The End of the Maritime Era, Part I

In 1990, I took my first job at a school for Marines as a waitress in an "upscale' dining room. The word at my high school was that you could work at 13, making serious spending dough. What it actually turned out to be was cheap labor in a high school that had suddenly delegated it the hip place to be. So about 25 of my peers signed on as salad preps, dishwashers, and waitstaff for $4.25/hr no tips. The shift was fully accomodating to the commute from the junior and senior high school.

Arrive at 4:30. Put on black pants and tuxedo shirt. pull hair back. Grab your complimentary salad from the salad bar.(sneak a hot roll cause they were so good).Sit down for the dinner meeting. Put on your bowtie while the full kitchen and serving staff went over the menu of the day that consisted of 3 entree choices prepared daily with 3 sides and 2 soups. Serve 4 or 5 4-8 tops. Race your friends to finish cleaning. do an absolutely shitty job. get recognized for ways to cut corners.

The really exciting thing about this job was that it never felt like I was actually serving people food. It felt like a giant theatrical production night after night. And even though I happened to be dropping off plates to people who sometimes requested it. It was mostly about fooling with the cute dishwasher, on the way through to the kitchen and fooling with the cook. And bitching at the pickup window with the other waitresses, and stealing another dinner roll out of the heating drawer, and then locking someone in the walkin after a long-nights work.

In most cases, our poor white brededness required introductions to most items on the menu at the meetings. And since we were scarfing salads and adjusting mooserakes, they didn't stick. During dinners, it would commonly translate like: "It's not a real dolphin. It's a fish. It comes from the Pacific Ocean. I don't know if its grilled." Very tasty sounding eh?

Milton, my first manager, was gay and everyone loved him. He would turn his head at alcohol parties, but stop things when they got out of hand. He was so alive, and he was the most popular one among our group. When he resigned, we threw a surprise party for him at his house. We broke in. It was one of the most exciting adventures of my life. We were doing something for Milton.

Then came manager #2- Jon. And then I learned why jobs suck.

This guy would brag about his volleyball skills. He had a belly laugh. He wore a gold chain. He kissed management ass. He thoguht he was funny. He thought he was Italian. He spoke with his eyebrows. He was no Milton and he knew it.So he made attempts to kid with us the way Milton did. He was always darker and off.
One meeting I poured half a shaker of salt in his water. He pulled this very dramatic act as he spit it out and said somebody would pay. I'm not sure if I fessed up to it, or if he found out, but either way he'd pinned me up against a wall that Sunday in the dining room before dinner and I was pretty scared, even though I fronted mad.

When our 9th grade English teacher heard some of the stories that happened in the kitchens and dishrooms, and even bathrooms, she was outraged and took testimonies for sexual harrassment action. Of course this scandal brought more attention to the place, and the recruits doubled!

Things eventually just mellowed out there. He either got the scare, or it became less interesting, but either way I was approaching my 2nd year there as one of the head waitstaff. At 14, I was feeling like I was on the top of the dogpile to the 13 year olds.

I remember the exact table I was refilling sugars when it hit me that I COULD quit. It suddenly occurred to me that it wasn't school. It was MY LIFE and I wasn't an indentured servant to the marines. That evening I put my first 2 weeks in and didn't look back until 14 years later.