Being a Server/Waiter(ess)

I’ve worked as a server at Red Lobster for a little over three years now. It’s given me a glimpse into a life I’d previously never understood or appreciated.

Most servers I’ve met are young, going to school—unqualified. I’d say maybe two thirds of these people are actively working on bettering their lives—they are working toward becoming teachers or nurses, physical therapists… And yet, I’ve found—at least where I live—an incredible stigma against servers.

You see, as a server, I’ve realized you’re subjected to, on a daily basis, people who simply look down on you. The job of a server is degrading, or it can be. Much like working at McDonald’s has become synonymous with a lower tier job undeserving of respect.  Nobody of quality could possible debase themselves to such a point as to serve. These are jobs for the helpless, the hopeless… the lazy and unambitious…

What a load of crap.

Serving is the hardest job I’ve ever had. That’s not hyperbole or exaggeration. While it doesn’t entail extensive schooling, to do it truly effectively requires a multitasking ability beyond anything I’d ever experienced. Beyond that, I have to be nice, perky, and kind to a wide variety of, pardon my French, assholes, regardless of whether or not I have energy that day or am in a good mood. The margin for error is extremely low. Being a server requires you to be your best self the entire time you’re working. Regardless of what many people may say. How many jobs actually require that?

When I started working at Red Lobster I was shortly removed from a college degree. I’d been a warehouse supervisor, a mortgage loan officer and processor. I’d done SEO management; I’d done construction and roofing across a variety of spectrums. I didn’t jump into serving as some punk kid. I was hardly uneducated and I’d had a handful of jobs most people wouldn’t last in for a day. But you know what I quickly realized? People (guests) don’t care. They assume. I’m older now. What do I appear to be to people who come to eat at my restaurant? Some man who’s never bothered to better himself? A lazy freeloader feeding on the underbelly of society? An inconvenient interaction necessary for them to get their food when they deign to delight me with their presence?

I’ve been extremely lucky. In an incredibly bad economy I’ve been able to cut out a decent living doing freelance writing with serving as a supplement to my income which also keeps me on an even keel socially. I make far more per hour writing than I ever could serving. But in serving I have interaction with people, I have a job that’s difficult and can be instantly rewarding… But I find far more frustration in my serving than I possibly could with my writing.

You see, I’m looked down on as a server. Most of my guests don’t know I write. They don’t know I make far more writing than I ever could serving. I’m assuming they see a late twenties male who is good for nothing. Maybe I’m wrong, but given my general treatment, I’m going to assume I’m right.

“Hey, my name is Brandon, I’ll be your server. How are we all doing today?”

“Diet Coke.”

“Interesting, I didn’t realize that was a mood/emotion/feeling. But I’ll be happy to grab that for you!”

This is a regular interaction for me. No, I don’t see an inherent problem with people who know what they want and want to forgo human interaction to get it. But the difference in decent, polite behavior is a matter of a handful of words—ten to fifteen seconds at the most.

Fine, you don’t want to talk to me when you sit down—that’s completely okay! Not everyone prides themselves on a job well done, but I’ll treat you as best I can, regardless of the fact you’re rude in a way I hope you’d never be to anyone else in your life. I’ll even strive to be quick and efficient. By golly, I’ll even be nice and say I’m glad you came to Red Lobster when you leave! Most people would say I’m fishing for tips. Nope. Wrong. I’d say with about a 90% accuracy I already know who is going to tip me decently. I treat all my guests well because it’s simply the right thing to do.

Wait. Stop.

Being nice, being courteous is right? I don’t believe it…

Given my experience as a server it would be extremely easy to believe nobody has to be nice, to care, or to be respectful.

Get my order and get out of my face!

Believe it or not, most servers are capable of reading their guests. We can tell in a few seconds whether or not you’re worth our time. Sometimes we’re wrong… But sadly, we’re usually right…

And good servers, truly good servers, you know what? They treat you the same regardless.

In my honest opinion, most of all ya’ll don’t deserve it.

Blunt. Harsh. But true.

Most people I serve deserve crappy service. But serving is one of my jobs. And I don’t do a job halfway. So you’ll get service as if you were a king or a queen, knowing full well you’ll tip me $5 on a $150 dollar check, and you’ll act like you’re doing me a favor (FYI at that point I’m paying to serve you… thanks!).

You know what… it averages out. I do my absolute best because I had awesome parents who taught me to work... They taught me to do my best even when nobody is watching and nobody cares. For every guest or table I have that tips 5% I have a good, caring person who tips me 40% for no other reason than because they know there are stupid, mean, angry people who tip poorly for a wide variety of reasons that wouldn’t hold up with any amount of scrutiny.

Serving, at times, is a thankless job. Many (not all) guests truly don’t appreciate you unless everything magically clicks, though you're the focus of their rather if anything goes wrong (sorry, I really didn't cook your food...). Most people? They want food. You’re a necessary step between sitting down and getting what they want. Oh, and seven drink refills and six baskets of bread (oh, and DIET soda, because I'm I'm trying to lose weight... Wait, you forgot my three extra orders of ranch?!). And extra butter. And cocktail sauce. And a new fork. And napkins.

All requests come separately, naturally. Why aren’t you being faster? It’s not like you have other guests to take care of…

Look, I get it; serving is an easy, mindless job. 

The problem? It isn’t. 

Not if you’re busy. Not if you’re good at it. I’ve got 23 guests to deal with. Seven need refills on their drinks. 6 need some kind of sauce. 2 need an extra plate/napkin/their check. If I'm lucky the rest are happily eating. But that's not usually the case.

Yes… Serving is an easy, mindless job... The problem? It’s not. Stop being rude. Stop looking for stupid, minor, nearly meaningless excuses to tip less. Believe it or not, servers don’t like paying to serve you. Usually, we get paid $2.13 an hour for the pleasure of dealing with people who think we’re the dregs of society. Depending on the restaurant we have to give a large percentage of your (assumed though often not given) 15% tip to bussers or bartenders. For people who refuse to tip well, don’t act terribly surprised if we know who you are and have lost the willpower to be the good people we constantly strive to be. 

I mean, after all, how excited would you be to realize you had to smile while you mow your awful neighbor's lawn? Not appealing? Welcome to the life as a server. The difference? The average person treats their neighbor's lawn better.

I hope someone spits in your food. 

P.S. I will never spit in your food. But sometimes I really, really want to...

Living With Depression

Robin Williams died yesterday.

The world rarely shows such an incredible outpouring for the death of one individual. So what does it say when news coverage, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram are utterly inundated by cries of love and respect of this man and his work? He was loved. He was admired. He made people smile. He made people feel. Feel. Feel.

Feel.

Feel. I relate to this word, to this concept. For someone living with, battling, fighting, struggling, and often times losing to depression, I understand the word feel far too well. I think, perhaps, that Robin Williams was the same.

You see, depression, real, lasting, non-circumstantial depression, at its very core, is a problem of feeling. Sure, yes, it’s misfiring synapses, chemical imbalances in the brain yada yada etc etc… but at its core—at my core, it’s a problem with feeling. Feeling too much. Feeling too much about the wrong things. Having a difficult, almost impossible struggle to control feeling.  To me, that’s depression.

Robin Williams was, by all measurable means, a man who ought to have been happy, beyond such struggles. He had everything he needed to stay alive without anxiety or stress: check. He had personal and non-personal love almost un-endingly showered in his direction: check. He had laughter, fun, and what would often seem like happiness, despite his well-documented struggles with personal demons. And yet he’s dead. He hit his limit, for whatever reason. Game over. You lose.

Depression.

Depression, true, lasting, crippling depression is hard to define. I’ve often compared it to describing the color of the sky to a blind person. How could anyone who hasn’t/doesn’t experience it ever really understand? People go through hardships, a bad break-up, being laid off, the death of loved ones, and they feel depression, anxiety, fear… But it’s temporary. Time heals all wounds, as they say. But true depression, time doesn’t heal it. You either find a way to make yourself strong enough to battle it, or it takes you. There’s no gray area here. Depression kills. Unless of course we find a way to keep it from killing us.

I’d hope by now it’s readily apparent this is a topic with which I share a fair amount of familiarity. I’ve been hospitalized for suicide attempts. I’ve lived with depression. I’ve fought, I’ve momentarily lost. I continue to fight. And people, most people, continue to not understand. They want to, that much is obvious, but they’ve never seen the color of the sky, they’ve never heard the bird call. There are no words that can help them understand. It does little to explain to them what it’s like to experience their worst, most debilitating life events and have that as an on-going undercurrent in their lives, indefinitely.

This is my life.Was this Robin Williams' life?

Some people who experience depression find fame and fortune. They are loved, they create wonderful things… only to find it’s not enough. It’s the tragic link between creativity, intelligence, and depression. You get Kurt Cobain, Robin Williams, Heath Ledger and Elvis Presley, among others. People who ought to have been or were, titans. And yet they fall.

I don’t know fame. I certainly don’t know fortune. At times I actively shun and avoid many of the aspects of life that could lead me in that direction simply because it means letting down protective walls I’ve put in place to keep myself safe. I’m most creative, most actively productive when I’m at my worst, as counter-intuitive as that seems. I produce page after page of prose, I write songs and blogs and… and I try… because that effort, that expression, that hope of something more, of something better, is all that keeps my head above water.

I actively keep myself mundane, ordinary, less productive… because it hurts less. And then I hate myself for not producing, for not building, for not being something… more.

I wish there were a simple, easy way to wrap this up, some magical answer to depression, a secret coping tool to share with the world. But as far as I’m aware, there’s not. And I’m here. Writing this. And another battle has been lost and a great warrior has passed on.

I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t expect anyone to really comprehend unless it’s something they do battle with. But awareness… now that’s something. Who knows what might be different if people were aware… if those with depression were completely and honestly open in their darkest hours. Who would still be alive? What works would we have that we don’t?

No, I don’t expect anyone to understand. But to try… to feel… There’s an amazing amount of power in feeling.

Feel.

Musical Loops

I have a tendency to fixate on songs, listening to them over and over again for weeks at a time before slowly letting them fade into the background of my life, an ever increasing part of my encyclopedic musical library. I’ve had several people point out this behavior as abnormal to me. And, perhaps it is. But I figure it’s still probably healthier than a lot of alternative behaviors some people do obsessively. Like eating glass or Chap Stick…

While I choose songs that I believe have a catchy melody, I’ll gladly admit the main reason for my fixation is due to lyrics. You see, I’m a word person. I love them—words that is. I think up elaborate and flowery sentences, only to squander them when my mouth gets a sentence or two behind my brain and everything comes out a jumbled mess (perhaps just one of the reasons I tend to stay quiet in social situations). My -perhaps- compulsive obsession about words feeds into my putting songs on endless loops. I break the words down, line by line, stanza by… you get it. I analyze possible meanings as deeply as any English professor would ever hope for in an essay, and then I start to wondering how that message applies to my life, be it in a lesson I need to take to heart, or simply a refrain to which I feel a great deal of attachment and  empathy.

I develop a strange connection to these songs, as if they’re a secret message coded for me that if I can only figure out I can use to unlock whatever problems face me at the moment. I suppose I’m not too dissimilar from other people in that regard. Music is deeply engrained in human culture and has been shown to have a variety of interesting effects on brain activity. Still, I never cease to be fascinated by the way in which I actively choose to let music into my life.

Sorry, this little piece has no big discoveries or interesting, life-changing paradigm shifts, it simply has some observations and provides a somewhat illogical satisfaction to my compulsive need to write something late at night.Oh, and I've listened to Linkin Park's "Castle of Glass" about sixteen times in a row now... Last night it was Imagine Dragon's "Radioactive."

Am I A Player?

So, my madre recently ran across a copy of this essay I wrote several years ago for one of my English classes. She got a kick out of it. I got a kick out of it. Maybe you will too!

Am I a Player?

A Journey of self discovery through the realms of love.

            I have, on occasion, been called many different names of varying insult. The most common of these are “player,” “man whore,” and as my ex stated, more than a few times, “hussy.”

            Personally, I have always remained adamant about the truthless nature of such comments, when applied to me. While I may have, in the past, done or acted in ways to merit such titles, I would have to  say these instances were more of an exception than a general rule.

            After a recent trip to The Cheesecake Factory, and a return drive home in a car full of girls chanting “Man whore!” I took it upon myself to examine my life and to determine if there might be some truth to the allegations which I brush aside as an absurdity.

            Along with my trip to the land of wonderful food stuffs, I had experienced (though some months ago) two freakish nights in a row, during which, I had conversations with my mother of a nature which I detest. The first occasion resulted when she pulled me aside after a night of thorough cuddling during a movie (I cannot remember which movie, but I do remember the girl). Once aside, her brow furrowed and she got a the tone in her voice she uses when she is upset with me, it sounds a little like, “Forget for a minute that you are a foot taller than me and weigh 80 pounds more!” She looked me square in the eyes and said, “Brandon, don't be a player.” This struck me like a hammer on an anvil. The names had extended beyond friends and acquaintances and into the realm of parental units. Oh no.

            The following evening I was having a splendid time with a female who was visiting from the mainland when my mother called me up to say nothing more than, “You're not having one of those “make out sessions” are you?” To which I answered no. I was, of course, lying.

            The combination of these three events probably had the greatest impact on my decision to write my personal essay on this topic. In addition, many conversations with dearly loved friends have led me to believe it might be worth examining my life.

            So, let's start out by examining my life from the first girl I kissed, then move on from there.

            I was fifteen years old and laying on a dank and mutilated futon, watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail, when a young temptress with black hair, almond eyes, and beautifully freckled skin turned and, without any forewarning, kissed me, right on the lips.

            This was to be my first of many kissing experiences. Most of which would be with the aforementioned minx.

            Over the next six months, spurred by a new excitement discovered, I had the pleasure of kissing six different girls. The sad truth, which I cannot ignore, is that while most of these kisses did take place on separate days, one fateful day resulted in the occurrence of kisses from four of these females!

            The day was like most any other I experienced during Christmas break. Upon waking I received phone calls from no less than three females, this particular day it led to me hanging out with five of them. In the morning I was kissed by one of the females when she asked me to come see something. This separated us from the group. I was shocked by her actions, but the result was rather pleasant. I did not complain.

            The next female to kiss me on this extraordinary day found the opportunity after a group water fight. Myself, these five females and three others with whom I was barely acquainted had a marvelous water fight (which I won). After this was over one of the females, who I admit I knew little about, somehow got a hold of the last water balloon and chased me to the back yard while the rest of the group recuperated up front. Her aim with the water balloon was terrible, of course this may be in part because I grabbed her wrist while she was throwing it. Apparently this was a splendid time to make a move, seeing as how we were so close, she used my grip against me, pulled herself up close and planted an incredible kiss right on my lips. She continued to do so until we remembered there were friends up front waiting for us who would undoubtedly come searching sooner or later.

            The third female took her chance in a darkened room during a movie. The moment was not spectacular and I cut the event short, mostly due to a lack of desire to have such activities be seen by those in the group.

            Finally, around eleven o' clock in the evening, one of my great female friends, one with which I was very partial,  tromped out of the room distraught and crying, I don't remember the reasoning why, though I can promise it was not my fault. I followed her out of the room and spent the next half and hour consoling her. Somewhere in the middle of lifting her spirits I found myself locked to her lips. Her lips tasted of salty tears and strawberry lip gloss. This was the longest and most passionate of the kisses; I enjoyed every second of it.

            There you have it, four females in one day. Now, let's forget to mention that this day also happened to be new years eve and I ended up kissing another five females, but those were just new years kisses, not worth considering!

            This day of feverish kissing did, as you may expect, come back to “bite me in the butt,”. Upon realization of the freely handed out kisses, by all those who participated, I received at least five slaps, one of which left a scar on my nose which can still be seen upon close inspection.

            Did I deserve this? Every female I have talked to agrees the punishment was probably not harsh enough for the crime. The males on the other hand... Well, they usually just smile, some even offer a high five. Personally, given the circumstances, I think I did nothing wrong, except perhaps allow them to kiss me. But at the time I did not understand the concept of guarding myself, I was new to this wonderful sport.

            As I said, I had not initiated any of these kisses, and the reality is, even years later, having kissed more than a few girls, the number of kisses which I actually started, is less than the number of girls I kissed on that fateful day when I was fifteen.

            Perhaps this tinkle of knowledge offers me some redemption? In my own eyes, yes. To others? Well, I guess you will have to decide for yourself.

            Moving along.

            The night of many kisses spawned something I had not planned on. While two of the girls I kissed that day had of little impact in my mind, I gave two others much consideration as to the matter of dating.

            With both girls, showing impressively aggressive characteristics, and both proving themselves more than adequate in the field of lip locking love, I was having a very difficult time deciding which to choose.

            Now, since I am of the male persuasion, I did what any reasonable man would do. I looked at both girls (while they were not looking of course) and my finger jumped back and forth between them in a small game of “eany, meany, miny, moe.”

            My finger landed upon the dark haired temptress, who also happened to be my first kiss. We dated for three and a half years, during which time I can honestly say, I remained faithful with my kisses, and the number of girls kissed did not rise a freckle or a hair.

            I have always been quite proud of this fact, seeing as how I had, on more than one occasion, had to duck, weave, jive, and dodge to avoid kisses from a few females. You know, the last second twist where instead of being kissed on the lips, the kiss ends up on your cheek instead, and usually ends with an awkward glance of disappointment and dismay on behalf of the would be kisser. Yeah, I had a few of those moments, so I imagine, I must gain some points toward the “not a hussy” category.

            As I stated, the relationship did tragically come to an end with much weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, and I emerged from my cocoon of depression three months later, with six girls added to the tally.

            Roughly two years passed before I had anyone I would call a girlfriend. In that period of time the count kept rising, to such a point as where it now stands, that I do not know the exact number of females kissed, but sure I could figure it out with a little time to count on my hands, if only I had four or five more of them.

            Now, I think it would stand to reason that I have struck a definitive point, or perhaps ten, against myself, but continue on, perchance I will sway your opinion on the matter.

            My next attempt at female companionship was farce, to put it mildly. We shared nothing in common, except perhaps a general location. She had been, I must admit, an experiment at giving a girl a chance who I would normally have ruled out in an instant. The experiment failed, and my methodology of picking female companionship remains, as it had before the disaster.

            This failure took place roughly a year ago.

            There followed after this test, a vacuum of love. I did not, for an entire six months, kiss a single female. This period still stands as the longest time I have gone without a kiss since that night on the dingy moth eaten couch seven years ago.

            Six months have now passed since my emergence from my lip-lust hiatus. During such period, I have been kissed by no fewer than three girls, and no more than ten. Only one of which did I initiate, and more than a few, which involved the previously mentioned game of duck and weave.

            I have, of late, been very proud of my ability to avoid kissing everything, which happens to have a set of boobs, that crosses my path.

            While I realize I may have, at times, acted in ways to merit the names of “player,” “man whore,” and yes, even “hussy,” I can say with sincerity, I have tried, in recent months, to only kiss females when it actually means something to me.

            This decision has left my lips lonely, and my heart aching, but it has earned me a standing ovation from many people, female and male alike.

            So what conclusion have I come to? Am I deserving of the names which I have been called, so many times? Or do I maintain my position of innocence?

            I could tell you. But where would the fun be in that? Okay, I shall humor whoever happens to be the one reading this sad tale of my love life. I started writing this essay roughly fourteen minutes ago, and in the time that has passed since then, I have... turned over a new leaf! My paradigm has shifted beyond recognition! I cannot even recognize who I am anymore, for surely I would never admit I was wrong (not only on this matter, but ever). Yes, there have been many periods of time in my life where I fully and truly deserved the names I have been called. But the time for that is past. I hereby decree, that I, Brandon Todd Orgill, vow to never again (this is going to come back to haunt me. I know it...) kiss, or be kissed by (if it is reasonable for me to avoid the kiss) any female to whom I do not feel at least some level of attachment and commitment.

            As result of this, I realize I am following a path I had previously outlined for myself, specifically in an attempt to avoid the calling of names of such a hurtful nature.

            I cannot say what the future will hold, but I can state, in entire honesty, my love for the unattached make out has long since left me feeling hollow, to such a point that the very suggestion actually causes my stomach to gurgle and twist, bringing a most unpleasant sensation of sickness rising to my head instantaneously.

            To those out there who might imagine the life of the eternal, unattached bachelor (or bachelorette) to be something you seek, I say to you, you are insane. You shall find no solace in such companionship. While life, as a result, may be at moments highly interesting and entertaining, and, while the never ending excitement and rush of the moment may stimulate an unspoken desire inside of you, I can promise, in some period of time, be it years from now or only days, you will realize the time you have wasted away. You will turn your life around to seek out something truly worth having, and you will find it more difficult to obtain than mere kisses, by far.

            Thank you for joining me on my adventure. For the sake of my ever expansive ego, I hope this is our sole journey together. I do not believe I could take another and come out standing on the other end. 

Tofa Soifua.

You destroy my eloquence.