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Resignation Interrogation

Well, technically, officer, I wasn’t a waiter. I was the host. Which is important because, you know, without me…how could anybody find the tables? You know? They’re, um…they’re numbered…

Failure…failure is such an ugly word. Really. I prefer to think I’m still finding myself, my, I don’t know, calling, which, is admittedly taking some time. More time than I would have chosen to allot for my coming of age. I’m starting to think I’m a late bloomer. I realize that I’ll probably have to stop using that as a preface to every conversation started with, “so, what are you up to?” eventually, because the phrase loses a bit of its earnestness when you hit your middle forties. I guess at that point you are simply a non-bloomer. An early wilter. A dud.

I realize people are growing impatient. I’m growing impatient, you know? And that’s how it happened. My impatience – or actually maybe resentment but you know, either way – my state of mind while in the work place…the work environment…I think I should be able to plead temporary insanity because that’s what I was. Temporarily insane. Perhaps the temporary part is open to interpretation but, you know, insane. I shouldn’t be held accountable for my actions under those circumstances.

Anyway, the point is, every time I went to work and began the mind numbingly – the…brain breakingly existential task of Windexing menus – yeah, that’s right WINDEXING menus – I could literally feel a piece of my soul die. And after changing into my “uniform” – my mother thought I’d be a doctor – after changing into my host “uniform” I’d take all the menus to the front of the house – that’s what they called it. You believe that? “The front of the house.” I don’t know, maybe to help out of work actors acclimate themselves quicker but anyway I’d take these freshly squeegeed menus there and every time – every time – that…just…unspeakably pretentious waiter would be up there and say, “It’s show time!” Just like that. “It’s show time!” I can still hear it in my sleep.

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The Trail

Anyone out there who’s ever worked in a restaurant knows that the worst thing about getting a new job is trailing. For those of you who don’t know, a trail is a training session. It’s called a trail because you’re forced to follow (or trail) someone who actually knows what they’re doing all night like some pathetic, ball-less helper monkey. But these trails aren’t just painful for the neutered helper monkey. No, they’re hellish for the trainer and provide plenty of awkward moments for the guests as well. So, I was thinking, what if trails weren’t limited to the restaurant business? What if people had to trail for all vocations? I think a mafia trail might go a little something like this:

Joey the Pig and Jimmy the Gangster enter a small office occupied by Mr. Swindle and Mr. Misappropriation. They are dressed in suits and approach the two men in a threatening manner.

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The Ballad of the Unemployed

“I open my eyes to florescent light, humming and draining. My qualm is with colors, colors I can’t see, washed out and dulled over, lacking in brilliance, lacking in resonance in the depleting paling glow, humming and draining. I find I don’t know much, less by the day perhaps, but this much is true: man was not meant to live under florescent light. Edison would not have wanted it that way. Neither would Tesla nor Bell nor Mozart nor Van Gogh – perhaps he most of all, or rather, least of all. Choose your light carefully.”

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Just Ingest It!

“No offense to casual dieters but Speedy Slim is only for the egregiously overweight. You might be wondering if you qualify for the Speedy Slim program. Here are some quick and easy ways to tell. Do you carry around a can of ‘back-up’ gravy in your car or purse? Do you measure your dietary success by how many sticks of butter you consume in a day? Are you willing to steal pie from a child? If you answered yes to any of those questions, Speedy Slim might be right for you. Before we proceed, however, I want to reiterate, Speedy Slim is not for people looking to lose five or ten ‘vanity pounds’.”

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