Elise Janowicz
Another Day at Work (Revision)
I smell the sour cigarette smoke before I even walk in the door. The extra long staircase
in front of me has been worn down by the high heels and tennis shoes that stomp up it nightly,
and my legs grow tired when I am only halfway up. At the top, the florescent red glow from the
“Big Al’s” sign causes my eyes to ache. I shift my glance to the closest high top table where I
hear the heavy Australian accent from one of the regulars. He pours beer from the pitcher of
Yuengling into his frosted glass, takes a big gulp, and catches my eye. A smile stretches across
his face as he lifts his glass in my direction.
About ten minutes later, a couple probably in their forties seats themselves in the back
corner of the bar. If there were two servers on the floor, we would play Rock, Paper, Scissors to
see who got to take them. Since I’m the only server on so far, I let them settle in and, I greet
them and take their drink orders. One twenty-two ounce glass of Newcastle for the gentleman
and a double Bay breeze with Absolut Vodka for the lady. Alcohol is usually a key element to a
good tip, not only because it racks up the price of the bill, but slight intoxication can sometimes
be beneficiary as well. Because it is early, the bartender makes the drinks in less than a minute.
If it was busy, my drinks would be his last priority. He cautiously places them at the end of the
bar, but foam from the beer still sloshes down the side of the mug. The glass is slick in my hand
as I pick up the drinks. I quickly bring them to the couple, and they order the Nachos Grande to
share with no tomatoes.
“Shit,” I think as I reach for the food in the kitchen about five minutes later. I see that I
forgot to tell the cooks not to put tomatoes on the appetizer. “Jimmy, I am so sorry, but I meant
to put no tomatoes on this nachos ticket!” The cook grumbles for a minute, and fortunately, they
are not very busy and whip another one out in minutes. I grab two sets of silverware and some
extra napkins and deliver the nachos to the couple. Greedily, they dig in and order another round
of drinks.
As I walk back to the computer, the lights dim and the music becomes louder. This
means we will getting busy soon. It takes a little longer this time for my drinks because the bar
is starting to fill up. I bring the beer and cocktail to the table and spend some time talking to
them. Turns out they visit Hilton Head Island, South Carolina more often than I do. They know
all of the best restaurants down there, and I share with them where the best Italian ice cream
parlor is. After a few more minutes of chatting, they politely ask for their check whenever I have
a chance. Before I go to the computer and print their bill, I take a peek in the bathroom to make
sure it is not trashed yet. It is only 9:00pm and like usual, there is a toilet paper roll on the floor
and crumbled paper towels next to--not in--the trashcan. I bend down and pick up everything off
the floor just as a girl is walking out of the far stall. She glances at me and slurs, “Aww, that’s
so nice of you to clean up in here!” I laugh as I stand back up, show her my Big Al’s shirt, and
tell her that I wish customers would clean up in here. I turn on the sink and wash my hands as
she gives a half giggle and stumbles out of the restroom.
I follow her out and slowly walk to the computer. I know it is about to get crazy in here,
and I am not looking forward to it. I punch in my numbers on the computer, tear the receipt off,
and slide it into a black book. The couple graciously accepts the bill, and the man hands me his
credit card. After I run the card through the computer, I thank them for coming and start taking
other customers as the bar fills up. The friendly couple leaves me a ten dollar tip on a thirty
dollar tab. These are the kind of tables that make waitressing worth it.
Two hours later the bar is packed. The thick cloud of cigarette smoke has hindered my
vision, and my head throbs with each beat of the ABBA song being played on the loudspeaker. I
have been waiting for my drinks to be made for almost ten minutes. My drink ticket finally
catches the bartender’s eye. He rips it off of the machine and holds it close to his face so he can
see what it says. He sloppily makes the Lemon Drop shooter that I rang in. I snatch it off the bar
and scan the crowd for the short girl with stringy brown hair who ordered the drink. A drunk,
chubby boy slams into my side, and the shooter splashes all over my hand. I wipe the liquid on
my blue jeans as I try to squeeze by a couple singing “Dancing Queen” quite off key. I have to
kick the boy in the calf in order to get him to move out of my way. My hand is sticky because of
the spill, and I still can’t spot Short Brunette. I feel a firm grasp on my shoulder and spin
around; it’s her. In her drunken stupor she reaches for the shot and downs it right in front of me.
“That’ll be five dollars, ma’am,” I say as she sucks on the lemon chaser. She fumbles through
her leather purse, pulls out a five dollar bill, and shoves it towards me. I stand there for an extra
second waiting for a tip or even a thank you. I let out a small sigh, put a smile on my face, and
wedge myself back into the mob. It’s just another day at work.
***
Being a server, I take the good with the bad. There are people like the friendly couple
who tip well to be nice and for good service. There are the business men whose tabs are $300.00
because they ordered ten rounds of shots, and they are all hammered and scribble $100.00 in the
tip line. There are the families who have a $75.00 check and leave a five dollar tip. And most
commonly, there are the college students who have a $2.50 bill (pitchers of Natty Light are $2.50
during Happy Hour, duh) and leave anywhere from nothing to $10.00. It is the luck of the draw,
and sometimes excellent service does not always mean an excellent tip.
I’ve learned to never get upset about a rude table. Sometimes I will say in my head,
“Elise, you are a good server” over and over again. Customers can make you feel like scum and
you do nothing right, and they can make you feel like you are a goddess and have the world at
your fingertips. I think that you tip more when you have worked in a restaurant because you
know it isn’t as easy as it looks. You know that this is probably their only job, and their salary
depends on your tip.
It’s not a job that everyone can do. It not only takes skill, but it takes the passion to work
for people. You can’t like being a waitress, you gotta love it.