Picture a control freak’s worst nightmare: servers dropping glasses and plates, children sprinting and shrieking from door to door, hostesses making promises they can’t keep, filthy tables wiped once over with a moist dirty rag,  and customers sitting themselves in the chaotic whirlwind of a bustling restaurant. Like a city highway, it is vacant and deserted one moment and overflowing with angry honking cars in the next. The honking and hollering of the people almost drowns out the voice in my head wishing I could be anywhere but here. What I would do for a little less honking, and a little more patience. 

As soon as you enter through the squeaky door into the sweltering dining room, you see the swarm of angry customers surrounding the hostess stand awaiting a shot at a seat. Once you make your way to the front of the line, you find yourself confused as the manager doesn’t know where to seat guests next, a hostess is counting with her fingers, and another hostess is snap chatting with her boyfriend. You might wonder, “How does this function?” The answer? It doesn’t. It is as if all of the lights of the intersection are red and everyone is staring at one another waiting to see who moves first. 

My fellow hostesses-- who couldn’t care less about the 5 people on hold, the missing pizzas, the dress code, or putting on gloves before touching food-- are a 6-car-pileup on the 1-951 causing traffic spanning for miles. They botch simple tasks including marking tables as seated, cleaning menus, and abiding by the most basic instructions given by the managers. One might say seating 2 people at a table meant for 6 is a waste of space, the other hostesses call it an average Tuesday night. I spend my shifts scurrying around the restaurant, up and down the slippery stairs, solving seating mishaps, sanitizing menus and doors, working up sweat stains in my all-black uniform only for my coworkers to say, “Today was slow.”

At the end of the day, or every two weeks, I get paid for my troubles. Paid not only in cash, but free food and work experience. Free margarita pizzas and artichoke dip don’t make up for the years taken off my life, but they make the job a little more bearable. I now know why so many people subject themselves to tortuous labor. Because work is what you do for others; money is what you have for yourself.