I’ve already decided this is going to be a line I relay in front of a meeting group circle of pitied human beings, all trembling from the harm inflicted to them by the real world; the cruel, scary place outside where nobody cares about what you’ve done, who you think you are or who you think you can be.
Don’t get me wrong; I don’t look down on people who are servers, or who are employed in other service duties, for that matter. It’s just that I am an embittered college grad who is back at square one (or minus ten or twenty, if you include the accumulated debt obtained from those four years—the best years of my life, man!), and am thankful enough to have even found a job as a server in the first place. College didn't prepare me for post-college, and I was jettisoned off into the real world after graduating, landing with a thud on the cold, hard, unforgiving ground. I am seriously fortunate, though. There are a lot of people my age who are unemployed, and while being a waitress can be challenging and unpleasant at times, tips rock and can be awesome, and my job is never boring or dull.
You see, waitressing was always something I thought I could never do. I romanticized it for whatever reason, but it was always something I never fathomed was in my cards. I’m horrible with strangers—I’m that person that avoids the grocery store until it is an hour before closing, because I can’t stand unknown people. I don’t like interacting with anyone, or feeling their eyes, or seeing that they are picking up dry room-temperature goods after they already gathered their frozen and refrigerated dairy items, and their ice cream is melting, and oh my god that milk is probably warm by now... and, you get the hint. So, waitressing just seemed like a bad idea.
Now that I am a magical food-bringer and drink-filler, I can honestly say nothing could have prepared me for the joys, pains, and ‘what-the-fucks’ of being a server. I’ve gotten to know my regulars, hold disdain for teenagers, crowds of young children, and feel exceptionally exasperated with really confused old people. Every shift is new and never boring. I guess in that sense I am really lucky.
The first time I realized what I might be in for, was during my first week or two of training to be Master Waitress. It’s when I was still freaked out, but ever-so-slightly less freaked out that I was beginning to notice something that was likely there the whole time... creepy old men. Everyone knows the kind. They seem unassuming, with their plaid and their boots. They like gravy on their fries and ask for every refill they can get out of that $2.50 Pepsi they are drinking, repeatedly having to lick the perimeter of their mustache/beard mouth of the liquid and gravy combo inevitably created by the unity of the two. These guys are the outlaws of the American small-town home-style restaurant. They don’t care if you were still cozy and warm in your mother’s uterus while they were watching their son rock their grandchild. You have ovaries (or at least you look like you do, anyway), and you are serving them food. As long as you’ve hit puberty you are fair game to be hit on. Their five to fifteen percent tip DEMANDS that you allow them to hit on you, because that is almost like a surcharge for the harassment they will make you endure.
It all began with the innocent enough “Hey there sweetheart,” “Hi blondie,” and “Hey there good-looking.” Mind you, I don’t and never have gone to work dressing to impress. In fact, I figure the best waitress in the world is very unassuming in appearance; they try to blend into the background, like a ghost of sorts, magically appearing and disappearing in ways that make you think, “I’m not sure how my food just got here, but that was fast! What a great day!” I actually wear all black, keep my hair back, and purposefully make myself look plain but pleasant. This doesn’t stop the creepers, though. I’ve experienced a wide range of discomforts - greetings with ever-so-slight sexual undertones, repeated and relentless requests for hugs, hardcore leering, attempts to touch my hand when I’m putting plates of food or placing drinks on the table... the list could go on.
These incidents made me feel very nervous when I started working at my job. To this day certain moments are fresh in my memory, branded in my brain as if I were another bovine on the market. Thankfully I have a strong-willed, tough, take-no-crap boss who would rush to my assistance if there were ever a need. My own strength of will in regard to defending myself has gotten much better over time, too. Still, the prevalence of the mindset where you just have to accept the existence of these creepy old men baffles and unnerves me. Every single day I wish I could go to their place of work and make them as uncomfortable as they make me sometimes. I know this would never work, though - they would probably love it.
While working in the service industry, there will always be a big part of me that wishes I could blend in like I do in at a 24-hour grocery store at 1:30am, but even then I am able to shroud myself from stranger’s eyes with hats, glasses, scarves, and other implements, something I could never do unless I worked in a very cold restaurant in Iceland. Until then, I suppose all I can do is practice my own Terror-Inducing Leer Defense Glare, doling it out as pleasantly and with as much ease as I would a glass of ice water. I think I get better each time.
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