Moving On — One Angry Waitress

When you spend the better part of a decade working in a little Irish bar, that due to sewage issues, some people refer to as “fart bar,” the next logical step is probably to move onto a breakfast place where it’s you, a bunch of truckers and someone’s always trying to flip you a fifty to meet him in the bathroom. By the sounds of it that’s what happened to my old boss.

But a classy restaurant in my neighbourhood took pity on me and gave me a job. I thought at first, that I’d have some trouble fitting in. Yet as things progress I’m starting not to think so.

Though it’s true that the other night, when a table asked me for a funny story about my former place of work and I decided to tell them about the time we found a deer leg in the men’s toilet, and only after I finished did I think that maybe it was inappropriate. This anecdote was of course followed by silence, because really, what had I expected these people with their lovely white teeth to say?

Mostly I left my former place of work because its been a rough year. And I’m tired of having to parse things out for drunks at one in the morning. There have been many words that came out of my mouth that I really never expected that I’d say like, “I’d like it if you’d stop drinking in your truck and then returning to the bar,” or, “Sir, we have two perfectly good urinals and if you’re shy, which you seem not to be, there’s also a toilet. So, perhaps you could not pee on the building.”

People wear on you after a while and I’m just sort of done with having a good shift consist of not having an argument with someone about why they have to clean up their own puke (seriously I saw you do it, now’s the time to be a proper adult and show some shame).

Even my partner has noticed a change. When I come home from work he’s impressed and will reach out to touch my hair. “Oh my, did you wash it before you went to work?” It like I really forgot what it was like to try.

In this new setting, I imagine I’ll get to see a fair bit of the sort of people who order a glass of Rose and are surprised when it comes out pink (as happened recently), and are prone to suggesting that you made a mistake. But I’m more prepared for that than I am to serve another 18th birthday party—something I’ve been doing pretty poorly as of late (well I don’t think he really needs that 8th shot, but what the hell, let’s see what happens…).

I know that people are people, that you’re always going to get the weaving idiot that needs to convinced that he’s too drunk to drive, rather than just taking your word for it. But I feel like I’m going to see less of them, and for that, I’m grateful.