Day 1. Welcome to Hell:

Population: One overbearing and unpleasant owner, his cold and judgmental family, and a restaurant-ful of depressed and disgruntled employees.

April 9 was my first day of training. I’m sure you can tell it went swimmingly. 

If it were opposite day.

Which it is not.

I should have known it was too good to be true. I just waltzed in earlier that afternoon with a resume and, voilà! The owner—we’ll call him Bashir—wanted me in that night. “You come. 6:30 today. We’ll see if you are any good,” he ordered. His thickly accented voice was unkind and his eyes wandered around, bored with my presence.

“Thank you!” I said, enthusiasm abounding. “See you in a few hours.” But he didn’t reply. Instead, he turned and walked toward the coffee machine. There was a latté to make, I presume.

But I had a job! Or at least a chance at one. And I was going to make it work, because waking up at noon everyday only to realize you have an entire fourteen hours ahead of you to do nothing in particular, is only relaxing for so long. I headed out the front door, eager to go home and tell Curtis.

Four hours later, after a brief (but always therapeutic) shopping trip for a uniform of black shoes and a black t-shirt, I returned to the restaurant. That was my first mistake.

Upon my arrival, Bashir handed me off to his eldest daughter, Mariam, who was only slightly less brusque than he. I followed on her heels, brain overloading with information as she gave me the Express Tour of the huge, four-roomed restaurant. “Pay attention, so you don’t ask questions later.”

I repeated her words in my head: Plates get stacked behind the kitchen, glasses behind the bar. A spoon is always served on the side of the spaghetti and fettuccini. Water is given only upon request. Parmesan cheese and wine glasses, when needed, should be on the table before the meal... 

“And don't seat guests, give them menus, or take any orders. He doesn’t like that,” she instructed.

After the whirlwind tour, Mariam told me to shadow Thomas, one of the older waiters who has been working at the restaurant for quite a while. Simple enough, I thought. Shadowing is a common form of training. Except… she didn’t tell Thomas, who—for the first hour or so—was probably wondering why the small girl dressed in black kept trying to follow him from a short distance.

I felt lost, confused, and useless. I was floating without direction, while a sea of chaos and food swirled around me. I was aimless, disoriented. And I was in the way. Every step I took to let someone pass seemed only to result in my interrupting another person’s speedy trajectory. Servers rushed by me—and into me—dishes in their hands, drink orders on the tips of their tongues, frowns spread across their tired and frustrated faces. 

Eventually, as I was given small tasks throughout the night—wiping down tables, filling water bottles, clearing plates—I began to feel (somewhat) less like a waste of space. But when the shift was over, I stumbled home, slightly in shock, and unsure of just how low I was feeling.

As I walked the four blocks to my apartment, I thought about my first days at the Pub back home. Had I felt this alone? I remembered how Meg’s smiling face had soothed my nerves, and how she used to say “I’m not the New Girl anymore!” But I hadn’t minded being the New Girl, the girl nobody was quite sure about.

During my first day at this wretched restaurant, there wasn’t a whole lot of smiling going on. No, it seemed to take too much energy just to make it through the shift, let alone welcome a New Girl. 

But things were bound to get better, once I got the hang of the place, I reassured myself, unlocking my front door. They just had to...

Love,

the New Girl

P.S. So, I realize April 9^th was almost a month ago, but I’ve only just found the time to sit down and post these ramblings (read: have only just decided to work on the blog instead of going for cheap Mojitos around the corner from my apartment). I’ll try to catch up to the present over the next few posts, but for the time being, please excuse the three-week delay!

P.P.S. All names have been changed to protect the innocent, etc… etc…