It was the late 90s.  The chain restaurant in town, the one that claimed to serve authentic Italian cuisine, was hiring for all positions.  I applied to be a waiter, but they told me I could only be a host.  A job where all you do is tell people where to sit.  I had trained my dog to do that, so I figured I would do just fine.

               The place was so big you needed a map.  On my first day I got confused and sat too many people in one server’s section.  Sure, I got a lecture.  It was one of those places where the server is only expected to handle three tables in total, and by seating two in her section rather than evenly spacing them out, I had caused much stress, which was against company policy.  I cared as much about it as you probably do, but I told them it would never happen again.

               There were Doric, Corinthian, Tuscan and Ionic columns in the dining rooms that, while providing no structural support, offered plenty of cover for employees seeking to avoid customers or management.

               On many occasions I would see a train of employees who were clapping their hands as they followed a server carrying a cupcake with a lit candle in its center.  As the caravan of minimum wage workers filed by, I was wrist-grabbed into the procession.  I clapped and followed as the band of merry makers started up the company-penned birthday song.  (They had to sing a corporate song because if they sang “Happy Birthday to You,” Warner Brothers would sue.)  ((Apparently, the country of Italy never thought of suing this restaurant chain for defamation.)) 

               Before long, the snake would curve near a column, allowing me the opportunity to slip out of sight.  No one noticed, as they were all too busy clapping and singing lyrics like “happy happy birthday/ happy happy you/ your meal is fee at our house/ it’s what we like to do.”  I never, ever sang the song.  Not to one birthday boy or girl.  Can you blame me? 

               I had to take a 500 question personality test in order to get the job.  I heard it was to weed out any thieves or psychos.   A 500 question Scantron card, like the SATs.  For a minimum wage job.

               I was written up once by the assistant manager, Duncan, for being five minutes late.  At least two other hosts were there to tell people where to sit during those five minutes, but whatever. 

               Once, Duncan sent me out of the restaurant with five dollars to buy a gallon of milk.  I got in my own car (not a company car) and drove to the nearest convenience store to buy a gallon of milk, which cost $2.49 plus tax.  In the late nineties this was higher than normal, but it was because you were paying for the convenience.  See, I assumed that this manager, who was so invested in me showing up to work on time and was willing to make an issue out of five missed minutes, wanted me to return as soon as my own personal vehicle could carry me.

               When I returned, Duncan wasn’t happy.  “Where’s the rest of my change?”  He couldn’t believe that milk could ever cost that much.  “You could’ve gone down to one of the supermarkets, where I know it’s only $1.69, $1.99 at most.” 

               I thought, Do some comparison shopping while I’m on the clock here?  Got it.

               In retaliation, whenever a manager sent me on an errand, I deliberately took more time than the task could possibly require.  If my immediate supervisor, Todd, sent me to buy an accounting calculator for the office, I went to all of the stores that sold electronics so that I could comparison shop.  Each electronics store also offered media, so naturally I browsed the movie and music selections.  Obviously, I had to compare prices on those items too.  Media Play, Nobody Beats the Wiz, Sam Goody, Circuit City and the Wall.  At some point during this ninety minute journey that should have been about 20 minutes, I purchased a nice calculator along with a healthy stack of CDs and DVDs. 

               Nobody seemed to notice that I was gone.

               I began bragging to anyone who would listen that I had a job where I could screw off.  Before this job, I was jealous of a friend who did maintenance for the board of education, a job where you never had to lift a finger after your lunch hour.  He always had great screw off stories and now I finally had mine.

               On my last day of work before I returned to college for the new school year, Todd sent me to buy a weed wacker and a few bags of mulch.  He expected me to fit these items in the trunk of my frigging Nissan Sentra.  Let me remind you that my job description was to say “right this way” and “your server will be with you in a moment.”

               I basically farted around town for two hours.  I could’ve seen a movie or done my Christmas shopping early.  I think I bought something for my girlfriend, then more CDs.  Nothing important, really.  It didn’t matter as long as I knew I was wasting time on the restaurant’s dime. 

               I returned with the weed wacker and mulch two hours and forty five minutes after I was tasked with the mission.  Todd, muttering under his breath, said, “I didn’t think you were coming back …”

               And, in a way, I didn’t.  I walked back into the place the following spring to see if I could get work for the summer.  None of the managers managed to recognize me, neither the cool ones nor the dickheads. 

               I guess all that slacking off and farting around made (a lack of) an impression?

                I was invited out for drinks after work on many occasions.  The usual place was a disused authentic Mexican joint.  The pitchers of margaritas flowed.

               I learned about another manager, Fabrizio, who had worked there for years and was part of this regular crew and their shenanigans.  He began the past time of taking breaks in the back alley/loading dock area, breaks that would turn into epic slack-off sessions for anyone who joined him.  Soon, the football came out and was tossed around.  Frisbee, unicycle … don’t ask me how the customers never caught on. 

               Fabrizio started the ritual of after work drinks.  He liked to bar hop with them, speeding though the center of town late at night past the strip malls.  The reason I never met him was he died the year before I started working at the restaurant.  While driving drunk, he crashed his car and killed himself.  Thankfully, no one else was hurt.  But his wife and newborn son suffered.  If his coworkers felt anything for him, they didn’t learn anything from him.  The bar hopping and drunk driving was still going strong a year after his demise.

               When I worked at cheaper restaurants, I found that the clientele would become enraged if they thought the staff wasn’t paying attention to their every whim.  Thus, there was no time to sit, and no time to chit chat in the back. 

               But at classier establishments it is clear that customers are less likely to complain.  If they couldn’t get more breadsticks (likely because their waiter was in the midst of scoring a touchdown in the back), they simply waited.  If you’re spending a small amount of money, deep down you think the food is cheap and the people who deliver it to you aren’t worth your respect.  Once you put higher price tags throughout the menu and update the décor, you can expect more understanding from the customers.  Why?  Because to complain about something of high quality is to negate the experience of spending a lot of money, the kind of spending you do when you want to feel good or show off.  Nobody seriously refers to their Ferrari as “that old jalopy.”

               Whatever.  You know what?  If that’s your attitude, then don’t believe me.  This is a free blog so you probably think I’m a shithead.  Should I start charging $99 a month to get some classier treatment, maybe to test my theory?

               Just kidding.  I know nobody reads this.

               Nobody worked at this Italian restaurant, not like I did when I busted my ass at the cheap places.  I never saw one bead of sweat break out across woman or man’s brow, unless they were standing over a hot stove.  Lazy cooking, too, if you want my opinion.  The pasta simmered in large pots ahead of time, and they had a method of banking breadsticks before the dinner rush. 

               I was once asked to prepare desserts in a cooler early in my shift so that they would be ready for dinner.  I loved that job.  I’m great when I’m asked to focus on details, so getting the dessert decorated just like the picture was fun.  There was a district manager who was in the building pumping me up and my dessert making skills to the regular, shithead managers.  Once the district manager left to go to the next link in the restaurant chain, Duncan, while watching the nice district boy drive out of the parking lot, told me in no uncertain terms that I was no longer the dessert prepper.

               There were things that I can never forget.  It was generally known that most of the cooks were ex convicts.  One of the hosts, Maurice, who had both nipples pierced, was a fan of “dancing up on” girls at clubs and showing them off.  Quite an ice breaker.

               There was a rumor that three of the servers, one woman and two men, once had a threesome in the supply closet.  I never could figure out if this was true or intended to smear the woman’s name, as she was a nose-up-in-the-air type.

               I wish I didn’t remember these things.  But I figure if I have to know about them, so do you.

               Other things happened, but just once.  I suggested that the staff have an ugly tie day and it took off.  I wore a brown plaid tie that was handsome in its ugliness.  My coworkers really outdid themselves:  piano key patterns, a dead fish tie and a neon paisley explosion come to mind.

               Once, after closing time, Todd and Maurice strapped on rollerblades and did zoomies around the parking lot.  I sat and watched with a few others who were smoking cigarettes.  We were listening to the first Beastie Boys album, Licensed to Ill.  I quickly learned by how adept my coworkers were at reciting the lyrics that all of them were massive fans.  I asked Maurice if he had the Beastie Boys’ latest album, Hello Nasty, and if it was any good.  He said, “Of course.”  I could tell by his intense stare that he was answering both of my questions with one response.  I made a mental note to buy that one the next time a manager sent me on an errand.

                There was a soundtrack to working at this Italian restaurant.  As you paced the halls and dining rooms you were guaranteed to hear solid hits of yesteryear sung by Italian singers.  You would hear Rosemary Clooney’s “Mambo Italiano,” Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore,” and Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon.”  I think I began to hear it as a pleasant soundtrack that matched all that I saw around me:  overdone Italianness.  But I certainly didn’t mind, and eventually I liked hearing the tunes.

               I liked having a job where there was a closing time; prior to this, I worked at a 24 hour diner, which I believe led to a recurring nightmare where I would look at a table and realize I never put in their order, which then would expand to an entire room of customers in the same predicament.  Terrifying.

               I also liked telling people that we were closed.  “Yeah, but it’s …”  Customer checks watch.  “When do you close?”  “Ten p.m.”  “Yeah, but there are people still eating.  I can see them!”  “Sir, we stop letting in customers at ten, but patrons who are already in the restaurant can finish their meals.”  And you know where guys like this probably went?  The all-night diner where I used to work!

               Management let us know that it was time to close by changing from Italian American standards to modern rock, and the song that began the playlist was always Semisonic’s “Closing Time.”  A little on the nose?  That’s the kind of place it was.  I was a music snob, so had I been with my friends on campus, Semisonic would have been mentioned by me in my ongoing litany of “bands that all sound the same, volume 9.”  But, being in my home town with no other music snobs to impress, I had to admit there was something charming about passing my coworkers in the halls as we all sang or hummed this tune.  It truly is my only fond memory of working there.

               At Olive Garden.  It was an Olive Garden.  You thought I wasn’t going to say it, to protect the innocent or something, right?  My coworkers referred to it as the “OG” like they were gangster rappers and every time I heard that I wanted to spit in their Pasta Fagioli.