Your eyes open after a brief one second rest, you tune back into a room full of restless chatter and the clattering of plates and silverware. You can feel your skin breaking out, your feet are throbbing. It doesn’t take you long to realize that you’re still at work, locked into a seemingly endless shift. Regardless of what restaurant you may work at , we can all agree that along with the promise of summer comes long nights of coming home and collapsing on your bed wreaking of french fries and broken dreams. It’s inevitable, we all need to devote a few of our summer hours trading in green lawns for a chance to get our hands on those crisp green dollar bills. As the Benjamin’s fill our wallet for the first time in what feels like centuries, after the longest college based dry spell our wallets have seen in years, we can’t help but wonder if we are making the right choices for ourselves? Should we really be allowing ourselves to be trapped by four walls and continuous clock-ins that demand our presence every other day? Or should skies be the limit as we allow ourselves to leave our responsibilities behind and roam freely around the sun kissed grounds of our old hometown?
The internal conflict was certainly in full force for me as I tied my black apron tighter around my waist while clocking back into work after a 30 minute break. “I should’ve run away, the train station is right across the road … I could go into the city and find a new job, surely work can’t be boring in Manhattan,” I thought as I envisioned the long night ahead of me. We are told by our parents that these jobs are all just part of the crossroads of our destiny. A stepping stone to who we are going to be. After all, one day we will surely be working with important documents and not crayons and kids menus. Right? As I tuned back in from my train of thought, I was confronted by my manager, “How was break? Actually wait, I don’t really care. Grab some cleaning supplies and get back to bussing some tables,” my manager screamed, allowing the vein in his neck to make an appearance.
The urge to tell him to kiss my ass and that I quit, bubbled up inside of me like it usually does when I’m given orders at work. It isn’t the orders themselves, that don’t sit well with me, it’s how they’re delivered. A while back some friends and I ate at a small café in a neighboring town. We were greeted by smiling waiters without bags under their eyes, and a warm atmosphere free of screaming kids, and booths filled with stay at home moms with too much to talk about. It was nice actually. I bet their managers never bark orders at them. Why couldn’t my job be that easy? Why did the work environment have to be so hectic? More importantly, what business did I have being here taking on double shifts every day of the week?
As I began bussing the tables and getting my hands dirty with the remains of what was once a neatly prepared meal, I allowed visions of tumblr-esque summers to creep into my head. Long nights spent by campfires, and days spent around a pool. Blue skies as far as the eye can see. Heat flashes brought about by sunburns, only to be cooled by Italian ices coursing through our veins after a trip into town with friends, in search of a way to escape the summer heat. However, much to my dismay the only heat beating down on me were the heat waves coming from the tacky florescent light bulbs hanging above the table I was bussing. Just as I finished up bussing, a couple walked through the door with the smuggest faces I’ve ever laid my eyes on. I heard one of them say, “God, what a beautiful day, it’s hot as hell out there though,” in the shrillest voice I had ever heard. As they followed the host to their table I struggled to fight the urge to go up to them and tell them that they were wrong. Hell isn’t outside; Hell is right here in this restaurant. After all, it's here that time works differently than the outside world. What feels like an hour here, is actually 10 minutes on the clock. The embers of hell are to be found rising from the grill in the rundown kitchen behind a door that separates the working world from those individuals with enough time on their hands to sit down for a leisurely meal.
After what seemed like an eternity, it was time to clock out for the day. A smile crept across my face as I imagined a nice hot shower, and cuddling up to double stuffed Oreo cookies and my favorite series on Netflix. But wait, I forgot to pick up my earnings from today’s tips! As I approached the bar and asked for my tip share, I began to add up in my head what I felt I deserved to find in that little yellow packet they hand me every day at the end of my shift. “$600, I’m guessing. I worked all day yesterday after all,” I thought to myself as I grabbed my yellow packet and began unfolding the corners. As my mind quieted down while shuffling through the money, I was able to count exactly $60 worth of tips for the day. It wasn’t the $600 I expected, but it would have to do for today. As I walked out of the restaurant I realized I had a whole night ahead of me, to go and buy s’mores for a campfire, or to go grab an Italian ice before the vendor closed. Sure, I may be the last one to the party, but at least I’d have money in tow when I got there. So to all my readers out there working an endless shift, I promise you it’s worth it. Because truth be told, that golden summer sun doesn’t feel quite right without some gold to spend of your own.
