As I revealed in
my last column, I am a writer. I write things. Words are written out by me, and
I write them on the page. I am all things writing, and all things writing are
me. With the pen I am master of the sword; with the page I am king of the
world. Anyone who reads my words will squeal with delight—they cannot fathom a
world in which a man of my poetic brilliance isn’t making Stephen King levels
of cash-money for the words that I tap from my veins.
…the thing is, I
don’t make Stephen King levels of cash money for my words, so I have to take
any odd job that I can get. Which brings me to my topic for this week: the
nights I spent waiting tables at T.G.I. Friday’s, selling my dignity just to
earn the tips that I didn’t always get (mostly because the customers didn’t
believe in tipping—this fact they felt the need to tell me almost immediately
after receiving their check).
Writers often
have to take other jobs to supplement their bank account needs while they
pursue their passions. I didn’t necessarily expect to talk about one of the
darker supplements that I had to take up when I started to think up ideas for
this week’s column; the memories of that place plague me to this day, and fill
me with enough nightmares to fill up a few hundred pages’ worth of online
reporting. Much of that material came about only a few years after I left that
place—while I was working there (during those nearly three years of my early twenties)
I mostly felt miserable, and I couldn’t write so much as a haiku. It was hell,
and I came out of it alive but with a few massive scars on my back.
I had good times while I worked at that place, and I had a few firsts while I was there.
I had good times
while I worked at that place, and I had a few firsts while I was there. I drank
my first beer at the employee Christmas party (it was a PBR, and I quickly
learned to switch over to Sam Adams and Blue Moon). I had my first post-high-school girlfriend while I put in my hours there; while things ended horribly
with that young woman, I am at least grateful for the lessons I learned while I
was with her (though I wish that they could have come to me without so much
kick). But for all the good that came my way, that doesn’t change the cold,
hard fact that there was one thing I could never shake off from the old memory
banks.
It was those
customers who came in to eat of our food. They were the arbiters of every
server’s existential torment. And now’s the time that I must tell you the story
of two particular arbiters who provided for a particular set of torments,
specially made just for me.
It was late in
the night, sometime in the fall of 2013. I don’t recall the exact day that it
all went down, though I seem to remember it was a Monday. And Mondays are never
great to begin with—either with work or with life. I ended up being the closing
waiter for the night, which I wasn’t even scheduled for but I agreed to switch
with the head girl who was going to close because she’d had her wisdom teeth
taken out that day and was in pain (how she’d managed to make it as long as she
did I hadn’t a clue). Everything about that night’s shift was set to be as
boring as any other night, but I had no idea what was set in store for me come
closing time.
The guy was a frat boy stoner dude. The girl was the kind of girl who goes for the frat boy stoner dudes.
The hours ground
down to nearly a halt, to the point where time seemed to stretch on into
forever. But finally we got down to the end of the night, and I had my last
table before I could clean up and make like hockey to get the ‘puck’ out of
there (yeah, yeah, I know—puns are lazy writing, so sue me). Only I couldn’t
help but loathe the couple that I was serving.
The guy was a
frat boy stoner dude. The girl was the kind of girl who goes for the frat boy
stoner dudes. Between the two of them there wasn’t a working brain cell—try and
casually mention the possibility of reading a book and they get touchier than a
Boy Scout on his first date (don’t judge me; I was a Scout, and I lived through
the pain). When they weren’t whispering various forms of the word ‘ass’ in
reference to me—just loud enough so that I could hear—they were drawing crude
pictures of male genitalia on their napkins with a Sharpie.
The guy was knocking
back schooners of Blue Moon like they were nothing; he must’ve had a good six
of them in a 40-minute interval. The whole time he spent making sex eyes at his
girl, and as I watched him play the part of a drunken Casanova I thought back
to the line attributed to Shakespeare—the one about something increasing the
desire and diminishing the performance. Watching the guy
act like a jerk made me feel like a donkey’s back end for sure.
I put on my best
and most charming smile as I waited on them, behaving all the more charming
throughout their whole meal. I brought out their 75-dollar bill, hoping to make
at least ten percent (I wasn’t expecting the usual twenty that I was used to
this time around) and I went about closing the place down for the night. I came
back and took the guy’s card and processed it, then I returned the check for
him to sign. Again, I wasn’t expecting a huge tip by any means.
I should’ve suspected
something was up when the couple bolted from the place snickering like bloody
fools. I should’ve expected something was up, but I had no way of knowing it
would be what it was.
My manager at the time was kind enough to buy me a beer, which I gladly accepted.
I went over and
opened the checkbook. On the slip, etched over the tip line, was another crude,
sexual picture. All the other pictures were but a crude preamble to this, their
final and excruciating masterpiece. To say that I was
enraged would be the grand understatement of the century.
My manager at the
time was kind enough to buy me a beer, which I gladly accepted. I don’t often
drink, but on this night I took in the grand ale of the gods and relished in
its wheat-laced sweetness. The beer dulled my senses and made the immediate
pain go away. If only the pain
that was to come later could leave from me just as quickly.
I’ve told the
story to many a person, and in many a way—as a storyteller I have only my own
experiences from which to draw. Some of them were grand, while others were not
so stellar. This was an experience that fell in the latter category. As a
writer I wanted to reopen the wounds and bleed out over the keyboard (much to
my mother’s chagrin, since she paid for the laptop and its beautiful keyboard).
As a writer I wanted to hold no secrets—I wanted to air out all my dirty
laundry and be baptized in the truth.
This I have done,
but it leaves me tired at the end of the day. These are the crosses that we
working writers carry. Those of us who must tear away from the page in order to
make a living are out there in the real world, and sometimes the world can be a
filthy place.
I am all things
writing, but some of the things I write about aren’t the right side of the
coin. Heads or tails you lose sometimes, and sometimes you must face the daily
humiliations with a fake smile on your face. That’s the harsh lesson that this
story taught me anyway.
Well, I am truly
sorry to leave you on a down note, but I promise to come back with something
more upbeat in the near future. Until next time compadre.
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