May 14, 2006
Work.
I don't miss working holidays in restaurants. I don't miss working late night for shitty pay, doing tons of stuff for ungrateful customers and (occasionally) bitchy staff. I don't miss working weekends, and I don't miss only getting three hours a day with my girlfriend for five days a week.
Unfortunately, I had to wade through that sewage pond before I could reach dry land. Coming out to L.A. with little to no job experience was the worst thing I could have done for myself, vocationally speaking. All I had under my belt was a bit of floor installation experience for my uncle and a little bit of cashiering experience for a little shitball bookstand, and lo and behold I took what I could get, which just so happened to be a crappy job as a busboy, making a whopping $6.75 /hour plus tips for four/five hours a night.
As much as it blew, I needed to show people that I could keep a steady job before I could go anywhere.
I had no restaurant experience. I knew how to cook, sure. I knew how to mix drinks. I knew how to make sandwiches. But dealing with customers? Fuck no. Carrying trays laden with drinks? Meh.
I probably broke three or four wine glasses my first night.
After finally getting comfortable with the place and people, I met the bane of my short-lived existence there: An anorexic, screeching harpy of a hoodrat waitress who worked two nights a week and always griped about not getting paid enough and having to make ends meet. Thankfully, I only had to deal with her for those two nights, but I put up with her constantly bellyaching about how slow I was, how slow the kitchen was, how I was supposedly ignoring tables, blahblahblah.
My manager was talking to her one night, he asked how I was doing, and she made the off-hand comment "Oh. Well, he'll make a good professional busboy."
His jaw dropped. He immediately went into attack mode. "Jesus Christ. That's insulting. He's just passing through, trying to get a good recommendation and a few names for his resume, and you're suggesting that he's going to make a career out of it?"
When he told me about that little conversation, I just stood there. Silent. Pissed off. Determined. I brooded on it for a bit, then considered the source: a woman who was thirty some-odd years old, making a few bucks waitressing tables at a small restaurant two nights a week and (according to her) making very little doing god-knows-what else the rest of the time.
Two years later, I look back from a much more comfortable pay scale, better work hours, a better work environment, and I raise my middle finger to her and her comments.
Here's your professional busboy, honey. Enjoy your life.
Now, the only association I have with restaurants is when I eat at them or get bored and peruse various service-industry horror story websites.
But it's a thankless job, no matter what you do. Especially in L.A., what with the various prima donnas, drama queens, and entitlement wenches/jerks breathing down your neck like a disgusting, sweaty pig of a date with bad teeth, bad acne, and hairy legs. There's a scheduled time when all the elitist scum crawls out from the ornate woodwork of their overpriced Beverly Hills home and populates the hip spots on the Westside, and many unfortunate food-service workers get swept up in the wave of flesh, botox, silicone, Prada, and Blackberry phones. They get whisked around for a while, bossed around, practically spit upon, and tossed out hours later, eaten up with frustration and nothing to show for it except for a handful of meager tips.
Even the best of the best still have their grievances with their work. And amongst all the bad customers, crappy situations, broken equipment, and skipped bills, service workers still have that common bond with other service workers.
And even then, it's just a job.
Posted by Jake at May 14, 2006 07:49 AM
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