I worked at the restaurant for nine years back in the waning years of my youth and into early adulthood. At the time the experience wasn't amazing but it provided a source of money which up until that point hadn't been plentiful. My first hourly pay was laughably small in the standards of those days, and would be criminal today. I could have searched around for a better, more satisfying line of work, but this was highly convenient and filled with mostly easy tasks and responsibilities. The biggest challenge by far was learning to work with such a wide array of characters, mostly in supervisory roles overseeing me and the other bottom-rung folk. At the time, many work days were very challenging- learning to navigate through the demands of superiors, the never-ending orders and being young and lacking both confidence and experience. My current self would tell the younger me that learning to work with people you don't like is reality and it prepares you for the real world and that it will better set me up for being an adult. My young self would tell me that that was all well and good but that I should shove it. My current self would be confused as no version of myself has ever or would ever really say those words- then again this is a pretend conversation I'm having with a no-longer-around me, so I can say and do anything I want. Today, with these days so far in the rear view mirror, it is easier to look back and use perspective. The bad times have blurred and faded and all I am left with are the fun anecdotes, the oddities and the scars (all emotional - relax). And the stories!
I began my time as a dishwasher. The year was 1987 and I noticed that a number of others had jobs and I figured, what the hell, I can't sleep, eat or play tennis all the time. Plus it would be great to have some money! I know idea that my starting wage would be $4.37 per hour and that it wasn't even debatable if that was fair compensation for what we were expected to endure - it wasn't close. Dishwashers, or the dish pigs or the grunts were the lowest of the low, not even allowed to face the public, like a hideous gargoyle or someone with an embarrassing rash. A dishwasher was everyone's lackey. Need something done, even something gross and demeaning? No worries! The dish pig has to say yes- they have no choice- it's super easy to replace someone with no discernible skills and all dishwashers say yes to everything in the off-chance they receive unexpected recognition and are able to move up to busboy, which is akin to moving from a weed to a slightly nicer weed. The dishwashers were young, untrained and naïve. We were happy to work and had no idea of our rights or how menial our work was. Our parents were happy we were "safe" and learning about responsibility and following orders and we were happy with the illusion of promotion. The busboys were our slightly older friends who got out and we aspired to be them and to have someone, anyone, lower than us.
Our immediate boss was the head cashier. She was a lady named Rose, albeit calling her a lady, even after all of these years just doesn't sound right. Her name was either ironic or a paradox, I'm really not sure. To compare her to a rose should make the speaker lose their right by law to make any future comparisons of any type. She was gruff, surly and only pretty when observed from a far distance where she was often mistaken for a bush, a gruff, surly bush. I also would guess she would have looked pretty good through an unfocused telescope, and I was going to attempt to use one, but it was just to much work lugging it around with me while busing tables and washing dishes. It was unclear to me at the time why she worked at the restaurant as she was obviously unhappy and didn't seem to like people, especially teenage boys. Still day after day she came in, drank her coffee, ate her toast and bossed us around relentlessly and she didn't even appear to gain pleasure from that. I mean if you are going to make other people unhappy at least enjoy it. What is the fun in bossing if you don't even like it? She spent all of her free time smoking on the steps outside the kitchen. She, and the other smokers on staff seemed to have so many more breaks than the non-smokers that it was almost a constant advertisement for smoking. She also followed the horses and spent a good portion of her time looking at and discussing the results with anyone in earshot. I often wondered if she'd like me more if I also followed the horses - it would have given us something to talk about- or if I was an actual horse. During a lull in our working relationship, I briefly thought about dressing up as a horse but just couldn't find a suitable tail. Although she took copious breaks, there was just no relaxing on her watch! I mean we would take our sweet time getting more dressing from the walk-in fridge and be "unable to find" the chicken fingers in the freezer, but those excuses only got us so far. In the end, we all had to answer to Rose. I would call her motherly, but I'm trying to keep this at least marginally factual.
Our immediate boss was the head cashier. She was a lady named Rose, albeit calling her a lady, even after all of these years just doesn't sound right. Her name was either ironic or a paradox, I'm really not sure. To compare her to a rose should make the speaker lose their right by law to make any future comparisons of any type. She was gruff, surly and only pretty when observed from a far distance where she was often mistaken for a bush, a gruff, surly bush. I also would guess she would have looked pretty good through an unfocused telescope, and I was going to attempt to use one, but it was just to much work lugging it around with me while busing tables and washing dishes. It was unclear to me at the time why she worked at the restaurant as she was obviously unhappy and didn't seem to like people, especially teenage boys. Still day after day she came in, drank her coffee, ate her toast and bossed us around relentlessly and she didn't even appear to gain pleasure from that. I mean if you are going to make other people unhappy at least enjoy it. What is the fun in bossing if you don't even like it? She spent all of her free time smoking on the steps outside the kitchen. She, and the other smokers on staff seemed to have so many more breaks than the non-smokers that it was almost a constant advertisement for smoking. She also followed the horses and spent a good portion of her time looking at and discussing the results with anyone in earshot. I often wondered if she'd like me more if I also followed the horses - it would have given us something to talk about- or if I was an actual horse. During a lull in our working relationship, I briefly thought about dressing up as a horse but just couldn't find a suitable tail. Although she took copious breaks, there was just no relaxing on her watch! I mean we would take our sweet time getting more dressing from the walk-in fridge and be "unable to find" the chicken fingers in the freezer, but those excuses only got us so far. In the end, we all had to answer to Rose. I would call her motherly, but I'm trying to keep this at least marginally factual.
Now I like to give someone the benefit of the doubt, as it makes me feel better about myself and that is important. So maybe she really was a warm, caring woman on the inside, but that perspective became harder and harder to maintain as I was belittled, insulted and ordered around the way someone would treat a small mammal, especially one they were considering flushing down the toilet. Okay, that's a bit harsh- and small mammals can't even defend themselves! If she was warm and caring on the inside, then I must applaud her ability to keep the inside hidden. The most annoying aspect about her was that although we worked together for four summers, Rose didn't even know my name! She always called me "dishwasher" when she wanted my attention (usually to point out another mistake I had made) which always led to confusion - was she referring to me or the machine? Often she would bark out an order without even turning around or making eye-contact and a long pause would follow it from her perspective, as I was unclear that she was barking at me, since I typically didn't respond to "dishwasher" in my regular existence. After being called "dishwasher" so many times combined with actually spending so much time with the dishwashing machine, it was fortunate that I was raised well and had my head on straight and didn't confuse myself with the machine, although we were close I have to admit. I spent so many hours, opening and closing it, pushing in racks of dirty dishes and pulling out racks of hot and steamy clean ones, pressing the power button, spraying water and (when no one was looking) hugging it and caressing it. There were many quiet, lonely, rainy nights where the kitchen was filled with an awkward silence and only Rose, the cook and I were still there. I'm not sure of the seminal moment when we started developing feelings for each other above and beyond our working relationship, all I know is a line was crossed and it was wonderful.
Now at some point I transitioned to busboy, which in the restaurant world is a distinct level above washing dishes. I'm not sure how or why I was given the opportunity to take one small step out of the gutter, but I must have worked hard (it's possible), been reliable (maybe), or found out where the bodies were buried (shhhhh!). Unlike dish washers, who are usually adorned with unkempt, greasy hair and wearing mismatched socks and dirty, untucked shirts, busboys must be presentable enough to be seen by the paying public. Busboys also need to be able to string together one and two syllable words into basic sentences in case a confused patron wanted to ask a question. But busboys knew that even though they were freed from their "cage" in the back of the kitchen and were given actual uniforms that needed to be mostly clean and pressed, they were still without any real voice or power. They were still essentially slaves and needed to jump if anyone asked for anything. I still remember the omnipresent smell of glass cleaner as I tried to keep the tables streak free. I also recall carrying huge bus-trays full of dirty dishes and the smell of full ashtrays before the city thankfully outlawed smoking at restaurants. I enjoyed getting out of the kitchen and being away from the eyes of Rose and the cooks, but it was more exhausting work with no chance of receiving any appreciation from anyone. In fact, the only recognition a busboy received was from within. I held weekly awards-type shows in my dreams where I was lauded for my incredible busing techniques and these accolades, though not real, propelled me through the next punishing week.
Now at some point I transitioned to busboy, which in the restaurant world is a distinct level above washing dishes. I'm not sure how or why I was given the opportunity to take one small step out of the gutter, but I must have worked hard (it's possible), been reliable (maybe), or found out where the bodies were buried (shhhhh!). Unlike dish washers, who are usually adorned with unkempt, greasy hair and wearing mismatched socks and dirty, untucked shirts, busboys must be presentable enough to be seen by the paying public. Busboys also need to be able to string together one and two syllable words into basic sentences in case a confused patron wanted to ask a question. But busboys knew that even though they were freed from their "cage" in the back of the kitchen and were given actual uniforms that needed to be mostly clean and pressed, they were still without any real voice or power. They were still essentially slaves and needed to jump if anyone asked for anything. I still remember the omnipresent smell of glass cleaner as I tried to keep the tables streak free. I also recall carrying huge bus-trays full of dirty dishes and the smell of full ashtrays before the city thankfully outlawed smoking at restaurants. I enjoyed getting out of the kitchen and being away from the eyes of Rose and the cooks, but it was more exhausting work with no chance of receiving any appreciation from anyone. In fact, the only recognition a busboy received was from within. I held weekly awards-type shows in my dreams where I was lauded for my incredible busing techniques and these accolades, though not real, propelled me through the next punishing week.
Back in those days, the restaurant was nothing more than a glorified cafeteria and glorified is definitely a misleading word choice. The menu featured so little actual cooking outside of frying an egg, or toasting some bread. Everything was either microwaved frozen food or it came directly out of a bag or a can. Eventually management figured things out and the menu was vastly upgraded upon the hiring of an executive chef. Before that there were two cooks - Ed and James who manned the kitchen. Neither was exceptionally good at cooking nor were either passable at interacting with other staff. These two stone-like pillars of the restaurant were as challenging to work with as Rose, and though they weren't management, if you messed up even a small amount or didn't look as if you were working your hardest or gave some small bit of attitude they reported you to the management. It was as if they saw their job as half cooking and half prison guard. Neither spoke English as a first language and this meant that they easily misunderstood what you said all the time. This led to many, potentially comical situations where a busboy would emerge from the walk-in cooler with a head of lettuce and be reprimanded for being stupid when in fact they wanted some eggs. Unfortunately, no one dared laugh, as neither Ed nor James ever saw any humour in anything. They also always mistook our being tired or unexcited by the endless stream of menial tasks as attitude. In their minds, all busboys were crappy at their jobs and needed constant observation and reprimanding. That may have a large shred of the truth to it, as it was a crappy summer job after all, but their rudeness, abruptness and lack of any common niceties made it that much worse. I always wondered - "would it be so hard for you to smile or say please when you asked me to scrub the pots and pans?" to no avail. I also thought that a nice backrub or shoulder massage would have been awesome as well.
Although the two cooks were similar, they weren't the same. The kitchen took on a significantly lighter tone when Ed was cooking. He allowed a small, highly confusing grin to cross his lips from time to time and he spoke with heightened emotions and with overly cartoonish exaggerated facial expressions which made him fun to watch. He wasn't as bad to work with as James, but he was far more unpredictable. James was always sour and dour and gruff, while Ed was impossible to read. One moment a hint of a laugh, the next he was screaming for more cabbage and the next he appeared to be actually concerned for your lack of intelligence. If he was a lion and you were his prey, he may give you false hope by helping remove the sharp quill from your paw and cleaning you before eating you for lunch. The irony is that I was concerned for his intelligence as well, or at least his emotional well-being. His emotions would run the gamut from happy to sad to angry with many stops between all within a shift and with no real obvious indications what was coming next. The trick. as we all learned, was to lap up the good times and to hide during the bad. Staying out of eye-shot worked wonders as Ed would lay into whomever he saw regardless of whose responsibility the error it was or wasn't. To get away we would often go to the outdoor storage and hang out to avoid collateral damage of Ed's flipouts only to emerge when a sufficient time had elapsed. One time I went to the outdoor storage to hide and one of the other busboys thought it would be humourous to lock in me in there. I was trapped in that room for an hour, subsiding solely on bottles of sparkling apple juice and ice cream bars. Finally I was released and, upon returning to the kitchen, instead of being greeted with any concern for my well-being or even a question about where I had disappeared to, I was subjected to a totally incomprehensible tirade from Ed. Despite moments like this, I often felt sympathetic towards him. He didn't seem like a totally bad person inside and I can't imagine that getting up day after day and coming to flip burgers and open bags of premixed salad was too exciting.
Although the two cooks were similar, they weren't the same. The kitchen took on a significantly lighter tone when Ed was cooking. He allowed a small, highly confusing grin to cross his lips from time to time and he spoke with heightened emotions and with overly cartoonish exaggerated facial expressions which made him fun to watch. He wasn't as bad to work with as James, but he was far more unpredictable. James was always sour and dour and gruff, while Ed was impossible to read. One moment a hint of a laugh, the next he was screaming for more cabbage and the next he appeared to be actually concerned for your lack of intelligence. If he was a lion and you were his prey, he may give you false hope by helping remove the sharp quill from your paw and cleaning you before eating you for lunch. The irony is that I was concerned for his intelligence as well, or at least his emotional well-being. His emotions would run the gamut from happy to sad to angry with many stops between all within a shift and with no real obvious indications what was coming next. The trick. as we all learned, was to lap up the good times and to hide during the bad. Staying out of eye-shot worked wonders as Ed would lay into whomever he saw regardless of whose responsibility the error it was or wasn't. To get away we would often go to the outdoor storage and hang out to avoid collateral damage of Ed's flipouts only to emerge when a sufficient time had elapsed. One time I went to the outdoor storage to hide and one of the other busboys thought it would be humourous to lock in me in there. I was trapped in that room for an hour, subsiding solely on bottles of sparkling apple juice and ice cream bars. Finally I was released and, upon returning to the kitchen, instead of being greeted with any concern for my well-being or even a question about where I had disappeared to, I was subjected to a totally incomprehensible tirade from Ed. Despite moments like this, I often felt sympathetic towards him. He didn't seem like a totally bad person inside and I can't imagine that getting up day after day and coming to flip burgers and open bags of premixed salad was too exciting.
James' daily demeanor always fell somewhere between grumpy and nasty, with the occasional morsel of bitterness tossed in for good measure. I don't think I ever saw smile, let alone unfurrow his brow. I imagine that the muscles in his upper forehead were of near-Herculean strength as they were working all day long. James was gruff with everyone: kitchen staff, management and customers. Looking back on this now, I applaud his consistent, communist approach to life. Why should anyone feel special, let allow happy or appreciated? Why should any of us see our work as anything but a bleak set of routine tasks to be completed with a total absence of joy? Clearly, appreciation and joy are totally overrated and would just have gotten in the way of the running of the kitchen. To his credit, no one ever slacked off on his watch and everyone did things as by the book as possible so as not to draw any attention of any kind towards themselves. Every once and a while a new busboy or dishwasher would come in without an understanding of how hard you they were expected to work and also of the unspoken rules of interacting with James, and a look would become plastered on his face. It is hard to capture it using words, but it was a combination of bewildered, furious, constipated and a slightly happy. The happiness made me most scared of all. It was a happiness absent of any of the usual components of happiness. It is the sort of happy I would feel if I was actually really unhappy and then forced at the threat of harsh reprisals that I had to demonstrate minimal happiness. Sometimes I would imagine James during his time away from work, before "putting on his mask" and becoming his character once again. I could imagine him as a pouty, cross-dressing performer or as a chain-smoking, hard-drinking, money-burning poker player or as a little sensitive boy with his cute dog playing at the stream with his mother watching near by. What happened to that boy, James? Where did he go? I would have loved to get to know him, or even the cross-dresser or the poker player.
Compared to James, Ed was like a fluffy, cuddly teddy bear while James was more like an actual bear just waking up from a long stint of hibernation. Too tired and groggy to attack or expend too much energy, but a bear nonetheless and worthy of our respect and fear. I half expected him to come to work with a whole salmon in his mouth, or at least with hands covered in honey, but I'm glad he didn't, as I would have reacted and then I'd have been scrubbing pots all evening. Ed and James got along really well, but you always sensed that if James felt like it, he could have made Ed go scampering back to his cave in a heartbeat. At least Ed had his lighter moments when the kitchen was slow and things were relaxed and he would often come ask us bizarrely random questions about our lives with this look of anticipation over what weird thing the crazy busboy would say next. Ed rejoiced in our foibles and loved any juicy detail of our escapades. On the other hand, James just never lightened up. He would have made a great general - no excuses on his watch, no crying on his watch, no wasted time or effort on his watch. And he didn't even have a watch! And he wouldn't have even smirked at that lame pun either - he was a black box. This guy was an android and not the kind of lovable android that so badly longs to be human and says and does endearing human-like things all the time making us love him/her even more. No, unfortunately, he was more the kind of android that wants to enslave humanity.
The funny thing about both James and Ed is that neither could cook at all. And they were cooks!?!?! I guess those were easy interviews. The menu was created to accentuate their "skills" and it included microwaved frozen lasagna, constantly over-charred burgers, and a "chef'" salad that no chef would actually want to be associated with (bagged salad mix, two scoops of cottage cheese and a burger patty). Aside from the regular menu, the kitchen also catered special events, thus rendering them as far from special as possible. I remember one particular evening party that we catered where Ed and James were working together and they made a huge amount of boiled, overcooked red cabbage. It made the kitchen smell like you wouldn't believe and to top it off no one touched a piece of it -could you blame them? Even if one of the guests showed up with a craving for boiled red cabbage, they would not have taken a single bite. The kitchen reeked of overcooked cabbage and, I believe this shortened the festivities a great deal. Predictably, neither James not Ed could understand the fuss. Convention was for the busboys and dishwashers to eat last and we often got the leftovers - some nights that involved some good protein or pasta, but on this night the only thing remaining was a massive amount of obliterated cabbage. We waited and order a pizza.
The busboys and dishwasher banded together. When we weren't being attacked by Rose or James or Ed, the management would be prowling around seemingly trying to catch us slacking off. As a result, we became close. We watched each other's backs, we supported each other and we felt like a team. As the remaining minutes of a hard shift ticked down, we would clean the kitchen and unwind singing at the top of our lungs to bad 80s music. After work we would eat, swim in the pool and play billiards until late at night. No one was quite sure why we would subject ourselves to this treatment as we were barely compensated for our efforts, but the after work schedule was our routine and we loved it. Looking back on it now, I don't see why I went in day after day. There were far better jobs at far better pay. Maybe I could tell that there would be a chance it would be a great topic for a creative writing piece someday if I ever decided to document my past? Lucky for me, I was one of the better soldiers - I talked back the least, didn't just walk away and was rewarded by being upgraded to cashier when Rose retired. To say that I had big shoes to fill would be completely inaccurate, but I reveled in the new role and I know the other dishwashers and busboys were overjoyed to have one of their own calling the shots.
Stay tuned for part 2 in this series....
Compared to James, Ed was like a fluffy, cuddly teddy bear while James was more like an actual bear just waking up from a long stint of hibernation. Too tired and groggy to attack or expend too much energy, but a bear nonetheless and worthy of our respect and fear. I half expected him to come to work with a whole salmon in his mouth, or at least with hands covered in honey, but I'm glad he didn't, as I would have reacted and then I'd have been scrubbing pots all evening. Ed and James got along really well, but you always sensed that if James felt like it, he could have made Ed go scampering back to his cave in a heartbeat. At least Ed had his lighter moments when the kitchen was slow and things were relaxed and he would often come ask us bizarrely random questions about our lives with this look of anticipation over what weird thing the crazy busboy would say next. Ed rejoiced in our foibles and loved any juicy detail of our escapades. On the other hand, James just never lightened up. He would have made a great general - no excuses on his watch, no crying on his watch, no wasted time or effort on his watch. And he didn't even have a watch! And he wouldn't have even smirked at that lame pun either - he was a black box. This guy was an android and not the kind of lovable android that so badly longs to be human and says and does endearing human-like things all the time making us love him/her even more. No, unfortunately, he was more the kind of android that wants to enslave humanity.
The funny thing about both James and Ed is that neither could cook at all. And they were cooks!?!?! I guess those were easy interviews. The menu was created to accentuate their "skills" and it included microwaved frozen lasagna, constantly over-charred burgers, and a "chef'" salad that no chef would actually want to be associated with (bagged salad mix, two scoops of cottage cheese and a burger patty). Aside from the regular menu, the kitchen also catered special events, thus rendering them as far from special as possible. I remember one particular evening party that we catered where Ed and James were working together and they made a huge amount of boiled, overcooked red cabbage. It made the kitchen smell like you wouldn't believe and to top it off no one touched a piece of it -could you blame them? Even if one of the guests showed up with a craving for boiled red cabbage, they would not have taken a single bite. The kitchen reeked of overcooked cabbage and, I believe this shortened the festivities a great deal. Predictably, neither James not Ed could understand the fuss. Convention was for the busboys and dishwashers to eat last and we often got the leftovers - some nights that involved some good protein or pasta, but on this night the only thing remaining was a massive amount of obliterated cabbage. We waited and order a pizza.
The busboys and dishwasher banded together. When we weren't being attacked by Rose or James or Ed, the management would be prowling around seemingly trying to catch us slacking off. As a result, we became close. We watched each other's backs, we supported each other and we felt like a team. As the remaining minutes of a hard shift ticked down, we would clean the kitchen and unwind singing at the top of our lungs to bad 80s music. After work we would eat, swim in the pool and play billiards until late at night. No one was quite sure why we would subject ourselves to this treatment as we were barely compensated for our efforts, but the after work schedule was our routine and we loved it. Looking back on it now, I don't see why I went in day after day. There were far better jobs at far better pay. Maybe I could tell that there would be a chance it would be a great topic for a creative writing piece someday if I ever decided to document my past? Lucky for me, I was one of the better soldiers - I talked back the least, didn't just walk away and was rewarded by being upgraded to cashier when Rose retired. To say that I had big shoes to fill would be completely inaccurate, but I reveled in the new role and I know the other dishwashers and busboys were overjoyed to have one of their own calling the shots.
Stay tuned for part 2 in this series....
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