Hungry to hopeful

I wonder what it is that makes restuarant owners hate waiters? Not all waiters, just me. (Tongue in cheek). It feels that way though in atleast my last two jobs, maybe more... it's not until they finally realize that I know what I'm doing, and make them more money than most, that they finally begin to treat me as though I am close to human. I'm really not being self-pitying. My current job, I had to fight to be a waiter, not a bus boy because someone thought I smoked too much. I smoke less and work harder than most of the other waiters. At my last job, I was warned a couple times, and was definitely on thin ice, before my customers rescued me by raving about my service.

Right now someone is asking, "obviously smoking is causing problems for you and interfering with your job. Why don't you just quit?" I guarantee that someone is a non-smoker. I know I can't do massage and smoke. The proximity to the customer makes it really difficult to hide the smell. But waiting tables keeps me a couple feet, atleast, away, (even better at an outdoor cafe, like where I am now), and except for the most anti-smoking nazi ex-smoking customers, no one is offended. I am careful to wash my hands and cough and blow my nose after every cigarette, and unless you are close enough to kiss me, you won't notice.

And I know when it is ok to be gone for 90 seconds; how long it takes me to smoke a whole cigarette. Yes, I've timed it. And it kills me when someone who has never waited tables tells me how to do my job.

Now on the flip side, because someone else is saying that I am being ego-centric and justifying my addiction, I recognize and respect that I am working for someone who is trying very hard to keep a restuarant open. Someone who has put in the time, money,  and self-sacrifice to get the place going, keep it going (so far...) and has definite ideas about how they want it. I accept that. I respect that. What I have a problem with is being treated like I am not a professional, and don't care about the restuarant or the owners. I am a very small piece... an expendable piece. Disposable, in fact, where I am now. 90% of the waiters there don't stay more than two weeks. Most don't stay more than two or three shifts. I am not kidding when I say that they really don't know what they're doing. Maybe in France this is how you run a restuarant, but I doubt it. This is how you run an unsuccessful restuarant.

I think I have complained enough. I am, and will continue to take pride in my work, represent the restuarant to the best of my ability, and make as much money for myself and the restuarant as I can by giving the best service and providing the best dining experience that I am capable of.

So I guess I needed to report all that to qualify the statement that I am doing pretty well. I am working seven days a week as a waiter, that allows me to get extra tips in cash, and those have usually been enough to cover my daily expenses. That means I can save my tips that are on the check automatically, and pay my bills. I expect to be paying all of them on time within a month, and maybe begin to whittle down that title loan instead of just paying the interest. Soon, I will establish my boat fund again.

It has been six weeks, and I have gone from hungry to hopeful. I'm nowhere near easy street, but I am making it. I am here to stay. I've been thinking of a backpacking tent as an intermediate step between sleeping under the starts and being devoured by mosquitos, and spending the chunk of change that a cap for my truck bed would cost. The tent has to be small enough to not attract attention from passing cars... passing police cars... but I think I can find the perfect tent, and next week might be the perfect time.

I am riding a wave of Quality, Service, and love into a life that I am supposed to lead. I still have a good 40 years left. I can't wait to see where I will go next!

P.S. I am writing this blog on my phone, and for the most part, it is unedited, and is posted pretty much in the form that I would consider a rough draft. I have a good phone, but the word processing is still primitive, and it is easier to write as grammatically correct as I can, spelling without a spellchecker, and pretty much just writing what comes to me, than to sacrifice the creative flow by spending too much time editing. Someday, I hope to have enough material, a decent laptop or desktop, and a quiet mooring in a peaceful sailboat to turn this unweildy thing into a memoir that could be submitted for publication. What is that, 12 lines to say I'm sorry about the typo's and the spelling errors, and the run-on sentences, and the undisciplined use of paragraphs? I beg your indulgence.  :)