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Scott puts James Blunt on in the background, low enough so we can still hear the baby monitor, and together we finish the bottle of wine.
In the morning I decide that, for now, I’m going to go be a waitress again. For one thing, I have experience and I’m positive I’ll get hired. But more than that, what better way to make a statement? What better way to rebel than to simply walk away and say, “I would rather be a waitress than be a part of your system; I would rather return to square one than embrace what you’re offering.” It’s the best statement I can make, and it’s the only power I have. I can’t wait for the opportunity to tell people and watch their surprised faces and hear their shocked voices when I say, “Yes, I was a college professor but it really isn’t what it seems, and I’m choosing not to be a part of it.” At least, I hope it makes a statement.
I try it out during my first shift. I ask a table of four how they're doing tonight and they say great, they're having a good time. They just went to a movie.
“Oh yes,” I say, “I love watching movies. Almost as much as reading books. I taught English Composition at the university, so I read a lot.”
They stare at me and nod. Two of them look down at their menus and flip them over to find the list of drinks.
“What kind of beer do you have on tap?”
I don’t have the beer list memorized yet. I rush off to the bar, and return with the information. Meanwhile, two more tables have been seated in my section. No time to tell my story. I start running and I don’t stop for four hours. By the time my last table pays, I'm exhausted. The job’s a lot harder than I remember.
Over the next couple shifts, luckily, little tricks I learned over the years of waitressing come back to me, and it gets easier. It’s like riding a bike, I guess. Once a server, always a server. Within a week I’m right back where I left off. Almost. There’s one slightly large difference. Whereas I used to be great with the guests, I’m now having a bit of trouble tolerating people. I don’t think it’s them. They’re the same as they’ve always been: rude, demanding, condescending. That’s just how they are, and I used to let their rudeness and ignorance slide ride off me.
But now it irritates me when I’m treated like a servant, even though I am there to serve people. It bothers me when I overhear conversations between people who don’t know what they’re talking about. It infuriates me when people act like they’re better than others simply because they have money. I see the latter a lot. People go out of their way to make sure that the servers, bussers, and even management know that they can afford whatever they want. One customer actually opens his wallet when I greet the table and shows me a stack of hundred dollar bills.
“See this?” he asks.
“Yes.”
Then he sort of nods, as though some important information has been communicated here. I just raise my eyebrows. Does he expect me to be impressed by that? Does he think that the forty dollars he’s going to spend here is somehow better than the forty dollars a working class family is going to spend on the same meal?
I roll my eyes and mutter under my breath as I walk away, and after a few weeks I start talking back. Just little jabs here and there when they’re really deserved.
After a long, busy week, one of the cooks comes in for dinner with his three children. This is our hard-working, loyal cook who slaves under extreme temperatures night after night, never complains, and is always pleasant and helpful. This is a special outing for his kids, and they really want to order burgers. But the cook whispers that he can’t afford that, so they order three plates of fries and one burger to share. I take the order and then go into the kitchen to find Mike, the manager-on-duty, and tell him the story.
“Can we can order the burgers and put them on the house?” I ask.
“We can’t start comp-ing meals for employees, or everyone will expect it.”
“Come on,” I push. “Just a couple burgers.”
“Sorry. Corporate policy.”
And that’s that. Corporate policy. So I go to the server station and order three burgers on a separate account, which I’ll pay for out of my own tips at the end of the night. I bring a burger and fries for each of them a few minutes later, and tell them that they’re on the house. “Just a little thank you for all you do,” I whisper.
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