Mayday cafe

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
I decided to document my experiences at work. I work in a restaurant and always have a thousand things to say about it, so I might as well write them down. This is only a short opening, but I will definitely continue it.

Submitted: July 14, 2008

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Submitted: July 14, 2008

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I.
Pausing to take a deep frustrated sigh as you lock your car door, you think about the evening to come. Another Sunday night spent waiting tables at the Mayday caf You trudge along to the restaurant front and wonder what the customers think of your haggard appearance. Most of them are old regulars with elitist attitudes. You’re inferior to them not only because you’re young, but also a female. Some of them are nice enough but there are a few you don’t get paid enough to deal with.
The familiar stuffy air spills overyou the moment you step inside. Here you are. Again.
“Hey boys, there she is! Nattie’s here.” Fat Joe says with what’s supposed to be a smile.
“Hey Joe, how are you?” You say in the same high-pitched squeal you use every time.Your boss is sitting next to him sleeping with his glasses off. He’s either in the bag or reluctantly crawling out of it.
After you push through all the “Hey Nat”s and the “How you doin’?”s, you head to the office and avoid eye contact with anyone and everyone. You throw your bag and jacket on a swivel chair and plop yourself down on the one next to it. Why are you still working here?
“You missed it this morning” says Brett, the obscenely handsome busboy. You are not attracted to him for some unfortunate reason. You believe working with him here in this dirty hole of a restaurant has ruined whatever beauty you might have seen in him.
“What’d I miss?”
“Mike freaked out on a customer.” He goes on to tell you about some balding jerk who needed a “clean fucking fork”, and could he “just for once in this fucking restaurant get a clean fucking spoon”. Apparently your boss Mike, overheard and, still drunk from the night before, proceeded to swear right back at the guy and kick him out. Typical.
You grab your time card and prepare to slide it into the machine but hesitate. The card waits patiently in your hand. Once you clock in, there’s no turning back. Once you’re on the clock you’re stuck here for another eight hours. Eight. You could just turn around and walk out. Get back in the car and drive home. No, instead you let out another sigh and jam that evil card into that demon machine. Now you turn around to face the Mayday night shift and all its horrors.


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