the Weigh of the World

        Thought I'd tell a few friends about this, but then I decided just to blog it.  Since I'm back in the City (OKC), I thought I'd work on some stuff around here and get a space to spread out my belongings, so I found a room in a nice house in a nice neighborhood, month to month lease, lucky at that.  I didn't want to just throw away money on rent, so I decided I'd go get a job, and if it wasn't my kind of job, I'd just hold it down while I looked for another one and get my stuff together. So- I have a mag rag interested in potentially publishing some short stories in the future, and I'm writing more of those and going to send those out to publications around the country.  I already started doing this, actually.
     As far as music gigs go around here, I have none booked at the moment.
     There was a job offer to return to Alaska when I left, but I haven't spoken to them since about returning. We did the show 500 times, and I've got new stuff I want to work on.  Maybe I'll do another stint there in the future.  Our host in Hawaii invited us to return and help at her gallery.  Portland is always rainy and extremely difficult to find any type of job, so I hear.  I had an interview there at a place called Dialogue Direct, which is a children's charity for third world countries.  It basically would entail walking around the city for 8 hours a day in the rain and asking strangers to give you their credit card number.  If they make two donors a day, they consider that doing pretty good, and they get paid decently at the end of the week, helping starving children.  I went in to find out info, and the person who interviewed me said he didn't seem too convinced when I asked a lot of questions.  He told me to call back for a second interview if I decided I was interested.  Speaking of humanitarian issues, I finished reading What Is The What by Dave Eggers last night, concerning the life story of Sudanese refugee, Valentino Achack Deng.  It's a whopper of a book.
     Well, snowed in right now, here's my latest story.  Sorry, I played hookie last week.  It was a messy week.  So you can think of this as a double-blog:


                             Suffering Sophabella

       So even though I hated doing that, I bit the bullet and literally tried. Yes, the food's delizioso and the atmosphere is posh. The restaurant is savoir faire, and as a job it's not my cup of tea, per se. I waited on 2 tables out of all the training I did. Those tables went fine, and I was polite, though I didn't bring out someone's biscuits and gravy until they asked because it wasn't placed in the window with the rest of their food. Then I found out you had to grab your own bowl and ask the cooks for biscuits and gravy. No one told me that until then.
      Several of the people who work there complained about the owner's wife, and all of them said they were looking for different jobs. One of the guys who trained me said he'd look for a different job if he was me. They said she started calling meetings every Saturday afternoon at 3 pm, and she's been yelling at them.
      They have to take a test every two weeks now.
      I studied several hours over some sheets they gave me, and though they didn't tell me what my score was I am 99% sure I got a 100%. They also gave me a study sheet for another test, and I spent several hours on that. I was ready to ace that, but I never took the test, because they never gave it to me. There was the Pork Tenderloin Oscar I envisioned, with its companions of asparagus and hollandaise. The Gorgonzola Stuffed Filet, The Filet Au Poivre, rolled in cracked black pepper, baked and bathed in a cognac demi-glace cream sauce. Sides of Dauphine potatoes, so named after the Dauphine of medieval France, wife of the Dauphin, in other words, the heir apparent to the throne- the French word literally meaning "dolphin" in reference to the dolphin they bore on their flag. The Saffron Risotto, bottles of Baroncini Brunello Di Montalcino, Rex Goliath and Hahn Merlot, Chablis and an arsenal of varietals, champagne glasses of Dom Perignon and Piper-Heidsieck.    
      My 1st day, upon entering, there was some middle-aged, decent seeming guy sitting at the bar in the otherwise empty restaurant.  A few workers were milling around, talking, when all of the sudden, one of them realized this guy had given them the slip.  He was gone, leaving his tab open.  Then, a table of some well-dressed folks: a gray-bearded, blazer-wearing gentleman chewing on a massive cigar, with a younger looking, dressy woman and a couple of their colleagues.  After their ticket was eventually paid, this guy reentered the front door, asking for the manager.  "Somebody busted out my girl's car window."  I flocked with a small crew out to the parking lot, and there was her back passenger window smashed to shards.  The vandals made off with her briefcase.  This was the nicest neighborhood in the city.  The rest of the night was slow and uneventful.
      I was there everyday for several days, then I was free for a brief moment.
      When I returned Thursday, I was there for 15 min. or so when the phone rang and she asked for me.    
     "Sorry," she said, "I thought that Don already told you. This is an upscale restaurant, and I don't think you're the right fit."
      I was actually relieved, but I asked her, "So, can I ask why?"
     "We were just watching you, and you're just slow at picking things up."
      I didn't know if she meant I was slow at learning the stuff or if I just moved slow. I don't see how I could be slow at learning the menu, considering I made a perfect score and never even had a chance to take the second one. I wondered if it was because I spilled two beers on myself while serving a 30-person party- maybe I started walking a bit slower to make sure I kept my balance after that. When that happened, I just laughed it off and made a joke of it. The moment was confusing, but the huge party was just a party and got a kick out of it- so I think I remarked that I've had too many myself, though I hadn't had any. My equilibrium was off for some reason. That was the only time I'd ever spilled drinks on a tray before, but come to think of it, I don't think I've carried drinks on trays many times before. In the past, what narrow serving experience I've had, and I have almost a year's experience as a barista, I've mostly served drinks in my hands, not on trays. Yet these were destined to fall. Tall, awkward, klutzy beers. I'd even taught myself to juggle the summer before last, and a few weeks ago I built a card tower, and I'd balanced drinks on my head before, so I didn't think I was going to be near so clumsy the first tray I was asked to carry. The waitress who trained me most of the nights said not to worry, the same thing happened to her when she first started. The person who hired me told me that she was their worst server, so I didn't know why she would be the one who would be training me. Whenever we served another giant party, she had everyone mixed up and had to ask everyone what they ordered at the end in order to split up their tickets, and it took forever for them to leave. I had to fight my natural instincts not to walk out that night, but I stayed simply because I felt sorry for her having to deal with all that mess by herself.
       The next day, someone left a note on a receipt for her that read, "Worst service ever! You can be sure that everyone I talk to will hear about this place! I want my two hours back!"
       Bussing a table, I looked down and noticed my tie was hanging down in some glop from some unfinished plate. I rinsed it and wringed it out in the sink and after that proceeded to flip my tie over my shoulder when carrying bus tubs. I imagined the tie as a sort of noose.
       I thought maybe the owner's wife saw me looking for the buttons on the computer monitor when ringing in my order, while having to search for them, and because I hadn't had a chance to study the monitor yet, I appeared to be taking a few seconds more, while having someone watch me to make sure I was doing it right.
       I didn't really learn anything on the floor, because during my few days of agreed unpaid training, they had huge parties and all they did was have me refill drinks and help the wait staff carry out food. Their turnover rate was so high, they stopped paying for training, and when I told the staff this, they all bemoaned my situation. However, just freshly back in town, I needed something to bide my time while I smoothed out my situation in this current un-economy. I'd heard stories from friends who'd made pretty good money in one night while waiting tables, and I'd been told upon being hired that they made a lot of money there, being a so-called "upscale restaurant." I was prompted to ask the waiter who I followed at a party one night if they made good money there. "Honestly," he said, "No, the money's not that good." Honestly, I don't know if he really said "honestly" or not, but I'm paraphrasing here, telling a story.
      The person who hired me, Don, is one of those who takes pride in being a bit of a "smart mouth" in his own words, and likes to joke around. One night, when I asked him for a drink order, he said, "Why don't you shut up?" Whereupon, with several others of the wait staff standing around, I replied, "No, why don't you shut up? I'm working for you for free right now." There was a moment of silence, and he just simply replied, "Alright, now you're getting the spunk." And another one said, "You're going to need that to survive around here." You never know with people you barely know, though. Perhaps this one can dish it out but can't take it very well. This is the way of people, especially in the restaurant business. They constantly rag on each other for fun, but I'm tired of it. I don't think he had a problem with this, though, because afterwards he had the cooks make me a full-size supreme pizza, and it was mouthwatering, if I pose as a food critic.
      The company had a belated Christmas party at the end of January, and I was invited at the end of the shift, the first one I was supposed to be paid for, and I guess I'll find out about that, because I was doing work just like anyone else. So I'd just found out about it, and they told me it was at the office over in the parking lot of Best Buy. Later, I went there, and there was a building of offices in the lot, and I wondered where it was for several minutes, until walking around the corner, there actually was a place called the Office. Went in there, and there was free food and drinks. All the workers and I got along really well. They were a funny bunch.
     Vaughn, the younger brother of Don, worked at Sophabella's as a waiter, as well, and was one you'd call a character. That night at their Christmas party, he was drinking a lot of beers that were free on the tap, and at one point outside, he mentioned he'd misplaced his beer, and then he went on his own stand-up comic routine personifying his glass of beer, how it must have little feet on it, and it probably won't be able to balance with such little feet. How a glass of beer is probably always drunk, being so full of beer, and with such little feet, it's probably tripped and fell and spilt itself by now. Maybe it even broke itself. My beers on my tray the other night were guilty of this deed, with their little drunken, cloddish feet.
       They played a game called Dirty Santa, in which everyone brings a gift, you draw a number, and after the first person opens their present, the next person can decide if they want to open a present or steal one that's already been opened. It goes around like that until the end of the game, if you've never played. Of course, I wasn't aware of the details of this game, and the owner's wife invited me to play. She said I didn't have to. She said most of the people had put in a ten dollar minimum. Well, OK, I wasn't carrying any cash, so I had what I made from the tables earlier that day, a mere 7 bucks. And so I played. I won a T-shirt. A couple of others won a digital camera and a DVD player, gifts from the owner. The owner drew my 7 bucks, though I believe he knew that was my envelope, and I thought it was a nice gesture. Although, if he didn't know, I found it kind of funny, considering I'd worked for him a couple of days for free. I don't expect that the owner's wife expected me to come prepared for that game, when no one filled me in, but perhaps she did.
      Also, the next day, I hadn't been given a schedule, or been told when to come back in, so I called and got Don's phone number from Vaughn. I tried the numbers he gave me to no avail, leaving a message and getting no reply. I told Vaughn that I was hoping to get two days off in a row to move some belongings, and he called me back, saying he'd spoken to Gil, the owner, and I could go ahead and be off that Tuesday and come back when I was on the schedule for Thursday. Now, I don't know if the owner's wife looked at it as me calling in so soon after starting, but when I returned, I know I disliked being there and that's when I got the call from her.
      "Fine. Later," I said to her, and hung up the phone.  I'm coming back soon for my check and telling her something about this.
      There's a waiter/bartender there that they call the Wiz, short for Wizard, because he's very theatrical about his serving styles. At the company party, he concocted a drink that tasted like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, that he insisted people try, as people stood around taking turns putting at a miniature golf course. A couple of us managed to make some of the holes from the tee-off, but most went too far off course.
      Wiz informed that what happened to me, happens to people who come in there all the time, and they have a massive turnover rate. He said he'd gotten a friend a job there, and he was gone after a few days, and now he's in the Air Force. And when speaking of the restaurant business, he made a gesture of his hands turned into a gun pointed at his head. Everyone there was mad to get out before long. The manager who hired me had quit before and returned. Another one who was helpful to me explained that the owner's wife hated him, in his opinion, because he formerly had Don's job, and he'd stepped down to be a regular waiter because it wasn't worth it to him.
      When studying for their tests, the time spent felt like studying for a real school exam. I noticed the magnanimous amount of typos in the study sheets and other papers they gave me. Not exactly typos, but honest, misspelled words. It was the worst I'd ever seen. "Mussels" were spelled "Muscles" on the menu, but that one's even understandable. Vaughn sat next to me one afternoon before the rush began, and I casually remarked, "Whoever made this can't spell very well." This cracked him up.
     "Hey, Don," he called to his brother, behind the bar, "You know what he said? He said, 'whoever made this can't spell very well.'" Then his brother began cracking up and agreeing. "Just like that- he said it! He said it so matter-of-fact." They kept laughing, and they said, "Yeah, Gil the owner can't spell very well."
      Don then asked me, "So are you a good speller?"
      "Oh, I've won a spelling bee," I kidded him. Thinking back, though, I maybe have won a school spelling bee in elementary.
      This egged Vaughn on more, "Yeah, I won a spelling bee, too!" And he told me his story.
      Whenever Gil the owner had me in his office a couple of days later, storing my information in the computer database, I couldn't help but notice the way he pecked at the keyboard with his individual index fingers. That last day, I looked at the premature schedule and saw the name "Brent" had been crossed off. My name's Brett.

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