still testing....
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Today, a crisp day, kin to the autumn days of last week which were the first days of autumn, was the day I began school. My preparation for school was not substantial enough to prevent me from stumbling about the campus without a clue as to direction or purpose, nor did it allow me any reassurance in regards my class schedule, yet any further effort would have proven pointless. The campus is huge, complex, and impossible to understand, thereby quite comfortable. I am terrified, but I am here; my classes are set though I have yet to clear my mind and realize the work ahead of me, and I know where I am supposed to be, though still somewhat bewildered. I have a while to situate myself. This will be my second home, after all, for the next five years.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Waiting tables- or if I'm to be intransigently precise and politically correct: serving tables- is an astronomically sordid affair from which I've learned quite a bit. Though I have only marked the ranks of servers around the world for three months, I feel very much a part of the disconsolate lot; three months is more than enough to consider yourself a true, blue server, after all, given the rapid turnover and the nature of the work. I have worked in the service industry for years, but it wasn't until I actually started waiting tables that the industry and its various characteristics made sense to me- those being the cynical demeanor and fatalistic disillusionment that waiters and waitresses share to such an alarming, undiversified degree that it appears to be part of their uniform, the substance abuse, rampant binge drinking, that weathered, almost invincible appearance, self hatred and self destruction in general- and I now see what the rest of the individuals that share my job description see: what I do is darkly, sadly, yet indisputably hilarious.
The reason behind this amusement, I've decided, is the inherent pettiness of the work; while other individuals have more substantial careers and save their worries for million-dollar deals, million-dollar properties, the lives of the young or the old, brilliant design, the education of our children, or the contentment of the international market, the end all, be all of my line of work is a side of cauliflower cooked with extra butter with absolutely no parsley on the plate, around the plate, or within the vicinity of said cauliflower's preparation. In other fields one turns one's coworkers into enemies by stealing clients or preventing a 20,000 dollar raise. In the restaurant business, however, stealing a pen is call for fully-armed tribal warfare, and hoarding checkbooks is a treachery that would be attended to by a guillotine if the state would allow it. I panic while trying to remember that seat three at table 406 wants her water without ice and her eggs scrambled with swiss cheese. I strain to present the check exactly between the couple so as to not offend the independent woman or suggest that the traditional woman should offer to pay. The critical challenge in my career as a server is not a matter of consequential brilliance or cleverness, but rather the moment in which I stealthily slip the bread basket onto table 313 without inspiring the shriveled, ancient prune of a man at 315 to inquire as to why he never received a basket as well. I deal in the business of tending to the world's most absurdly pointless details that no normal, sane human being cares the slightest bit about.
Yet I care, and I must care; my bread and butter, sadly enough, is the bread and butter on table 313. I go to work knowing that my mind, body, and soul is there to be engaged in a flurry of exhausting nothingness and pointless abuse, just so that I might pay the insurance on the car that serves the sole purpose of taking me to work and back. The tasks I face are trivial, yet how grave the horror, how miserable the dread, how gut-wrenching is the fear that floods me when I see the parsley that sits atop my side of cauliflower. It is my job to panic if the baked onion soup going out to 110 has croûtons in it, or if the meat is overcooked or undercooked, or if any given guest has finally found something to complain about; this ridiculous concern is the mark of a good server. I have accepted this and strive to be the best server I possibly can be- I'll dance for my tip until I'm blue in the face, after all; I'm there to make money, not to moan about lost dignity- but it is still quite saddening to think about the fact that my job is to fret about croûtons. Luckily enough, that fact is amusing in a dry yet intense way, and the amusement just barely overpowers the dismal nuances of a job in the restaurant business. Lost dignity isn't really something to bemoan, especially when it can be so damn funny.
Misery aside, however, it is what I do. Serving tables is what I will be doing for the next five years. There are times when I take pride in my work and others when I just don't care, and most of this depends on the institution in which I am housed- if you want my gravy, pepper my ragu, and all that jazz- and the restaurants that have made work an enjoyable experience receive a cheerful server in a crisp, clean shirt. Unless, that is, I've deemed the garlic butter stain on the right sleeve unnoticeable (everyone together on three: Huzzah for dimly lit restaurants!). You get what you give, with the exception of the horrendous individuals who refuse to tip regardless of the service, and worry not: karma will prevail and their grandchildren shall have birth defects and I shall laugh. There is a strange camaraderie amongst those who have experienced the pain and the amusement of serving. I think I will always be happy to have been a part of it.
The reason behind this amusement, I've decided, is the inherent pettiness of the work; while other individuals have more substantial careers and save their worries for million-dollar deals, million-dollar properties, the lives of the young or the old, brilliant design, the education of our children, or the contentment of the international market, the end all, be all of my line of work is a side of cauliflower cooked with extra butter with absolutely no parsley on the plate, around the plate, or within the vicinity of said cauliflower's preparation. In other fields one turns one's coworkers into enemies by stealing clients or preventing a 20,000 dollar raise. In the restaurant business, however, stealing a pen is call for fully-armed tribal warfare, and hoarding checkbooks is a treachery that would be attended to by a guillotine if the state would allow it. I panic while trying to remember that seat three at table 406 wants her water without ice and her eggs scrambled with swiss cheese. I strain to present the check exactly between the couple so as to not offend the independent woman or suggest that the traditional woman should offer to pay. The critical challenge in my career as a server is not a matter of consequential brilliance or cleverness, but rather the moment in which I stealthily slip the bread basket onto table 313 without inspiring the shriveled, ancient prune of a man at 315 to inquire as to why he never received a basket as well. I deal in the business of tending to the world's most absurdly pointless details that no normal, sane human being cares the slightest bit about.
Yet I care, and I must care; my bread and butter, sadly enough, is the bread and butter on table 313. I go to work knowing that my mind, body, and soul is there to be engaged in a flurry of exhausting nothingness and pointless abuse, just so that I might pay the insurance on the car that serves the sole purpose of taking me to work and back. The tasks I face are trivial, yet how grave the horror, how miserable the dread, how gut-wrenching is the fear that floods me when I see the parsley that sits atop my side of cauliflower. It is my job to panic if the baked onion soup going out to 110 has croûtons in it, or if the meat is overcooked or undercooked, or if any given guest has finally found something to complain about; this ridiculous concern is the mark of a good server. I have accepted this and strive to be the best server I possibly can be- I'll dance for my tip until I'm blue in the face, after all; I'm there to make money, not to moan about lost dignity- but it is still quite saddening to think about the fact that my job is to fret about croûtons. Luckily enough, that fact is amusing in a dry yet intense way, and the amusement just barely overpowers the dismal nuances of a job in the restaurant business. Lost dignity isn't really something to bemoan, especially when it can be so damn funny.
Misery aside, however, it is what I do. Serving tables is what I will be doing for the next five years. There are times when I take pride in my work and others when I just don't care, and most of this depends on the institution in which I am housed- if you want my gravy, pepper my ragu, and all that jazz- and the restaurants that have made work an enjoyable experience receive a cheerful server in a crisp, clean shirt. Unless, that is, I've deemed the garlic butter stain on the right sleeve unnoticeable (everyone together on three: Huzzah for dimly lit restaurants!). You get what you give, with the exception of the horrendous individuals who refuse to tip regardless of the service, and worry not: karma will prevail and their grandchildren shall have birth defects and I shall laugh. There is a strange camaraderie amongst those who have experienced the pain and the amusement of serving. I think I will always be happy to have been a part of it.
How delicate, how frivolous this world is when it is at the mercy of our perception. It is so awkward coming back to this place- much more so then when discovering new cities or spaces- and recognizing the change it has undergone yet experiencing a feeling of unease, knowing I've been here before, suspiciously questioning why it feels as if I never left. The sun is brighter than I remember it, though; I don't ever recall the harsh sunlight being this unbearable. The inhabitants affected by this heat, however, respond in the way I remember; excitement for the day disintegrates into grainy lethargy, and I remember the unpalatable task of seeking shade just to pine for activity once resting. It's amusing coming back, going back, leaving, returning, doing all the things we do in a lifetime: discovering new places, growing around them, leaving and remembering them not as they were but as we thought them to be, as we wished them to exist in memory. My warped memory has not changed Salt Lake; the city has not molded to my various memories, after all, and I return to a place independent of the emotional associations I once thought so important. It's quite comfortable here, actually.
Today Rob took me to an organ recital on Temple Square. He has turned into such a hospitable gentleman; yesterday, late in the evening when Mum, Will and I returned from the airport, at a time I thought everyone was asleep, Rob and Rick kindly greeted me and immediately rushed me off for a late dinner at Denny's (Rob treated; I just bought a pricey computer and can't spend a dime). It is edifying to speak with my darling brothers, to talk maturely to them about whatever currently consumes them and still be silly and absurd. I feel as if I have found a friend that our incessant, childish bickering hid from me before. I have high hopes for this visit- and perhaps that's my first mistake- but I honestly think this will be a delightful holiday, and I don't think I'll find myself quibbling with my brothers or mum. The house looks lovely, and I'm currently sitting outside on the charming patio, typing on Rob's laptop. I am protected from the brutal sunlight, a gentle breeze creeps up onto porch to cool me, and occasionally I look up to see a biker whizzing down the winding road. As I said: it's quite comfortable here, though that's not exactly the way I remember it.
Today Rob took me to an organ recital on Temple Square. He has turned into such a hospitable gentleman; yesterday, late in the evening when Mum, Will and I returned from the airport, at a time I thought everyone was asleep, Rob and Rick kindly greeted me and immediately rushed me off for a late dinner at Denny's (Rob treated; I just bought a pricey computer and can't spend a dime). It is edifying to speak with my darling brothers, to talk maturely to them about whatever currently consumes them and still be silly and absurd. I feel as if I have found a friend that our incessant, childish bickering hid from me before. I have high hopes for this visit- and perhaps that's my first mistake- but I honestly think this will be a delightful holiday, and I don't think I'll find myself quibbling with my brothers or mum. The house looks lovely, and I'm currently sitting outside on the charming patio, typing on Rob's laptop. I am protected from the brutal sunlight, a gentle breeze creeps up onto porch to cool me, and occasionally I look up to see a biker whizzing down the winding road. As I said: it's quite comfortable here, though that's not exactly the way I remember it.
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