In Which You Look Like You're Losing A Piece of Your Soul
Sunday, July 27, 2008 at 2:02PM 
Waitress
by Jessica Skinner
You know you look like you’re losing a piece of your soul each time you go through the greeting, is how a co-worker described my friend’s expression as she repeated her routine explanatory greeting at The Melting Pot.
Dead on balls accurate if you ask me. Some days that’s exactly what it feels like, too.
Like many twenty-somethingers, I have been dabbling in the service industry for a handful of years, alternating between stifling office positions, in an anti-commitment blur as I moved around and settled into the grind here in Austin.
You have to admit, waitressing does present itself as a pretty good match for wanderlust, right? I can take off for whimsical, irresponsible road trips without too much backlash, and I get free food! Given the quality of food at whatever establishment you find yourself, the perks can be kind of awesome. Plus, in contrast to my recent temping position, I don’t have to sit in a stuffy office full of seniors with candy drawers and boring small talk. Count me in!
So then, why is it that waitressing somehow presents itself as a perfect temporary solution to life’s socioeconomic blunders and leaves me feeling so conquered?
No matter how absurd a request you receive from the customer (I’d like the garlic roasted chicken, but without garlic or chicken), and no matter how much slack you catch in return from the chefs in lieu of the costumer, in order to survive you must file it away into ‘experiments in sociology,’ for future reference. If you can’t swim along unaffected, you will sadly find yourself sinking.
Now I fancy myself as somewhat of a normal person, which likely means I’m crazy, but when push comes to shove I’m pretty understanding and can relate to others on the common grounds of the human condition. Or so I thought. I’ve always been told that I am a fairly personable and outgoing individual, and with this inherited skill I get along pretty well, but I’ve recently discovered that socioeconomic rankings swim against the tide of all my previous universal understandings.
I’m not exactly sure what determines this sad occurrence, but to some people, once I present myself in uniform for my waitressing shift, I am no longer a real person, but more likely a descendant of Cinderella who lives only to serve their unrealistic and often nonsensical evil stepmother-esque desires. That is, thankfully, in the boundaries of my position as their waitress. This allows them to force an exchange of the most awkward discourse imaginable at times, or to avoid acknowledging me as much as possible altogether.
Not too long ago I worked a private party catering to oil tycoons and their fancy friends, and felt as though I had unknowingly sold my soul to the devil, trying to justify my temporary self-disgust for the sake of a momentarily inflated income.
It pained me to pour their champagne only to see them proudly raise their glasses to the rising prices of oil, which had met $100 a barrel that morning. I forced my reactive cringe into a smile and hoped the daggers I felt piercing through my eyes came off as more of a friendly sparkle.
“Those fools,” I thought, “their lives are hollow shams,” then I cataloged the night as another experiment from which I’d hopefully gained something, if nothing more than a case of booze.
Sometimes I feel like waitressing must be a lot like working in the longest running play in history. Each night I go through the same basic motions: orders, small talk, and the chaotic dance around in the kitchen. A good night has no re-fires or complaints on food, the guests are relatively nice, normal people, and when the curtain closes I can walk away without fearing the reviews or agonizing about my performance.
The behavior of the audience of course fluctuates, but the common denominator given my current workplace’s ranking as one of the country’s top destination resorts is, and will continue to be, money. The price tag suggests a level of sophistication, which sets the bar of expectations and demeanor one should appropriately assume when interacting with the customer.
While the accolades of the establishment I work for are somewhat highbrow, the general etiquette of the clientèle is not quite up to par with their bankroll. Money, as you know, not only excuses, but also encourages all sorts of eccentric behavior, and suitably the bulk of our women-dominated clientèle get their kicks by patronizing the waitstaff.
For instance, often times their meals have to coincide with their exhaustive spa schedules, and I am expected to test my skills as a magician when they saunter in at 6:45 pm and announce their 7:00 pm appointment. You may not know this, but I am not a skilled magician, nor have I perfected the art of time travel, which never fails to elude my exasperated diner as she is forced to compromise by ordering room service for later in the evening. The horror.
With the emphasis on health comes the freak show of dietary needs the guests pride themselves on like a troop of pedigree dogs. They send the kitchen incessant pages of restrictions to which we must accommodate: gluten free, dairy free, vegan, no salt, no garlic, no taste; and punctuate their needs with claims of allergies in attempt to replace our annoyance with fear or respect.
We have no choice but to dutifully entertain their diet, which only encourages their infantile behavior, then I, their Cinderelli, smilingly place their meal before them, only to receive a commonly used, high-pitched, dismissive “thank you,” which sounds remarkably like, “fuck you,” as they plunge into their dinner. “Oh, you’re welcome,” I reply, as my snide attempt to stick-it-to-‘em. If they looked at me once, perhaps they would notice the dull distaste in my expression.
They are consumed with themselves. Money provides them a huge platform to share their “worldly” perceptions. They flock together to dine in white robes and clink their wine to advances in modern medicine, but it’s not the cure for AIDS, cancer, or MS, it’s the mommy tuck! Who could blame them? The after affects of childbirth are such an eyesore. With such medical marvels, today’s sophisticated woman shouldn’t have to age gracefully or take pride in her natural self-image. How else can a trophy bride survive?
I’ve learned that eavesdropping can be painful. Someone, please shoot me.
In regards to post-Katrina New Orleans, a couple leveled with me about their earnest concerns about crime in cities, and told me they don’t even worry about locking their doors where they live, and could not imagine living in a city with exposure to all sorts of potential dangers. Their description was out of the pages of National Geographic, as if only animalistic Neanderthals lived in places that advised tiresome security measures such as locking doors.
I usually skirt issues, but it was a slow night and I happen to travel to New Orleans to visit a good friend somewhat frequently, so I tried to communicate as best as possible.
There is little room for overlap, and I’m OK with that. Sometimes my discussions with these specimens make me feel more secure, in that I am of sound mind. A recent ill-advised discussion faced me with the ever popular, “Aren’t you afraid he’s really a Muslim?” Game time. I tell myself to keep smiling and disassociate.
It helped that this particular woman, who was half in the bag, put down her glass to cup her face, as if her gesture counteracted the offensive words she thoughtlessly spewed with no fear of censorship or political correctness. I sighed. She told me that an Obama / Clinton ticket is one of her biggest fears.
I don’t know if I’ll ever grow used to the disgusting underbelly, but it does provide for a good laugh on occasion. You just have to take it lightly. And honestly, I get a kick out of the recognizable fact that most of these women exhibit manners more appropriate of someone dining at Medieval Times. Go figure.
At the end of the day, these guys had it right all along:
[vimeo 1238971]
Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger, Pepsi
Jessica Skinner is a contributor to This Recording. She lives in Austin, Texas. Her blog is here. This is her first appearance in these pages.
SONGS YOU CAN ENJOY ON YOUR FEET
"Desperation Made A Fool of Me" - Belle & Sebastian (mp3)
"Cape Canaveral" - Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band (mp3)
"Tip Your Way" - The Felice Brothers (mp3)
"Soul Suckin' Jerk" - Beck (mp3)
"Nicotine & Gravy" - Beck (mp3)
"Going On" - Gnarls Barkley (mp3)
"Work Part II" - Gang Starr (mp3)
"I'm Good, I'm Gone" - Lykke Li (mp3)
PREVIOUSLY ON THIS RECORDING
Insane movie projects that are exciting us.
A morality play that This Recording can get behind.
Molly’s Shia posts have aged like whine, here and here.
Reader Comments (4)
I know exactly what you mean about the whole food service industry. I work in a fairly posh and expensive part of England in a fairly posh and expensive pub, and when I see rich, idiotic men coming in, bragging about their new cars/infidelities/deals/champagne etc. and then have to serve them with a smile on my face, even when they snidely laugh about how I should get a haircut and I just have to take it, it makes me so angry inside.
I suppose my outlet is that I enjoy working with each and every person there, I've made new friends, had great times and generally enjoyed myself, and when I come home, put on music and think to myself about these people, I realise I only ever get angry at how these people are, there's no jealousy, and there's even a little pity (although that might make me as bad as them). Ah well.
Really great post, and some awesome tunes too :)
Joe
"sometimes I feel like waitressing must be a lot like working in the longest running play in history" is a great line
WORD. I've been waiting for someone else to share my every thought. Waitressing eats my insides.
A fine choice w/ the Belushi ending...Classic. I can picture every single little piece of what waitressing has been for me for the last 10 years of my life through your writing. Smiling @ the women we serve only gives me a little bit more life each time...
Thanks for the post
-Audra