There are certain jobs in this world I call my “Six Month Jobs.” These are jobs, usually blue-collar in nature, that I’ve always been curious about. Jobs I’ve always wanted to try out – BUT – just for six months; they’re not the kind of jobs I’d want to make a career out of. Being a waitress, a bartender, or driving a semi across the country are some examples (how sleepy ol’ me would drive a semi for hours and hours is beyond my comprehension).
In my new little town of
Every morning, so early that my body has yet to forgive me, I drive Beau to work where he drives the school bus before he begins his day teaching (good extra money for an hour’s work). As we cross a bridge over a beautiful river, you can see a large bar/hotel/restaurant perched on the edge of the water below. I won’t give the title here, but let’s just say it matches that of a Patrick Swayze movie where he was a bouncer. *ahem* Guess I’ll call it “Swayze’s” here.
“I’m going to work there!” I exclaimed one morning.
Beau grimaced. He didn’t like the thought at all. He told me all the stories about the men here, particularly the throngs of fishermen who flock from all over during the various seasons. They’re in town for a short time, away from home and wives, and are fairly scummy to a woman working in a bar. But right now, all I can think of is “tips, good tips.”
That day I noticed an ad in the paper for Swayze’s, wanting waitresses. Wow, fate? I got home and strategized my outfit. Going in with my typical, pinstripe business suit was probably not the best course of action. I would have to dress down, but still look presentable, professional. Most hourly jobs I had gone in to apply for have hired me on the spot, so I knew if I could get this right, in a town who’s culture I didn’t yet know, I could hurry up and get a job. It’d been over a week that I’d languished (though at times happily languished) in our home without work. There’s something so relaxing and peaceful about staying at home, but there’s also the guilt, the nervousness, and the agitation of not doing anything constructive and not earning any money, especially when another person is involved (as well as two cats, a mangy curr, and student loans).
So, I donned a simple flowery dress that hung to my knees and threw a small navy blue jacket to cover my exposed shoulders. Made sure my legs were shaved and slipped on some simple black sandal/heels. Walked in, asked for an application, and sat at the bar with the bartender while I filled it out. Again, filling out the application became a strategic undertaking. I was not going to put that I was making over 40k total a year in NYC or $16/hour teaching ESL. The highest paid job I had EVER seen within a 60 mile radius was for about $8-$9/hour, so I knew that I couldn’t truly be…honest.
Funny, I’ve never downgraded myself before, but I knew if I wanted to work in this town, I’d have to. So, when I filled out the portion on my non-profit administrative job, I wrote $30,000. As for teaching ESL, I listed it as $10. I knew they’d have to take into consideration that it was NYC anyway. I wrote down my high school and undergraduate degree, but completely omitted my master’s degree. As I continued to fill it out, I chatted with the bartender who looked like Celine Dion if she had curled and teased her hair out, applied thick black eyeliner, and had had a bit of a rougher life. The woman, whom I’ll call Dana, was cool, and I enjoyed talking to her. She described the job to me somewhat and I admitted to having no waitress, cocktail waitress, or bartender experience. I made sure to write on my application though that I “worked hard” and was “dependable and reliable” which is all true. I knew they could count on me to be an asset to them – I’ve busted my ass at every job I’ve ever had.
After turning in my application, I drove down the road to the high school and picked up Beau. I informed him of what I’d done and he appeared grim. He knew about my struggle to find a job, and how most were in the $5-$6/hour range, but he also was uncomfortable with me being a barmaid in a fisherman’s bar. Beau’s a good guy though, and did his best to take it all in stride. Just one of many reasons why I think he’s the bee’s knees.
By the time we’d reached home about ten minutes later, Swayze’s was calling me. A woman we’ll call Betty talked to me about the job. One of the first things she said, hesitating, was “Well, you were making such good money in NYC.” I knew then that my instincts had been right. I am no fit to this town and will have to present myself in a different way. A master’s degree in anything but engineering is completely useless where I am now, and looked at with some degree of suspicion and distaste. I was then told I could do both waitressing and cocktail waitressing and that I “had the figure for it,” so I’d be fine. Uh oh. I was to come in the next day to get started. I could wear jeans and a t-shirt (yes!) and “no skimpy tops.” I think I can handle that.
Betty, along with her husband Tom, ran the restaurant (and were the cooks) and the small marina below that sold bait and other supplies to the fishermen who would dock and come up for some grub and beer. She was very friendly and did a good job on showing me the ropes. Her and her husband seemed close and in control, though she panicked a few times when she was left in the kitchen to cook alone when orders began to trickle in a bit more steadily. Overall, business was slow and I only earned about $35 in tips.
The second day I came to work, I was greeted again by Betty, but in a dramatically different way. Immediately upon laying eyes on her, I noticed her puffy eyes, makeup-free face, and rather dour expression. I thought perhaps she had had a tough night, she did mention how hot it was up there (her and her husband lived up in one of the hotel suites above the bar), or thought perhaps she had had a fight with her “old man.” I didn’t inquire. You don’t do shit like that on your second day.
The rest of the shift she was irritable and distant. That was fine with me, as long as I could do my job on my own, which I did, though I cringed every time I had to ask her a question. Later that night, a young local girl came in to work with me, let’s call her
My first night as a cocktail waitress was interesting. Part waitress, part whore, you go around basically prodding people to buy more drinks as soon as your, what soon comes to be, hawkeyes peer through the smoke haze and gleen a beer bottle even remotely near empty. But though young,
I noticed how friendly she was with many of the customers, and learned quickly that’s the name of the game, but was pretty surprised to learn at the end of the night that many of these “customers” were actually her friends, as when she told one “…and after my brother comes over tomorrow, bring him here…” Well shit. Competing with a local girl in a small town is gonna be rough.
At the end of a very long night, where tips were somewhere sadly around $50, I reflected on the weirdness of the job. As a couple days had passed I noticed a few startling facts -- there were no breaks, and you didn't eat. And what completely blew me away was that all employees seemed completely unfazed by this. Every now and then I'd make some comment like, "Oh, don't you get hungry?" or "Gee, I could really use a break, you?" All I ever received were apathetic shrugs as the person dragged on her (they're all women) cigarette.
So, that reminds me, there are "breaks," if you count a smoke break as a break, and since I am the ONLY person in the entire bar, counting waitresses, bartender, cooks, owners, and all customers that does NOT smoke (and the two rooms in the restaurant are "smoking" and... "smoking"), I didn't get my 60 second break to puff away. Coming from NYC where cigarettes are banned from bars (which I actually don't agree with) and every other place I've ever lived where there have been distinct smoking and non-smoking sections, it's rather comical (and somewhat irritating to the eyes), to see a bartender pouring a drink with a cigarette dangling from her lips, or a waitress calmly pushing a vacuum across the floor with her right hand and smoking a cigarette in her left. Even the cooks would venture out every hour or so, sit at the closest table and puff serenely away at the cigarette until a new customer came in. I never saw them wash their hands, though I'm going to assume they did.
Coming home from such a smoker's paradise was difficult. I walked in the door each night with my own black cloud...one of guilt. The stench of smoke was so thick. It clung to my clothes, which I peeled off each night as if they were doused in radiation and dropped them disdainfully at the foot of the washing machine. I would crawl into the bathtub, squatting down (we have a shower head, but it's one at the end of a long snake-like handle which you must hold the entire time you're showering), and clean myself with some degree of shame. I just felt dirty. And the worst of all was that I couldn't wash my hair. My hair, which hairdressers have complained has a mass equal to 2-3 full heads of a normal person's hair in thickness, is not to be washed at 2:00am. I will just be sleeping on thick, wet hair that will not dry, and I will wake up uncomfortable with a damp, cold, tangled mess and an itchiness at the back of head, above my neck. So, poor Beau, forced to sleep with Medusa and her snakes of smoke each night. I tried to tie my hair back in a tight bun to minimize contact, but my hair is not always so willing to stay put.
Not to mention that, again, POOR BEAU, who has to wake up at 5:30am every morning to go to the high school, could be found at 2:30am each night, dozing in the car in the parking lot of Swayze's, waiting patiently for me to emerge. It really wasn't fair. And then 3 hours later I would wake up with him to take him to work. At least I got to come back home and crash.
Anyway....the drama was just beginning....when I arrived on the THIRD day....
... continued in Part II. Coming soon!
