I couldn't leave you the way we ended things earlier. I was left to remember waiting tables in college. Why was I thinking about this? Well, being pregnant makes you want food that you are no where near able to get. I was craving food from the place I worked at in college. It was called "The Cooker." The Cooker closed down 8 or 9 years ago. Why do I know this? Because they placed a sign on the door that said IN CRAYON "We are closed FOREVER." Good to know, also good to know that when I put The Cooker on my resume, I could say I was the President of The Cooker, head chef, and co-founder, and no one would be able to say otherwise. We all got lucky in the end. Except for The Cooker.
I remember working for a General Manager named Brian (it must be something with the name), who would scratch his balls through his pockets in the dining room, and yell at servers for standing at the front of the resturant waiting for people to come in. I worked in a restaraunt for like 5 years, and TO THIS DAY I cannot spell it. Restuarant, that's about all I got. I decided when I proof read this I am going to leave every misspelling of the word restuarant because I can.
I would go into work every now and again hungover, PMSing, and coming down with a case of rabies. I waited on these two people every Sunday. They wanted water with a ton of lemons. They were going to sit at my table for 4 hours, asking for refills, and eating a wedge of lettuce with blue cheese on it. They would tip me $1.12 Thank you bitches, for giving me the money to start my own business selling used tampons. (Factoid: Start up for used tampon business costs next to nothing) Every now and again it would all be too much. Filling up drinks, bringing food to tables, bussing tables, being super happy and polite, rinse and repeat. I would loose my shit, and out of nowhere I would be filling up a Mountain Dew and thinking two things, where had I gone so wrong, and that I couldn't possibly keep going. Tears would stream down my face, I would get the little hiccup things, and my throat would feel like it was closing off. I would take the Mountain Dew refill back to the table with the kids grinding biscuits into the carpets, smile and return to the side station for another tearful refill.
Then, it hit me. It was just food. Yes, people were hungry and wanted their food, there were lots of people there all in that same boat. In the end, it's just food. You ask for it, they cook it, I pee on it, I bring it to you, you eat it, you pay, and you tip me. It's just food in the end. What would cause me to melt down was that I was completely dependent on the hillbilly white trash "takin his rats out fer a patty melt and an ice house, the bitch don't eat" for my income. All it would take was for these people to come in and it was like clockwork. There I was filling up a Mr. Pibb, wiping my running nose on my shirt sleeve. Meltdown.
In the end I think that my side station melt downs prepped me for this dispute with shitbag Brian. (I have decided not to censor myself today. Tomorrow I will go back to using my amazing vocabulary, but every now and again a day of cussing indulgence is necessary.) When I stopped waiting tables I vowed to never let myself be in a situation where there was no high authority to convene and be the voice of reason. Brian was The Cooker and that house was my side station. It was just paint, and he is who made it more than it had to be. The house talk is over. Stay tuned for my tale of Roy Rodgers, new contacts, and a Chihuahua with very bad gas.
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