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.