Life Behind Bars. And an Apron.

I was stabbed in the heart on Tuesday. Okay, not literally, but figuratively I was stabbed in the heart on Tuesday. With words. Words came from the mouth of a woman, they then formed into the shape of a dagger and that dagger was plunged deep into my right ventricle severing my tricuspid valve and rendering my aorta into a useless shiftless chaotic mass of flesh. (A note to nurses and doctors: that sentence probably made no fucking sense at all. Just go with it.) It hurt real bad. The lady certainly didn't mean to drain my life's blood from my soul but it happened. As casually as someone asking to pass me by on an escalator, this woman unknowingly killed my soul.

While interviewing for job, the manager was telling me she wanted to hire "adult servers" because she didn't want any drama coming into her restaurant. I understood what she meant. Sometimes youngins can let their personal lives interfere with their jobs or even let their jobs become their lives while more mature servers don't feel the need to stay after work and socialize with co-workers. I told her that I knew what she meant and she said something like "with all my years in the restaurant business, I can just sense who is going to bring in drama and who isn't." I crossed my fingers under the table and told her that I certainly would not be one who would bring in drama. (I hope she doesn't read this.)"I've been doing this for a long time," said I. She paused. She made eye contact with me. And then she uttered the words that hurt me so deeply. "You're a lifer, aren't you? Like me."

A lifer. Me. A lifer? As in one who has spent their whole life working in restaurants and will continue to do so until they die or retire with no pension and no benefits and only a closet full of aprons to show for their life's work? I pulled the knife from my heart. I took a deep breath and swallowed. "Yes. I am a lifer." I smiled, but inside I was crying at the realization that she may be right. Oh sure, I'm the creative type. I audition, I write, I do shows, I sing, I paint, but the one thing that has been the constant in my life has been my employment in the restaurant industry. I have just never referred to myself as a "lifer."

I thanked the woman for the interview and went on my way. I went into the first deli that I saw to get a bite to eat. In college, when I was depressed, I would go to the little store across the street from school and get three things that always cheered me up. I did that again for the first time in many years. I walked out of the deli with my bag containing a Pepsi, a Butterfinger and Doritos. My three friends who would understand that I was not okay with being called a "lifer." Not that there's anything wrong with being one, it's just that I still have goals. Goals that don't involve trays, aprons and honey mustard and I am not ready to accept that I have drawn this life for myself. After going into my sugar coma and then pulling myself out of it with the Doritos, I looked at my list of the next place to go apply for a job. It was across town. I got on the M102 bus and went up to 23rd street to catch the M23. I felt okay. Bloated, but okay. Maybe I am a lifer. But I am also a writer. And an actor. And I am feeling the need for another Butterfinger right now. A Butterfinger is a goal that is easily achievable and you can help me by clicking here. Thanks.

And since this post is such a pity party, might I suggest you go to this Facebook page and join in on the International Pity-Bait Day?


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I ♥ Rusty Nails

(This posting will have no mention of spooge. Just sayin'.)

As always, I am looking for a new job. Yesterday I put on my snow boots and went tromping through the city hitting up restaurants with resumé in hand. Thanks to my good friend craigslist, I found several places that were actually hiring so I went to them. All of them. It took a good few hours and lot of Metrocard swipes, but I did it. Do I have a job yet? No, but I am certain that Colleen at that one place really liked my energy and would love to have me write about her restaurant behind her back. She'll be calling any minute.

One place I went to was a brand new restaurant still under construction. I know there are a lot of drawbacks to opening a restaurant, but I'm a desperate ho who needs a job. I walked in to the construction site where I was handed an application and a quiz. "Oh, great...a quiz." I banged out the application portion and then focused my attention to the quiz section. Of course it had the usual bullshit like "What is hospitality?" and "Who is the most important person in the restaurant?" I vomited out the answers and got to the more interesting stuff. They had a list of twelve liquors and we had to say if it was vodka, gin, or whatever. Easy enough except for a couple of them. And then a list of six drinks and they wanted us to write the ingredients and garnish for each one. Cosmo? No problem. Long Island Iced Tea? No problem. But a Rusty Nail? Who the fuck remembers that shit unless it happens to be your drink of choice. So I did what any self respecting waiter would do in that situation. I pulled out my trusty smart phone and looked that shit up. Yep, according to the website that Google sent me to, a Rusty Nail is made with scotch and Drambuie. I also looked up a Kamikaze because I have unlimited Internet access on my phone. At one point I looked around and every single person had their phone in their hand doing the same thing I was doing. Oh, sure we were all trying to look like we were looking up the addresses to our personal references, but we all knew what we were doing. We were cheating.

At another place, the application was handed to me by the host who told me to sit at one of two tables and fill it out. Well, there were about a hundred people at those two tables, so I squeezed my skinny ass in there and started writing. I noticed this one girl was just sitting there looking around. She whispered to the guy next to her, "Do you have a pen I can borrow?" Who the hell goes out looking for a job without bringing a pen? Why don't you just write on the top of your resume "unprepared" and be done with it? You are trying to be a sever and you don't have a pen? Her friendly neighbor dug into his bag and handed her one.
"Dead, "she said.
"What?" said he?
"I think your pen is out of ink."
"Oh, well...sorry then." He didn't care and now she was just sitting there again.
I felt bad for the poor helpless thing and told her I might have an extra one she could use. I dug through my man purse and found the one extra pen. "Oh, all I have is a purple pen, sorry." I didn't think anyone would want to fill out a job application with a purple pen, but she took it. As soon as I gave it to her, I regretted it, because I was almost finished and now I was going to have to wait until she was done if i wanted my pen back. And you know I wanted my pretty purple pen back. I turned in my app and then went back to the even more crowded table to see the girl still filling in her information. I patently waited as I watched her write in cursive with big looping letters. With the purple ink, it looked like she was writing a note to her BFF that she was going to give to her at lunch in the cafeteria. I can't be sure, but it looked like she dotted her i's with little hearts. About an eon later she put the pen down and I gently asked, "Are you all done? Can I take my pen?"
"Oh my God, were you waiting for me? I am so sorry, I didn't even think." She handed me my pen.
"It's alright. I just didn't want your application to be in two different colors of ink if I took the purple pen too soon."
"Thank you, you're so sweet," she said not realizing that I was going to blog about her stupid ass the next day.
I went on my merry way and began to wonder if her application was going to now stand out because of her bold color choice. If I find out that she got the job and i didn't, that bitch owes me a free Rusty Nail the next time I go in to that restaurant.

And the job search continues...


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The Hospitality Job Hunt Resumes

I am on the prowl for a new job. Catering season is upon us and I want a piece of that pie so I have been submitting my resume to catering companies up and down the eastern seaboard. And when I say "eastern seaboard" I mean three places that some friends told me about. I also went to one restaurant that was having an open call for interviews. I showed up with about 1000 other hopefuls and got one of those fucking corporate applications that takes half an hour to fill out. Why the fuck do I bother printing a resume if I have to fill that shit out? I knew I didn't want to work there, but went through the motions anyway. It had essay questions. Really, B.R. Guest restaurant conglomerate? Really? No one answers those questions the way they want to. They answer them the way you want us to.

What does "hospitality" mean to you?

What I said: Efficiency, friendliness, professionalism, going beyond the guests expectations. Pretty much what they'd teach you in hospitality management schools.

The truth: Kissing customer asses to get better tips and kissing manager asses to get better shifts.

What is your favorite thing about working in the food and beverage industry?

What I said: The flexibility, the people I work with and the immediate gratification of good service rewarded with a good tip.

The truth: Knowing that restaurant jobs are a dime a dozen and if something pisses me off I can say fuck you and leave. I also like stealing food and liquor.

What is your least favorite thing about the food and beverage industry?

What I said: The inconsistency of income and schedule.

The truth: Customers, managers and co-workers.

What are your goals in the restaurant industry?

What I said: To find a place that I enjoy working at and possibly move into a managerial position.

The truth: To stay at this restaurant through the holidays and make a shit load of money since you are down the street from Radio City Music Hall and tourists will be pouring in the door after they see that God awful Christmas Spectacular.

I was called over to the table for an interview. For availability I had put Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. The manager said she would hire me in a heartbeat with all my experience, but my schedule wasn't open enough. I explained to her that I had another job that I didn't want to leave because it was a good place to work. She told me that since they were opening a new restaurant, they required everyone to have complete availability for the first two months. In other words, they don't want to have to take into consideration that some of their employees may have a fucking life outside of Bill's Fucking Burger Bar. "I understand," said I. "Good luck with that then." I got up and left.

I'll keep looking. Something will turn up, it always does. I can sense it in the air. (That's your cue, Laurence.)