Day Job

I want to quit my day job.

Wait. Let me rephrase that.

I want to quit my day JOBS. (I have three of them.)

Sometimes, when I’m serving dinner to someone who won’t even look me in the eye or trying to sympathize with a pregnant woman at the maternity store that just doesn’t know how she’s going to fit a baby into her Gucci-filled lifestyle, I feel an anger that is so sudden and so violent it surprises me.

It’s like a rage of fire that’s trying to work it’s way up through my esophagus and threatens to consume the poor, unassuming, rich person I’m trying to be nice to.

The closest I’ve ever come to letting the anger overtake me happened last week.

I was at my serving job and did not want to be there. My very first table included a young girl, a sullen teenager, and an older father figure. I walked up to the table and smiled.

Hi! Welcome! I’m –

But before I could say anymore the older man interrupted me and without looking my way, barked.

Can I have a menu?!

I stopped my cheery little speech and just stared at him. I mean, it wasn’t that big of a deal. I’ve been interrupted before.

But suddenly all the mean and disrespectful things anyone ever said to me boiled up to the surface.

Like the time I asked a man what he would like for dessert and he replied, “How about you jumping out of a cake.”

Or the time someone brushed my ass and said, “Thank you, sweet thing.”

Or when someone wrote on the Internet that I was the worst server they had ever had (after I had been nothing but nice to them.)

I was tired of it. And this man – with his stupid menu and his rude request – had sent me over the edge.

The table realized I had stopped talking and they stared at me, unsure of what to do.

I started to wonder how long I could remain silent until they would say something.

I also started to wonder if I could unhinge my jaw and eat them.

I was outraged that this man didn’t know immediately upon looking at me that I was a valuable member of society.

That I had dreams and goals.

That I was the kind of person worth not interrupting.

But of course, he didn’t.

I noticed the table getting extremely uncomfortable.

And so I broke the uncomfortable silence and said – pointedly – I SAID, MY NAME IS JESSICA AND I AM GOING TO BE YOUR SERVER.

In other words:

My name is your worst nightmare and if you interrupt me again I will spit in your food, steal your credit card number, and give you regular coffee when you ask for decaf.

And something changed. The table smiled and I saw something pass over all three of their faces.

It was an expression I rarely see in the service industry.

Respect.

When they left, they tipped me 30%.

Probably out of fear.

I mean – respect.

Sometimes it’s hard working at a million jobs you don’t necessarily like to try and be successful at one you do.

But every day I walk into that restaurant I always think – this might be the last day I’m here.

And also – maybe I’ll get free food tonight.

And those two things keep me going.