Informal Essay: Work Part 1

I begin my day by lurching from a wonderful dream-filled coma into a noise filled atrosity, full of bright and terrible futures and responsibilities. This is me getting up for work, as I shake off the dream and realize what's happening, I curse and start punching my pillow, because there is nothing else to do about it. I put on my old work shirt, it feels uncomfortable and looks terrible, and I place most of the blame on this shirt for the lack of phone numbers I recieve from customers. I then put on shorts, because even though it's winter, the workplace is always slightly too hot, this quality is amplified in the summer times. I get the rest of my morning routine taken care of and then it's out the door. I'm low on gas, of course, so I have to hope the ungrateful customers actually leave decent tips, for although I have more responsibilities and tasks than any average waiter, for I am also a bus boy, dishwasher, drink and desert maker, and occassional cook, I receive less than half the amount of monetary appreciation. I'm not sure if it's because the establishment doesn't seem like a regular restaurant to most people, and therefore they don't feel the need to tip, or if it's because my boss has cranked up the prices time and time again on food that is of lesser and lesser quality. It could also be that I am usually not in a cheery mood, because of the fact that I get payed a pitiable amount and get treated like dirt, or the fact that no matter how hard I work I stay at the same wage, and get blamed for every mistake that happens whenever I was around. A woman puts a BLT she ordered in my face, and expresses her outrage that the BLT is called a "super" BLT on the menu, pointing out the complete lack of super-ness in the sandwich. I tell her in a very calm tone that I did not write the menu, or make the sandwich, so I wasn't aware what I was being scolded for. She tells me to take it back and put more B L and T on it, I comply. She also states aloud that it is rediculous that the sandwich costs 10 dollars, I do not correct her by telling her it is 7 dollars.