Literary Journalism

Not sure if I got the whole 'interview'ish' feel in there, but here it is:

“Just Passing Through”

I hate these god damn uniforms. I really don’t understand why they make the girls and guys wear the same thing when a girl looks pretty silly in a white, button down, collared shirt and tie. I was getting ready for work, ironing for twenty minutes like usual, trying to get every god damn wrinkle out of my thick, cotton apron. It was a Friday; I was looking forward to making some better money, hoping they’d give me a better station now that I’ve been there for about three months, but doubtful nevertheless.
Ironing was complete and I was all ready to go. I jumped in my car and headed off to work at Carrabba’s. My three minute drive up the hill and across the highway was enough time to get in a smoke and a Sarah McLachlan song I couldn’t get enough of. I parked in the back like usual, finished my tie and apron in the car, and entered through the back door. As I walked passed the back of the kitchen to the coat rack I was hoping I’d see a good station written in for me on the list, but tried not to hope too much, afraid of jinxing myself. I put my coat away, washed my hands in the bathroom, as I wished others would do before they started work, and made my way to the list that hangs on the wall by the bread machine.
“God damn it, why have I gotten this fucking station again?” I was so pissed off after seeing that I was stuck with tables forty-one and forty-two again. They sit right by the ‘window’ and computers where all the food is ran out from and all the servers hang out. No one ever wants to sit there because there’s too much commotion, not to mention, they’re tables, and everyone requests booths.
“I know, this place is so fucked up. I’m a closer tonight and they only gave me tables four and five.” This was Vera speaking. She was like me, always complaining about one thing or another because we’re never treated fairly.
I looked over the list at others’ sections and saw that Vera, Sherry, Elizabeth, Rachael Danielle, and I had the shittiest sections. Sherry wasn’t coming in until six, so I didn’t have my usual ‘complain buddy’. But there was Vera; she always complained though she did get awesome sections most days of the week. She kept trying to remind me how she was treated unfairly too, but she stuck with it, god how she repeated herself.
Immediately I was put into a shitty mood and couldn’t wipe the frown off my face. I went over to the computer and clocked in, took my beverage napkins, checked out the specials, all the usual shit. My mind floated back to the list. I was so pissed how unfair things are at Carrabba’s. It’s so obvious the favoritism they play at this place. The managers are always going out with certain employees, their drinking buddies, smoking buddies, coke buddies. It’s always their buddies that get the best sections. Sherry, Danielle, me, and the rest who aren’t in with ‘the gang’ only have two four tops on the weekends, when the ‘buddies’ have two two-tops, and one six top, or an eight-top with a twelve-top. Their sales are double or triple ours, their head count is double or triple ours, and the tips they bring home are double or triple ours. It just isn’t fair. That night was like all the other nights, when my mood came crashing down and I wanted so badly to just walk out the door. But I knew I couldn’t do that. I had bills to pay.
The clock went so slow and after getting sat three two-tops in a row I wanted to scream. Sherry finally came in and we bitched and moaned like usual. Where on one table we were making $8 tips, others were making $20 or more. I decided to go over to Rachael who was having the same problems as us, just to see if she even cared the way we did. The restaurant is wide open, with booths lining the walls. She was standing in the carry-out area, a small, separated area of the restaurant that’s never really busy. I made my way across the restaurant and met her in there.
“So you only have one-o-three, one-o-four, and one-o-five tonight, huh?” (Those tables consisted of two two-tops and one four-top.)
“Yeah, and you have forty-one and forty-two?”
“Yeah,” I said unenthusiastically, “this place sucks. I’ve been here longer than some of these newcomers. People really piss me off.”
“Yeah, I know,” she replied. “These bosses are so fucked up. Sally wants to screw Doug so I hear, and you see how every night he gets two six-tops even though he’s newer than us. And Kevin— his performance sucks, yet because he’s Rich’s buddy he always gets three table sections on the weekends.” Vera entered then, caught on to the conversation and chimed in.
“I hear what you’re saying guys. This place pisses me off. I would love to call the corporation and rat them out for being so unfair.”
I prayed that she would, for I simply didn’t have the balls to.

The night went by slow and of course I had mostly two-tops, a couple three-tops, and the only four-tops I had, the seats that I could have been occupied by adults whose totals average between twenty to thirty dollars or more, were occupied by children, whose meals only cost six dollars. I tried to pretend to be busy when I wasn’t so I didn’t have to run food. I hated the idea of working my butt off, knowing how unfair I was being treated and calculating the tips I would be taking home.
Things were slowing down and finally people had begun getting cut. I knew I’d be the next on the list, after the openers, since I went in at four. I started getting my silverware counted, and filled up my oils, anything I could do get out of there faster when my tables finally left. Walking around the kitchen, I began seeing the kind of things that pissed me off even more about this place. Some of the ‘buddies’ did their side work half fast, like they always do. Because they’re in with the ‘gang’ the closers don’t even care to check their side work, and they get signed out and leave with their assigned areas looking like shit, and only half the assigned silverware rolled. Sherry, Danielle, myself, and the rest of us were given more arduous side work like always and when it came time to get checked the closers turned into anal, power control freaks. I was so irate after seeing Kevin simply dip the trays into the water, then returning them to their shelves without scrubbing them or drying them, and getting signed out regardless. I was so irate after seeing Doug roll only about twenty silverware and getting signed out regardless. I was so irate after seeing the coffee and tea area left a complete mess, yet Alonzo, who had the area, was gone already. It was sickening.
When my customers were gone and I was finally checked out my silverware was counted and cleaned, and I made an area next to Danielle in the back of the kitchen to begin rolling.
“Do you know the count tonight,” I asked her, just trying to make conversation, especially knowing we could relate.
“Yeah, forty plus. But sadly not everyone does it; did you see Doug?”
“Yeah, I know, I thought I was the only one who notices shit like that!” I was surprised anyone else noticed or cared.
“Oh god, I notice,” she replied with a sick look on her face. “I don’t understand how some people get away with that shit.”
I explained to her how they’re all buddies, the ones who get treated like gods. I used the information Rachael supplied me with to back me up. She seemed to finally understand. Tara came back then to roll. I knew she wasn’t buddy-buddy with the managers so I tried getting her opinion, letting her know my frustrations as well. We all started to complain together.
“I know. I’ve been here since we’ve opened and yet I get sat two-tops all night. I’m forty two years old and have three kids; I think I need the money more than these kids who get all their fucking money from mommy and daddy.” Danielle and I are around the same age as these ‘kids’ she was talking about, but Tara knew she could say that to us. She knew we paid our own bills and were struggling too, though not as bad as her. “I’m going to need to get a second job; I’m telling you, this place sucks. You guys are lucky. You’re in school; you’re just passing through. Sadly, I’m a lifer.”
We continued rambling on until we finished our huge piles of silverware. After leaving that night I thought a lot about what Tara had said. She was right. I’m just passing through. I still work at Carrabba’s now, but my attitude has totally changed, and with my attitude change I’ve noticed a few other changes. Instead of complaining about my sections, I started to try my hardest not to care. At the sight of lazy “buddies” I tried to pity them rather than get pissed off; pity them that they’re as lazy as they are and sadly will turn into ‘lifers’ themselves.
Over these few weeks of changing my attitude, being more blaze or even crazily cheerful, I’ve realized that my sections have been improving, and with those better sections, my tips at the end of the night are getting higher. I’ve concluded that it’s simply one of those instances where “mind over matter” applies. There are shitty nights here and there of course, but instead of letting those nights get me down, I simply repeat to myself, “I’m just passing through.”