Day 27. This is La Vie en Rose

This particular shift was quite possibly the best I’ve had yet at this soul-sucking restaurant. And not thanks to the mini-lecture I received from Bashir after intentionally leaving an item off a table’s check because he had treated me like a child earlier on in the evening.

Little girls can play sneaky games too, sir.

As usual, I didn’t want to leave for work. And as usual, I thought of a million other things I could be doing (but in reality, would probably not be doing) with my time. Cooking, reading, smoothie-making, scrapbooking, laundry (ok, that one is a stretch). Etcetera, Etcetera.

About an hour into the shift, my hands raw from washing rags and wiping already clean tables, a lovely group of families came and sat in my section, to celebrate a birthday. Four beautiful little girls argued over who got to sit next to Aunt Suzie, and which one could play with the rubber eraser collection. A few minutes later, though, they settled: Suzie in the middle, and rubber erasers all around.

After taking their order I returned to the table with bottles of tap water. The littlest angel, kneeling backwards on her chair, held her hand out to me.

“Do you have a question for the nice waitress?” Her mum suggested. She nodded her head, sending her soft brown curls dancing about her face.

“What’s your name?” She asked in a tiny voice. “Lauren,” I replied, soliciting hers.

“Hannah. Mmm, what a pretty name!” I said. She nodded again, she knew that already. “How old are you, Hannah?”

Three tiny fingers uncurled themselves from her wee fist. “Three?” I exclaimed. “You’re getting big!” Her curls bobbed up and down. She knew that already, too.

From behind me I heard the dreaded “Laureen.” Ugh. I hated that voice.

I headed over to Bashir, whose disapproving eyes glared back at me. “Laureen. You leave that table now to the boys, a new one has come.” I looked over at the group of newcomers. They hadn’t even taken their seats yet and he was already accusing me of negligence.

No matter. I brought menus to the table of fifteen, noticing immediately the physical manifestations of Down Syndrome on the majority of the adults. One particularly small man began clapping when I handed him a menu. Another, larger guest smiled so big I thought his face would expand. “Thaaaank you,” he said. The woman with the lazy eye was dancing in her seat, and the balding man next to her began playing his air trumpet to La Vie en Rose, which was streaming softly through overhead speakers.

I smiled, caught up in the overwhelming surge of happiness emanating from the table.

The caregivers began collecting food orders, and I brought over a couple of pitchers of Diet Pepsi, setting one in front of a rather nervous looking man. He frowned. “I-I-I want lemonade. Wh-wh-where’s the lemonade?”

“It’s coming soon,” a caregiver soothed, attempting to avoid a panic attack in the restaurant. The frightened look on his face told me that he wasn’t reassured. I headed to the bar to pick up the pitcher of 7 Up (what Aussies call Lemonade), and brought it over to him.

“Here you go!” I reached over and filled his glass, watching his upward slanted eyes grow wide and a small, timid smile creep across his face. He looked at me briefly, gratitude in the depth of his eyes, before looking down to enjoy his bubbling drink. I felt indescribably wonderful.

I ordered their food and then went to deliver the birthday cake to my first table, after receiving the signal from one of the family members. Dessert and coffee came and went, and pretty soon it was time to bid goodbye to little Hannah. I knelt down to her level as she ran towards me, wrapping me up in her arms. “Goodbye Lauren!” She exclaimed, and bolted to the door with as much energy as her three-year old legs could muster.

I headed over to my table of fifteen, and began clearing plates. “Thank you!” I said, with overt gratitude, as each guest handed me their empty dinner dishes. The trumpet player, eager to help, began handing me side plates, knives, and forks, one by one. “Thank you. You’re so helpful!” I exclaimed. He beamed with happiness.

The woman with the lazy eye started stacking glasses, giggling almost uncontrollably as she placed each one atop the other. “Look how tall I can make them!” Eager to prevent disaster, I held on to the stack as it grew taller, and taller with every glass and giggle. At about two feet, I congratulated her on her amazing skyscraper and, laughing along at this point, unstacked the glasses and took them to the dishwasher.

Finally, it came time to say goodbye. I held some of their small hands in mine, thanking them for coming, and bidding them a safe flight back to Perth. But as the group approached the door, the nervous man was coming out of the restrooms upstairs, straggling behind. He stood at the top of the staircase and I waved. “Thank you for coming!” But he didn’t move. He looked at me, looked down at the stairs, and then back at me, his mouth open and lost for words.

“Do you need a hand down the stairs?” I asked. He nodded, so I walked towards him, unsure exactly what to do. Would he take my help? Or would he want to hold on to someone he trusted; should I get one of his caregivers? I walked up towards him and offered my hand. “Would you like me to walk down the stairs with you?” Another nod. He reached out and gripped my hand, and we descended together, step by step.

I don’t know that much about Down Syndrome, and I don’t have any eloquent conclusions to make about the disorder with which to end this post. But I do know that they warmed my heart that night, and that the three caregivers who spend their days and nights concerned about their wellbeing and happiness are truly wonderful people.

And it’s nights like these I love. Though they are few and far between, they almost make me second guess my plan to leave… Almost.

With all the love I have,
the traveling stahr…

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Day 26. My Brief Stint in Advertising

[E.D. So I was going to skip the following bit of my Tales from Down Under the Table. After all, we’re leaving Melbourne in just one week and I figured I’d just jump to the nitty gritty details of how I umm… quit. Sort of. But this is too embarrassing good to exclude.]

There is a commercial that plays on television here. A couple of talking Aussie crows intentionally make some noise in a tree, and a man (whose glass door has been previously polished with Windex) attempts to walk outside to investigate and… you guessed it… smacks right into the door. One of the crows falls out of the tree, laughing.

It’s a pretty mundane and unlikely commercial. Or I thought it was, until I uh... (I think you can see where this is going).

Let me back up. It was nearing the end of the night and I was carrying a server tray. A tray containing one latté, one (poorly made) Mojito, and one Cosmopolitan, sloshing precariously in a tall martini glass.

I wanted to be anywhere but there. My mind had already packed its bags and was standing on the platform of Gate Get the Hell Out. My eyelids were threatening to close, and my feet were sore beneath the weight of my constantly upright body, as I walked towards the always-open front door.

(And when I say always open, I don’t mean mostly open, or open during peak hours. I mean I had never seen the door closed.)

I headed, zombie-like and mildly depressed, to the patio outside.

SMACK.

The tray that had seconds before been balanced on my right hand struck the shiny, devious, straight-out-of-that-stupid-crow-commercial closed door and tipped upwards. Shock, embarrassment, and horror covered my face and body.

Oh, and also a latté, a (poorly made) Mojito, and a Cosmopolitan.

I miraculously managed to catch the glassware before it went crashing to the floor. But as for my pride? Nope. It was very much on the ground and soaked in a gross cranberry-alcohol-mint-coffee mixture.

Seriously. This was worse than that one time I bumped Meg at the pub and managed to overturn onto her, a tray of three glasses of wine, two beers and an assortment of mixed drinks. Because after the initial shock, (and resulting wet chill) Meg was laughing it off. Somehow I doubted this slip up would be received in the same manner.

I looked over at Bashir, who was out of customer view, and to my surprise, he was scolding another employee, John, over the spill. I hurried over. “It was my fault,” I said, giving John the chance to slide away.

“I know,” Bashir turned to me, daggers in his eyes.

The mess was cleaned, the drinks remade, and in moments the night moved on, as the night is known to do. As the restaurant slowed, I joined John and Anna by the kitchen. The three of us made small talk and drank water, thinking we were hidden from view.

“Laureeen.” An eerie chill crept up my spine. I set down my water glass, and headed over to Bashir. He gripped me by the shoulders. Ew, get your gross hands off me.

“Don’t listen to them,” he said, referring to Anna and John. “They’re not helpful. They’re pushing you to make mistakes, DON’T YOU SEE?” His vile breath floated down around my face, and I turned away, nodding, confused. What is this, a goddamn game of survivor? Did I pick the wrong alliances? Will I be voted off at tribal council? Oh, please, please vote me off at Tribal Council…

Later on, taking notice of my depressed demeanor, John scribbled a smiley face on a spare napkin and held it up across the room. I sighed, and gave him my biggest grin.

Life is meant for happiness. Maybe not for everyone, and certainly not always. But most of the time, I strive for high spirits. And this job? This demeaning, suffocating, soulless job? Was not making me happy.

I needed out. And I had a plan.

Until next time,
the traveling stahr...

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Day 24. The Beginning of the End?

The days were slowly creeping by, and the 8km race I’d been training for was only a week away. My nerves had yet prevented me from asking for time off from work, but I knew it had to be done. Plus, things hadn’t been going so badly as of late.

I’d been promoted from maid to waitress (although Bashir’s beady little black eyes still followed me around the restaurant), I’d managed to elicit a few smiles from Mr. Mean Man, and I was becoming friends (well, it was more like people who spoke to each other quickly and quietly while the boss wasn’t looking, but I’ll take it!) with the other servers at work.

Yet, when I asked Anna if we were allowed to request time off, she told me about the ordeal she had gone through that had nearly cost her job. When asking for the weekend off for the Grand Prix the month prior, she had received a screaming lecture about her inability to commit and her general lack of skill as a waitress. (She is, in fact, one of the best I’ve worked with.)

“I was going to be honest, tell him I just needed the time off,” she explained, hovered over the computer screen to avoid another why-are-you-standing-around-doing-nothing-in-my-restaurant lecture. “But I knew he’d take it badly—or worse—say no, so I lied and told him my friend had surprised me with tickets and I had to go.”

When my shift was over, I found Bashir in the back office and knocked on the already open door. I took several deep breaths in an attempt to quell my pounding heart, but to no avail.

Bashir looked up from his desk, “Come een, Laureen.” Shudder.

“I just wanted to let you know that the race I have been training for, you know, how I can’t come in Saturdays? Well, it’s next weekend, on the 8^th.”

“Ok Laureen, we discuss this later,” he said, looking back down at his stack of papers. But terrified that if we discussed it later he would deny me the time off because he hadn’t received a week’s notice, I pushed on.

“Actually, I need to make sure you know now. It is a week away. And I’m going to need the 7^th off as well, because the race starts early in the morning and I will need a day to rest.” I was praying the nervous tremors in my body weren’t apparent in my speech.

He lifted up the April page of his calendar to the month of May and dragged his thick finger across to the Friday and Saturday I was requesting. “So, you need the 7^th and the 8^th for the race.”

Oh, if only you could have heard his tone. Like I was asking him for a year off. Like it was such an inconvenience. Like I was a troublesome child.

He didn’t speak for what felt like ten minutes, but was probably closer to a few seconds. “Ok. You take the Friday night and Saturday. But Sunday is the Mother’s Day and you do not take that off, do you understand?”

“Of course,” I said. “I don’t need Sunday off, just the 7^th and the 8^th.”

“Ok,” he replied, his voice labored and heavy with the hassle of accommodating another person’s schedule. “But you could never have Mother’s Day off.”

“But I don’t want Mother’s Day off,” I repeated, confused. “Just the 7^th and the 8^th.”

I headed home, puzzled by our exchange, but relieved that I had managed to secure time off for the race.

“I got the time off!” I told Curtis, excitedly, as I walked into the apartment. “Time off for what?” he asked.

“My race! The Mother’s D—” My heart sank. The Mother’s Day Classic. The 8k Mother’s Day Classic. I flung my laptop open and pulled up the race webpage. Of course. How did I make that mistake?

“What’s the matter?” Curtis asked.

“The Mother’s Day Classic, the race I’ve been training for, is on Mother’s Day.”

“Well, yes. That makes sense.”

“But I asked for the wrong days! For some reason I got the 8^th in my head and I asked for that day off and he said ok but there’s no way in hell I’m allowed to take off Mother’s Day or else he’ll eat me alive or have me drawn and quartered or worse—withhold last week’s pay!”

As he always does, Curtis managed to calm me down, and assured me we’d find a solution to my sticky, and potentially life-threatening, conundrum.

I slept uneasily that night.

It’s not as if I could just waltz right back in and tell him I’d made a mistake, that I actually did need the Sunday off. I already knew he’d never give it to me… he’d made that clear enough. I was stumped for ideas.

What was I going to do?

Love,

the traveling (and very nervous) stahr...

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Day 22. Smother 'Em With Smiles

Mr. Mean Man comes in almost every day for lunch. Has for decades, I’ve been told. He sits at the same table, orders the same dish, and barks the same snide complaints about “the service in this place” if someone attempts to clear his empty plate too soon.

“He sure is grouchy,” I told Patricia one morning. She smiled knowingly, “Yes, he does not make many smiles, that one. Always angry.”

But where there is anger, I see pain. And unfortunately for Mr. Mean Man, who probably just wants to eat his Big Breakfast in peace, where there is pain, I see (insert jazz hands) PROJECT!

This is a man who needs me, I’d convinced myself a couple weeks prior. He is trapped in a bitter body and just wants to be happy.

I was determined to make him smile.

It didn’t have to be a big, cheesy, beaming smile. I would settle for a small, knowing, close-mouthed grin if that’s all he could give me. But I would make him smile. If it was the last thing I’d do at this wretched restaurant, I would brighten old Mean Man’s day.

I implemented a simple strategy I picked up from Meg at the Pub back home. “Kill ‘em with kindness,” she would say, if I were handling a customer with a particular large stick up their you-know-what.

“How are you doing today, sir?” I’d ask every morning, a smile flashed from ear to ear. Most days he furrowed his brow in confusion—or contempt—and then looked away. Occasionally I got a gruff response: a nod of the head in acknowledgement, a short reply of “good” or “fine.”

One time, though, I even heard him mumble, “Well I’m still alive, aren’t I?” He was making a joke! And I was making progress.

On this particular day, the Mean Man’s regular table was occupied when he shuffled in for lunch. He sat down elsewhere, looking rather displeased.

“Goodmorning!” I beamed, dimples like craters against my puffy cheeks. “Somebody’s in your spot, today.” He looked unimpressed.

“I have a second spot,” he replied gruffly, unfolding his napkin onto his lap. “The Big—” he began to say, but I cut him off.

“You’ll have the Big Breakfast, lightly fried eggs, lightly fried toast,” I recited. “I know.”

And just like that his eyes grew wide and a thin smile formed across his hardened face. I was so pleased I almost forgot to leave and put in his order. An awkward pause later, I scurried to the computer, then over to Patricia.

“Patricia!” I whispered excitedly. I was practically jumping up and down. “I made the Mean Man smile.”

She laughed. At my naiveté, perhaps, or the childishness of my simple game. But then she told me of his hard battle with alcoholism, and of the things she’s seen over the years.

“A long time ago, everyday he come in morning and night. Sometimes he drink too much. Most times he drink too much. All hours into the night, but now, no more. He stop drinking and always is angry.”

My heart ached, and I was filled with a desire to make him smile every day.

When he had finished every last morsel of his Big Breakfast, Mean Man got up to leave. “Have a wonderful day,” Smily, smily. Grin, grin.

“Ahh, thank you,” he replied calmly. AHH! HE THANKED ME! You’re welcome, I thought to myself. But I couldn’t will the words out of my head. Instead I just stared in disbelief, as he walked out the door and into the sharp sunlight.

Maybe I needed a little more work on this whole being-his-best-friend-forever thing…

With love,

the traveling stahr… 

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Day 20. Cathartic Haikus

These might explain why I abandoned poetry as a career choice in the fourth grade (after my smash hit entitled “I Want an Alien from Outer Space”).

On my way to work

Wish I were doing laundry

Just kidding, I don’t

Grouchy Man came back

Always orders the same thing

I will make him smile

Every day I work

For a stupid balding man

Hippopotamus

Shiny, shiny head

I pretend you are silent

Sing songs while you yap

We are not allowed

To use the rest’rant toilets

Instead, we get this:

When the day is done

I smell of rotten kitchen

Must get out of here…

♥, ts...

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Day 15. Twilight Tradie*

Robert Pattinson had coffee at my restaurant.

Alright, he might have been wearing a highlighter yellow construction jacket. And maybe a pair of dusty work boots.

And also a hard hat.

OKAY, so it probably wasn’t him.

But I could not. Stop. Staring.

Not because I find him devastatingly handsome (well, maybe a little), but I couldn’t stop sneaking peaks to the patio outside because I was convinced it was actually him.

Dressed as a construction worker. In Melbourne. Stranger things have happened, ok?

I approached Patricia, who was acting busy behind the morning newspaper. “See that guy out there? He looks EXACTLY like the guy from the Twilight movies!” I was practically jumping up and down. You see, I’ve never met a famous person before. Unless you count Bill Nye the Science Guy. That guy was my idol growing up. Anyways…

“The what movies? I don’t understand,” she replied, puzzled. We peered through the front window and just then, he turned his head and met our gaze with an equally quizzical expression. I jumped behind Patricia.

Because I am smooth like that.

Not.

“Nevermind,” I said. “Do you have a cell phone with a camera?” But her she had left her phone at home and sadly, so had I.

But just you wait! I bet, as I write, they are working on a movie wherein he plays a brooding tradesman, struggling to get the self conscious, supposedly plain but in actuality really beautiful Australian girl.

Ok, a quite perusal of IMDB suggests that there is no such movie in the making.

But I know it was him!

♥,

the traveling stahr…

*In Australia, they like to shorten everything. Bathing suits are bathers, breakfast is brekkie, afternoon is arvo (haven't quite figured that one out), of course Australia is Oz, and tradesmen are tradies.

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Day 13. Just Keep Swimming...

Work had been going well, relatively speaking. Bashir started me on additional morning shifts, which, despite yielding less tips, were far preferable because he spent ninety percent of his day in the back office.

Less Bashir = Happy Lauren!

The woman in charge during the day, Patricia, has been working at the restaurant for over eighteen years. The two of us got along quite well, and it was nice to have a friendly face at work, someone with whom to share the moments of the day.

Or to explain the moments of the day, as the case may be. Like when the Mean Man, who comes in everyday to sit at Table 21 and eat his Big Breakfast in silence, snapped at me again for clearing his empty plate before he was ready. “The service in this place,” he mumbled angrily, shaking his head in accusation. (At first I was taken aback by his roughness, but Patricia assured me he was sour in general, and quite rude to everyone.) But I digress... 

Patricia is a remarkable woman, kind and sympathetic, but I could see that the past five years (since Bashir’s family has owned the restaurant) have worn her down.

“What was this place like with the old owners?” I asked as she handed me a frothy latte, my early morning treat as long as Bashir had yet to arrive to work.

“Oh,” she sighed, not knowing where to begin. “Every day was full of people, all three sections. Not like this,” she gestured toward the empty restaurant. Her thick Mediterranean accent colored her speech, and I smiled as she reached back into her memory.

“All the time there were people,” she continued. “But not so today. He does not understand that to take, you must first give. He just takes, takes, takes and doesn’t give. And look now, he has trouble.”

Patricia told me about the previous owners, a loving family who valued her opinions, and how they had asked her to work in their other restaurant outside of the city when they sold this venture. “But it is too far to drive. This restaurant much closer, and so I stay.” She explained, with a hardness in her voice and a depth in her grey eyes.

I wanted to help her, to free her, to show her a way out. But who was I to do that? Just another 20-something traveler, passing by on my way to better things. So instead I simply enjoyed her company. I asked her questions about her life, I told her stories about mine, and I marveled at her uncanny ability to remember every regular’s order.

I didn’t mind the day shifts. I might go so far as to say I looked forward to them. (Well, ok, that’s probably not true. The boredom and the infrequent yet still unsettling visits from Bashir were enough to prevent me from fully enjoying my mornings.) But there were certainly moments I took pleasure in. Like meeting two travelers on the patio from my hometown, and learning that one of them was born at the same hospital as I was, in Takoma Park! Or, watching three seventy year old ladies, life-long friends perhaps, giggling uncontrollably as they attempted to share a towering eight-scoop ice cream cone.

This job was, after all, only temporary. And if Patricia could stick around for eighteen years, then I could certainly get through a few months. At least, that was what I was telling myself.

Love,

the traveling (and now coffee-addicted) stahr...

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Day 10. Finally, a Waitress.

Today was the day! After nine mind numbing shifts of scrubbing, polishing, cleaning and generally feeling like an indentured servant, I was finally granted permission to learn the computer system. This meant—assuming I wasn’t the moron he presumed me to be—I could begin taking customers.

“You come in one hour early for unpaid training,” Bashir had ordered the night before.

Ya, ya… I don't care if it’s unpaid. Just let me talk to PEOPLE! I salivated hungrily at the thought of actually being allowed to interact with customers, and be a proper waitress.

“And then if you’re good enough, you take some tables.” His eyes looked condescendingly down upon mine.

Oh, I'll be good enough, you Stupid Bald Man. I'll be so damn good, you'll be sorry you had me playing Cinderella for the last week and a half.

But as I walked to work, the previous night’s confidence vanished. I became panicky and unsure. Maybe Bashir was right to hold me back from taking orders. Maybe I couldn’t do it yet. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Didn’t understand the intricacies of the restaurant. Maybe I—NO. I was not going to do this. I was not going to doubt myself.

Right?

The training hour came and went, and although he sneered and sighed, Bashir granted me permission to begin taking tables. I was still timid, having felt held back and belittled for the previous week and a half, but I reminded myself of what I knew, I can do this.

Apart from constant interruption (“No, Laureen. You do not box up the pizzas. The customers have to box them up themselves.” or worse, “No, Laureen. You do not carry three plates. You do not have the strong muscles.”) I had a good night. I was smiling consistently for what seemed like the first time since I set foot in the restaurant, and it felt good. 

For now.

♥, ts...

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Day 6. Maid in Melbourne

“This place is a fucking joke,” Anna, a server, mumbled under her breath, windexing an already streak-free desert case.

Squeak, squeak. Wipe, wipe.

At least I wasn’t the only one on my knees, polishing and scrubbing his restaurant from head to toe. I’d been put in charge of cleaning the furniture. But the table tops and chairs were already taken care of, so my job? Was to clean the wooden table legs. Of 26 tables. Several of which have six or more legs. A marvelous and productive use of my Economics degree from McGill University. 

I was scrubbing away, trying my best to avoid another painful splinter, when I heard, “Laureen.” Ugh. 

Bashir approached me from behind. “Laureen, you are finished now,” he ordered. “Go do some brooming outside.”Some what? Impatiently, he pointed out the broom (ohhh) and picker-upper behind the fridge, and I scurried outside. 

Well, Bashir. I will be Broomer Extraordinaire. There is nothing you can throw at me that I can't handle, so THERE. 

I expected to face a mess of food, probably the remnants from a terrible two’s temper tantrum. But there wasn’t any food on the ground, no dirty napkins, no napkins of any kind, actually. I was stumped.

“Umm... which mess did you want me to clean up, exactly?” Back inside, Bashir looked at me with a mix of exasperation and condescension. Aaaaand I'm feeling one inch tall again. Lovely. “The leaves, Laureen,” he replied, eyebrows high and chin stuck out. “Now go outside and do some brooming the right way!”

Awesome. I was cleaning up after Mother Nature. Better than scrubbing table legs? I'm not really sure.

After taking care of the half-dozen menacing leaves, I headed inside to make myself useful. Or something like that.

As I scanned the back section of the restaurant for any tables that needed clearing, Anna approached me and began stacking glasses to look busy. “Do you like this job, Lauren?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I replied, feigning indifference. “What do you think about it?”

She sighed. “I hate it. It’s the worst job I’ve had in me whole life.”

I laughed. “That’s what I was going to say.”

Anna continued, eyes darting back and forth, keeping an eye out for our #1 Boss. “If you’re going to be in Melbournefor a while, look for a new job. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“What about you?” I asked. She had, after all, been stuck at this place for over two months.

A sneaky smile spread across her face. “I have a plan.”

The night trudged on, and I washed, scrubbed, wiped, scoured and polished nearly every surface imaginable. Eventually, Bashir told me I could head home. “You come tomorrow morning, 11 o’clock.” But tomorrow was Saturday. And Saturday morning was the one day he’d agreed to let me take off for race training when he hired me.

When I reminded him of this, he mumbled angrily, “Well, you are no good to work in this restaurant then, are you?”

“Pardon?” I asked, hoping I’d heard wrong. He smiled maniacally. “Nothing. You come in tomorrow night. Same time.”

I thanked him and left, feeling uneasy but still employed.

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Day 2. The Bottom of a Totem Pole

My second day of training began at 11am the following Sunday. I arrived exhausted, having stayed up too late the evening before at our friend Dani’s Night at the Roxbury-themed housewarming party.

Mariam showed me to the dark and foul-smelling change rooms, where I reluctantly hung up my bag, and followed her to an utterly ancient punch clock, not unlike this dinosaur I found on Google Images:

Ka-CLUNK. And I was employed.

It was a beautiful, sunny day, so with a steady lunch rush, I was kept fairly busy running back and forth—delivering food, clearing dishes, and trying to stay out of the way. This is fine, I reasoned with myself, pushing away creeping feelings of loneliness and exclusion. I have to learn how the restaurant operates before I begin taking tables.

When we were particularly busy, a customer asked for the location of the restrooms. “Up the stairs, second door on your left,” I said, happy to have a brief moment of human interaction in an otherwise silent day.

“Ooooh. Where are you from?” She asked, picking up on my accent. We chatted for a minute, which turned out to be a minute too long, and from behind me I heard Bashir call, “Laureen.” Ugh. How I hate the way he pronounces my name.

“What are you doing? What do you need?” He said curtly, striding toward us. “Nothing—” I began to explain, but he cut me off, and turned to the customer. “She is new. She doesn’t know anything. How can I help you?”

Unsure exactly what was going on, the woman mumbled, “Um, I was just asking for the toilets, and she—” He interrupts again: “Upstairs on your left. Second door.” She frowned at the unusual exchange that was occurring, shook her head, and headed up the stairs.

Bashir turned to me. “Laureen. You don’t talk to the customers yet. Do you understand this?” I explained that the woman approached me directly, and I felt it would be inappropriate for me to ignore her. To which he simply replied, “Okay,” before turning on his heels and heading back to the bar.

OKAY? Wait, he’s just going to treat me like I’m five and then say OKAY? No apologies, no admitting he was wrong. I wanted to punch him in his stupid bald head.

I was fuming. I was being treated like I was at the bottom of a totem pole, with Bashir’s deviously smiling face looming miles above me. I felt so small.

As five pm rolled around and Thomas walked in to begin his shift, I was told I could go home. Finally. I bid farewell to a couple of staff members and passed Thomas on the way out. “Welcome aboard,” he grinned and patted me on the back. I sighed, and smiled. It had been a long day, but somehow that small comment lifted my sinking spirits. “See you tomorrow,” I said, waving goodbye. 

Maybe I would be the “New Girl” after all…

Love,

ts…

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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… 

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