind weed. Hell, just about every one that works here usesany chemical they can pour, smoke, shoot, or snort into their body. It’sthe only way to wind down after work. Everyone says that, but I know its bullshit.Earlier, I called us the living dead. We’re more like vampires. We sleepall day and do everything else by night. It’s the proverbial viscous cycle.Work, play, crash, get up, and do it all over again. Welcome to the life of afull time server. We are the guys who make career out of this. We don’thave the initiative to shoot for management. Odds are we fucked ourselves outof that a long time ago. We are college drop outs, divorcees, career “C” students,and the guy that can’t pass the piss test to get a real job. We come innight after night to pimp ourselves for $2.17 an hour and whatever droppingsthe wealthy leave behind. It’s usually not a lot, but you can always makeenough to pay rent and find a buzz. You might notice I said $2.17 an hour. You did not mis-hear me. We actually makelower than the minimum wage. I know that in most instances, the word minimummeans the lowest amount. This is not the case in regards to our means of makinga living. Because we may or may not make tips, restaurants have figured out away to legally pay less than the actual minimum wage. It’s called servingwage and it is the biggest scam on the planet. Get this, on top of not gettingpaid minimum wage; we have to help pay the bartenders, the host staff, and thebus boys. This is called tip out. It is nothing more than a legalized extortion.We basically are told that these guys are going to do these jobs for us and wehave to pay them. I think if we refuse, management will break our legs or something.I don’t know. We learn not to ask questions. We don’t want the managementmafia to take a hit out on us. My partner greets me as I walk into the kitchen. He wants to know if he’sbeen sat. I want to know where would be a good place to hide the body if I can’tcontrol the urge to kill him. He gets this clueless look and asks “What?” asI stare at him with a disgusted look on my face. Why did I drop out of college? Oh yeah! I thought I wouldn’t have the patience to be a teacher. I guessI really didn’t think that whole thing through. I never do. I chose tofloat downstream rather than swim up. I’ve always been one for the easyway. Ambition just was not in my genetic make-up. One time, I found two pathscoming home late one snowy evening. I chose the path of least resistance. RobertFrost can kiss my lazy ass, also. I walk back into the kitchen looking for Linda, my manger. She’s rightwhere I expect her to be: in the office talking on the phone with her boyfriend.The store could be on fire, and she would need 15 minutes to tell him goodbye.God forbid, if you need change for a 50 spot. That is what you call professionalism,ladies and gentlemen. “Linda.” She ignores me and keeps on yapping. “Linda.” Ditto first response. “Linda.” Got a reaction that time. “What do you need, now?” What, I don’t have a name anymore? O.K., fair enough. “Table 203wants to talk to you.” “Why? What’s wrong?” “His meal came out all screwed up because your grill cook has smoked more dopethan Jerry Garcia and is as fried as a road lizard. I need you out there. Theyare pissed.” She rolls her eyes. I hate that. Jesus Christ it’s not like I cooked thedamn food. I’m just the damn middle man. “Tell him we are sorry andI’ll comp it.” “He wants to speak to you, Linda.” “I’m busy. Just tell him.” I can’t take it. Screw this job; it sucked anyway. “Unt-uh. You doit.” The look of sheer shock on her face is priceless, but she is pissed. “What did you say?” squeaks out. I could back down now, but… “Screw that, Linda. I don’t get paid enough to do that shit. If you don’twant to do it, pay me your salary. What is it? 15 or 20 a year sounds about right.Give me that and you take 2.17 and all the shit that goes with it.” ThereI said it. I guess I can always find another waiting tables job. “I could fire you for that,” is her only reply. She’s trying to giveme a way out with that one. I should just shut-up right now, but… “No, you can’t. I quit. Now you’ve got to get off the damn phone anddeal with this asshole. I’ll be here Monday to pick up my last piss-antcheck. Good luck,” and away we go. As I walk back out into the dining room, I’ve never felt better. My tablesstart rattling their empty glasses at me like they’re pissed off diamondbackrattlesnakes. Sorry guys, I’ve got you one better. I raise both my middlefingers and never break stride. For the first time tonight, my partner is actuallyin the section. He sees the whole thing. I wink. He’s speechless, but forthe first time tonight he looks sober. “The tips are all yours Chong. Justremember, you owe me the fattest joint you can roll the next time I see you.” Hesmiles as I stroll through the front door. I think I’ll miss waiting tables.I’m never going to get away with this shit teaching. |