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Zach completes his contribution to Your Voice Here as he recounts the last several of more than 18 jobs he’s held during his lifetime. Zach, you forgot to mention one more job you’ve had: providing a steady stream of content for yorkrules this month. Thanks for sharing!
Rat Race (Part IV)
After years of taking orders, counting tips, and cursing patrons, I reached a personal milestone. In 2003, at the age of 23, I graduated college. With journalism degree in hand, I marched across a makeshift stage, happily waving to my family. I thought the days of busing tables, splitting checks, and wiping counters were over. Companies were going to line up to pay me a cushy salary for a comfy desk job. Yep, clear sailing from here on out.
Poof.
I was awakened from my dream by the brisk wind of reality. And by brisk wind I mean a fart. It seemed that my degree, while fancy and printed on a quality stock, counted for very little in the big rat race. No one even called me, let alone wooed me. My favorite response was written on a postcard from a television station in Reno:
Dear applicant,
We greatly appreciate your interest in joining Reno’s number-one rated news team. We’ll contact you if we need further information.
Sincerely,
The Reno 11 News Team
I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had added, “This postcard is also capable of a hellacious paper cut, in case you need a little more punishment. P.S. – You suck.”
Humbled, I took my 30 thousand dollar degree and parlayed it into a great job… serving tables. To my surprise, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I left Kansas, because as I previously noted, it’s extremely boring, and moved to the adult playground that is Austin, Texas. My brother lived there, and was willing and able to provide me safe harbor until I could get on my feet. Eddie V’s Edgewater Grill was your classic steak and seafood fine dining restaurant. A fantastic place to have a meal; it’s the kind of joint that asks you if you want sparkling or flat water at the meal’s outset.
As I’ve said, the more clothes you’re wearing as a waiter, the more money you’re going to make. If I could serve tables as an 18th century Spanish prince during the winter solstice, I would. The Penguin Suit, as we called it, added a white blazer and a bow tie to my preexisting white button-up shirt/black pants combo. This Buddy Holly look actually appeared classy in a dark restaurant, but I’m here to tell you that it’s not even presentable in full light. In truth, I was wearing a pair of black Dickies, a No-Iron white shirt, a clip-on bow tie, and a pair of black, non-slip, Shoes For Crews restaurant shoes that were easily confused with those used to cure gout. And my uniform was above average, compared to my coworkers.
With my newfound look came an embarrassment of riches. I served crab cakes and Bluepoint oysters followed by Filet Oscar with creamed spinach, capped off with chocolate soufflé. And of course you’d wash it all down with a 300-dollar bottle of wine. All of the well-to-do’s in Austin frequented Eddie V’s, including almost every member of the Texas government. I found it fascinating that Texas was mired in a terrible budget crunch while senators wined and dined their mistresses four nights a week. About once a month, Lady Bird Johnson would come in with two secret service agents and have a really, really slow meal. She was incredibly sweet, but when you’re 95, everything takes am excruciatingly long time. Once, the high-profile coach of a University of Texas sports team ended up getting in someone else’s car at the valet and driving away. He ditched it in a parking garage.
While I paid the bills through Eddie V’s, I spent the days trying to get my fledgling career off the ground. First, I was an intern for KEYE-TV CBS, which brought me up close and personal with murders, fires and fatal traffic accidents. Funny how that can change your opinion of a profession. I swiftly moved on to the world of commercial production as an intern at Rocket Productions. Aptly named, I went from intern to dub supervisor to assistant editor/graphics artist in an 8-month span. Eventually, I decided I wanted to try Los Angeles. Sometimes you have to see how far down the rabbit hole goes.
On my last night at Eddie V’s, I was waiting on a private party. It was in a separate banquet room, and it was an open bar. At this point I had run the service industry gamut. I figured that after 7 years of waiting tables, I had already dealt with the Worst People Ever. I figured wrong. This group of thirty-somethings arrived like a hurricane, swirling through the dining room at 100 decibels before finally touching down in their private room. Every last one of them had rosy cheeks and disinfectant for breath. Another server and I basically baby-sat for 4 hours, except the babies were continually devolving. After two thousand dollars in alcohol, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a monkey poo fight. Actually, if you walked in the room after they left, you’d have thought that’s exactly what happened.
One thirty-something guy in the group, let’s call him Complete Jackass, was not only wicked drunk, but quite the 12 year-old brat as well. After speaking down to both my coworker and me for the better part of 2 hours, we had both had our fill. There are only so many times I can take, “Hey, Zach, what’s your best Scotch, Zach? Gee, I’d sure like to try that. Would ya bring me some, Zach?”
After a while, we both came to dread Complete. At one point, he was tearing pieces off of a loaf of bread and chucking them across the table at another guest. The floor was covered in food. To reiterate, this guy was at least 35. Much to his dismay, I confiscated his bread. Angered by his curtailed entertainment, he began plotting his revenge. After dessert, I walked into the room to find an unbelievable surprise. Directly above Mr. Jackass’ seat, a molten chocolate soufflé had been spoon-catapulted into the ceiling. The rest of the guests may have been too plastered to notice the transgressions occurring around them, but I was keeping an accurate tally. I walked up to the woman who had made the reservation, and loudly stated within earshot of Complete that the guests needed to calm down and wrap it up. Totally embarrassed already, she and another woman apologized and agreed to get it under control. And at that endeavor, they failed.
I turned away to return to the duty of cleaning, when I felt a significant chill on the back of my neck. Complete Jackass had taken it upon himself to communicate, and his sentence said, “Cold, half-full Stoli and tonic tossed at the back of your head.” I turned around to meet my offender, heating up like an oven dial as I rotated. At this point, the party was over. Every guest in the room gasped, leaving a vacuum where sound once existed. As I exhaled nuclear fire, my eyes met C.J. Before I could think, before I could be stopped, before Complete’s smile could fade, I grabbed the back of his neck in a vice grip-like fashion and guided him out of the banquet room towards the restaurant’s exit. When he squirmed, I tightened my grip until he let out an extremely satisfying whimper. I explained that he was no longer welcome at the restaurant, tonight or in the future. I released him to the hosts of his party, and began the task of cooling down and cleaning up. My coworkers looked at me half-stunned, half-ecstatic. It’s a waiter’s dream to tell a diner to get bent, or better yet, to bend him yourself. I had been pushed to my limit, and I had nothing to lose. That guy was fucked from the get-go.
As I stood on a table picking chocolate out of ceiling tile, I understood that my time as a waiter had come to an end. Sometimes you’re given a sign, and sometimes a sign splashes down the back of your neck. I haven’t served a table since.
My world, business and otherwise, has been Los Angeles for almost three years. Now, I take commands sitting down instead of standing. Drink orders and surly diners have been traded in for purchase orders and surly executives. And like every job I’ve ever had, I love/hate it. Work has shaped who I am and who I hope to be in the future. I believe it enriches your life, creates bonds and builds character, but it doesn’t define me. When York first commissioned me to write this piece, the impetus was to share those lessons and others with yorkrules readers. But I soon realized that whatever message I delivered was going to say more about me as an employee than it did about the nature of employment.
After more than 18 jobs, I’ve learned that what I enjoy most is discovering a new endeavor every one to two years.
And if you have that job description, I’ve got a resume for you.
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