Suddenly, I find myself working Monday through Friday, 10 to 5 or 6 or 7 p.m. I should be thrilled, right? This is every restaurant worker’s dream job, hours-wise. Ex-Restaurant Manger, please, close your eyes and ears to this post from this point on!
Shhh. Don’t tell my GM. Don’t tell anyone. Everyone will think I am insane. But, the truth is, I don’t like working 10-6 days. Well, at least not every day. I like working nights. I like working Saturday nights. I like working amidst the frenetic pace of the night-shift floor.
I like having mornings and afternoons to walk, run, shoot photos, do laundry, shop, and, most of all, to nap in my beach chair to the sound of waves lapping the shore as I let the angst of what brought me here dissipate into the mist.
I like the out-of-control feel of the energy of the night shift, as much as I am a pro at handling the more corporate-oriented lunch crowd. This is not to say I have this day shift thing down pat, at all. Today, for example, my end-of-shift report showed hundreds of dollars more in tips than in sales. Oh. Oops.
“Look through the receipts and see if you can find the mistake,” instructed my GM.
Right away. Of course. Sir.
Good God. I don’t make mistakes like that. Except, apparently, I do, even as there’s talk of more responsibility to come my way in a few short weeks, even as I muddle through the newness of the full-time day shift. I have no clue how I will do it all, because I am not content to do it all half-assed.
I also have to climb the long and laborious hill to garner the respect of the lunch shift servers who have only seen me as the trainee or “just a host.” I have been their pal, of sorts, the good cop. Now I am just the cop.
I have to pull teeth (my own, likely) to gain the kind of respect that elicits the kind of response, when I ask why obvious sidework is getting done ten minutes after the first guest has been seated, “I’m on it, RG. Sorry!” as opposed to my favorite patronizing crap this week: “Sweetheart, we only have so much time to get it all done. Don’t worry. We’ll get to it.” No, you little shit, I thought at the time, you will get to it BEFORE we open next time, as you damn well did when the other manager ruled. But all I said was, “Just get it done, now.” So much for my so-called authority.
I am a weekday daytimer for the foreseeable future. I have no idea when I will grocery shop, go to Mr. Fabulous to do laundry, clean my apartment, much less go to the beach when the crowds aren’t there to ponder my life. It’s all been about the daylight and the sunshine.
I have no idea how I have found myself, once again, in an office half as much as anyplace else.
Damn. I was the best stand-in host/manager trainee/private event coordinator South Florida has ever seen, at least in my own eyes.
Now, I am just another mediocre floor manager, in my own eyes. Cubicle, anyone?