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If there is one thing I truly enjoy about working in a restraunt, it's the contrast between waitressing and academia. When I'm at Modai, I can observe society - the clientelle, in specific - from a vantage point that is both completely obscured and highly conspicuous. When customers need me, they can spot me from across the room. When they don't, I may as well be part of the post-modern pseudo-asian decor.
I wear a uniform so that my presence is easy to discern. The patrons see it wherever I go, and hail the person inside as desired. A spotlight. A diving flag attached to a flourescent bobber. And yet, I often feel as if I were an insect, buzzing around the dining room and attracting little notice beyond fleeting visual recognition. When I make a circuit with the water carafe, the patrons continue their conversations. Some will say nearly anything to each other while I'm standing there - sexual propositions, accounts of physical mutilation, medical problems, family issues, etc. Most don't even bother to look up and meet my eyes.
As a result of this occupational invisibility, I've gained a clearer picture of human social interactions. There are approximately seven types of parties at modai. (By parties, I mean a person or group of people dining together.)
- The loner: solitary. arrives during cocktail hour. Sits at the bar. Orders anything with alcohol in it. Attempts to flirt with un-escorted diners of the (usually) opposite sex, and should that fail, the wait-staff. Occasionally becomes heavily intoxicated. Tips wretchedly, unless potential hook-up is watching.
- The rich bitches: 2 to 4 people. Arrive at the tail end of dinner hour, just before the kitchen and sushi bar close. May also arrive during rush time on a weekend. Either way, they love to order extremely complex specialty cocktails and many plates of labor-intensive sushi. Sit in the lounge couches or table next to the sushi bar. Expect both drinks and sushi on the table within five minutes. Complain loudly and frequently. Cold demeanor. Add or remove substitutions/alterations to their order at the last minute. Tip between 5 and 10%.
- The American Gothic: 2 people - usually a drab couple - over the age of 55. Arrive 5 minutes after opening time. Sit wherever they are herded by the hostess. Can't pronounce anything on the menu and have no idea what they want. Order tame appetizers and entrees, occasionally American beer. Expressionless. Refuse to shoot the breeze with waitstaff, but tend not to complain either. Tip a flat 15%, calculated to the last cent, rounding down.
- The lovebirds: 2 people. Arrive at any time during the night. Well-dressed, fashionable, prone to public displays of affection. If ordering dinner, sit at a booth, on the same side. If ordering just cocktails, sit in the lounge couches, curled up in one giant armchair. Invariably order edamame (finger food = aphrodesiac?). Elaborate entrees or specialty sushi rolls follow. At least one specialty cocktail each, sometimes up to 4 each, and almost invariably sake as well. Tip decently, due to persistant good mood - 15 to 25%
- The party professionals: 3 to 9 people. Arrive during "Free Sushi" happy hour. Dressed office casual, complete with ties and sensible shoes. Sit at several small tables pushed together. Order drinks most often seen at tropical resorts - singapore sling, blue hawaiian, margarita, mai tai, pina colada. Devoted to getting tipsy. Speak quickly and animatedly, most often about office drama, their new cell phone, or how much work sucks. Constantly ask when the next round of free sushi is coming by, even if they just got some. Always order separate checks. Tips vary wildly - from 10 to 30%, depending on whether or not they have someone to impress.
- The happy family: 2 people and 2 small children. Arrive soon after opening time, usually on the heels of American Gothic. Sit next to expensive, fragile objects - glass tables, vases, mirrors, etc. Adults are apologetic and meek. Children throw several minor and at least one major tantrum, during which something shatters noisily. Adults skip drinks, appetizers, and desert in an effort to expedite dinner. Children prod servings of plain white rice and beg for McDonalds. Tip very very well - 20 to 30% (Why people decide to bring kids under 10 to a sushi bar is beyond me. But they do.)
- The college crowd: 4 to 9 students. Arrive during free sushi happy hour or cocktail hour. Sit anywhere they feel like. Boistrous and raucous. At some point during the meal, one of the males invariably "hoots and hollers" (WHOOO hooohoo HOOOO!). Order finger-food appetizers, americanized sushi (can anyone say philidelphia roll?), lots of sake and beer. Stare at waitstaff disconcertingly, but converse freely with them as well. Occasionally make creative messes for me to clean up. Tip 0-10%, but have a habit of leaving half-finished sushi rolls and drinks behind (yum!).
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My physical appearance uses people's mental schema to my advantage. It's not a fashion statement, per se; it's a defensive barricade, a cushion, a filter. An obstacle course designed to allow only select few to pass.
Most people - the ones I wouldn't want to know me, anyhow - get caught up on my blue hair or the metal rings I've slid through various parts of my face. Others note my taste for black clothing and assume that I am unapproachable. To them, I may as well be invisible. And so I should be, if that is how they measure another human being. I want nothing to do with them.
You would think that only conservative people find my appearance repellant. Oddly enough, it keeps out those who spend their lives persuing deviance as well. They see a gothy/punky alternachick and assume I share their agenda. A mistake. Even if they decide to talk to me, they still can't see me. To them, I'm no person, but an assemblage of freakish parts.
Body art, blue hair, and black dresses also help me hide when I need to. If I want to disappear, all I have to do is don my wig, slip into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and undo the rings from my ears and nose. Voila. Larkin no longer exists. Anyone who knows me solely for those aspects wouldn't recognize me in a million years.
It works in reverse as well. My coworkers at Modai had only ever seen me in uniform, wigged and de-ringed, until yesterday when I came to visit them. It was my day off. I wore a black zip top, blue schoolgirl shirt, black mary janes, and stockings. My hair shone bottle blue in the late afternoon sun. My body jewelry glinted. I was like an exotic bird. Like a giant indigo carp with seven fish-hooks in its lip. Only Matthiew knew my name.
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I realized this morning that I've had the lyrics to Savoy Truffle terribly, terribly wrong this whole time! To think of all those times I have sung along confidently - even brazenly - with Mr. Harrison. To think of how often I have practically screamed "pineapple whore"!
For those of you who are curious, here is the most relible transcription I could find online:
Savoy Truffle
Creme tangerine and montelimat
A ginger sling with a pineapple heart
A coffee dessert -- yes, you know it's good news
But you'll have to have them all pulled out
After the Savoy truffle
Cool cherry cream, a nice apple tart
I feel your taste all the time we're apart
Coconut fudge really blows down those blues
But you'll have to have them all pulled out
After the Savoy truffle
You might not feel it now
But when the pain cuts through
You're going to know and how
The sweat is going to fill your head
When it becomes too much
You'll shout aloud
You know that what you eat you are
But what is sweet now turns so sour
We all know Ob-La-Di-Bla-Da
But can you show me where you are?
Creme tangerine and montelimat
A ginger sling with a pineapple heart
A coffee dessert -- yes, you know it's good news
But you'll have to have them all pulled out
After the Savoy truffle
Yes, you'll have to have them all pulled out
After the Savoy truffle
Trippy song, no? Apparently it's about Eric Clapton's impending dental catastrophe as a result of his sweet tooth. Most people read into it too much. I know I do. Pineapple whore, indeed.
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It's been a little over a week since I watched Alan drive away, taking my capacity for joy along with him. Ever since then, I've distracted myself with work and hanging out with what few friends I can find. Fucking summer break.
I hate summer. I always have. There's never anything to do but grow wild or lazy. Television. Camp. Swim. Bah. I'll have none of it.
Take me back to academia. Provide me with structure. Give me some fucking PURPOSE! Bring my friends and lover back, goddamnit! THIS is supposed to be relaxing? I could have either returned to the discord from which Wash U delivered me and watched myself go crazy, or I could have stayed in St. Louis without cushion or quarter and attempted to forge myself a living. Not much of a choice.
I suppose one good thing about all this work is that I have quite a picture of the "real world" (i.e. how one must live without marketable higher education). How people - like my coworkers - manage to surviv like this day-in and day-out for years is beyond me. I don't want to live like this for another two weeks! Best motivation to stay in school that I've ever found.
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Miserable. Absolutely miserable. I have no idea how I survived my 10 hour shift at Modai tonight - especially after waking at 7.30am for my 9am shift in the library. Pure moxie, I suppose.
But it wasn't worth it. Despite working as hard as I could, I only made 56 dollars tonight, which gives me a whopping total of 101 dollars for the week. Yes, that includes my share of the tips. FUCK!
So the search has begun for another job. My body can't take this kind of abuse. Not for this little benefit. I'm killing myself.
If only the work wasn't so hard and the pay so poor. I've just made friends with the other people who work there. It's not fair. Why couldn't this job have been the awsome opportunity it initially appeared to be?
Only one thing got me through today: Matthew. He's the new guy, even newer than I am, about 30 years old, and constantly wears the expression of a man subject to unedited news-reel footage of the Holocaust rolling behind his eyes. He's a cynical bastard, and I wouldn't have survived without his company.
Matthew: "Sarah, how'd you get that scar on your forhead?"
Sarah: "It was a mix between a boy, some liquor, and a metal door."
Matthew: "So, it isn't from a frontal lobotomy?"
Sarah: "A what?"
Matthew: "Nevermind. Just an operation on one's brain. It makes you think better."
Sarah: "Oh. No, it wasn't from that."
God bless you, Matt (though, I imagine that'd be more effective if I believed in God).
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So I saw Episode III last night. A couple of friends were kind enough to include me at the last minute into their plans. The company was much appreciated, though I couldn't identify with their wild Star-Wars-fueled enthusiasm.
Meh. Whatever. It was a pretty chill movie, I have to say, but by no means did it redeem the sheer suckitude of the previous two films in Anakin's saga. That, and the dialogue between Anakin and Padme is absolutely frigid. Not one speck of passion exists between those two. Ugh. No excitement. Ewan McGregor is a much better actor than . . . what's his name. Anakin. That guy. Ugrrgh. *vomit*
Oh yeah, and Yoda fuckin' rocks my motherfucking sox.
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Here's the surprise of the century, kids: I have yet to figure out the real world. (But I find it rather fascinating, nevertheless.)
It all started on monday night. Come in at five, said Doug aka Mr. Modai himself. And remember there's a staff meeting. So I did. Four fourty-five, actually, in full uniform, wigged, make-uped, perfumed, and ready to make a fool of myself.
Apparently Modai isn't open on Monday. The rest of the staff showed up in tank-tops and sandals and promptly draped themselves over the lounge's furniture.
"Why are you in uniform?" asked Mimi. "Why are you NOT in uniform?" I replied. To my delight, I managed to make her uncomfortable for a split second before she remembered that I was just the new girl and didn't know shit from shine-ola anyhow.
The staff meeting began with a brisk car ride to an immense pavillion called Moolah, which I suppose must be the ancient Babylonian word for "casino/movie theater/bowling alley/bar". We entered the mosque-like building and proceeded to the basement. Doug herded us into a couch-lined nook between the jukebox and the bowling alleys. Plate after paper plate of bar food alighted on our table. Drinks all around. Needless to say, the serious talk did not last for long.
At last, I had the chance to get to know my coworkers. Toby, one of the bartenders, bought me an extra-dry bombay martini with a twist, and talked about music with me for 45 minutes. Jessica, Angelo, and I bowled a magnificent game before flopping down and conversing over a schafly, white russian, and gin and tonic respectively. And on and on and on . . .
Eventually I ended up at my rented room. The old man, as always, was asleep when I came home, so I took extraordinary pains not to wake him. Partway through creeping in the back-door, I realized that I was sneaking in. This grieved me. I was no better off than I was in high school. At least this time my housemates weren't lying in wait for my muffled foot-steps. Why, I don't even have a car to take away anymore! Mwahaha!
******
Tuesday was my first 7 hour shift of waiting tables. I had never walked back and forth so much for so long in my life. I've always appreciated good service at a restraunt, but never before had I considered the minutae that go into napkin folds, for example. Or the alignment of plates. Or how to carry four bowls of miso soup without melting the skin from my arm.
The shift wore on. Crowds came, dined, and went. Josh, the kitchen chef, and I joked around between armfulls of dirty dishes and heaping platters of squid-on-a-stick. He knows more about Japanese cuisine than Doug, I suspect.
Joihie (i have no idea how to spell his name, but it sounds like "joy-heyay"), one of the sushi chefs, told me I was extremely "kawaii." Consequently, kawaii is one of the few Japanese words I actually know. At least my anime training comes in handy for SOMETHING! ^_^;
***********
Wednesday leaves me wondering whether or not I'm going to stick with the job. Even though it's enjoyable hard work, I'm afraid I'm not going to get payed enough to sustain myself. The restraunt, after hiring me, went to a different pay method where the waitresses share their tips with the other wait-staff (who had previously been on hourly wages around 7 bucks). Tuesday was a busy night, so i panned out about even. However, Wednesday was so slow that I only made about 20 bucks for an evening of hard work. Shit! I can't live on that!
So, unless Friday turns out better - at least 70 bucks, between wages and tips - I'm going to start looking for another job.
********
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Sometimes I think that I'd be happier if I lived in a country where people have smaller concepts of "personal space." The USA is too frigid for me. The most physical contact I receive in a day (excepting close friends, lovers, and family) is a handshake, if that. Humans need contact. Why is it so taboo?
I began considering this the other day while receiving a tour of the library's facilities. A girl standing behind me put her hands on my shoulders to stand on her tip-toes and look past my head. The sensation thrilled me. Non-sexual. Non-threatening. Just touch.
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Alan's gone, and I am out of air.
It's to be expected. If you live with someone for 4 1/2 months, you're going to get used to him. You're going to need the little coughs and sighs and sneezes, the wet sound of his breath in your ear all night. You're going to need his commentary and his compliments. The constancy. Non-sequitorial hypothetical questions. Beatles lyrics. The taco-chip crumbs, soda cans three-quarters filled with flat pepsi, tarnished socks and wilted khaki pants. You're going to need him. I need him, but he's gone.
Not forever, though. Alan promises to visit me in early June, careening along insterstate highways from Chicago to my pretentious St. Louis suburb. I'll be waiting,
For I've really grown to love that grinning hippie.
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It's frustraiting. I would write more for you, gentle readers, but there isn't much about which to write - merely the dull hush before a screaming vacancy. I've lost my tongue. I've lost my pen. I've lost sleep. I've lost the energy to think things over. If only I would lose my appetite, I would feel good about losing so many things before I lose some more.
What does not kill us makes us stranger, I suppose. And I am getting downright strange. What new ritual will my subconcious devise to maintain the status quo in some unrelated faction of my life? I already check the microwave several times a day to see if I left something in it. (There's never anything in there.) I cannot say what precaution this action exercises, but I do know that it makes me feel better. But that doesn't really fucking matter, does it?
And there is so little to write about, when I consider the semester of work I've just completed. I went from academic probation to dean's list in four months. What else is there to say? Sleepless nights? Stimulants and heartache? Please . . .
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The end is nigh. Every hallway of Gregg Hall is lined with boxes and scraps of rubbish, packing tape, tissue paper, and bubble wrap. My room in Beaumont has finally found its way into neat wrapped-up packages, tubes, and plastic bags. Most of my things are already at my summer appartment. It's nearly time to go.
But I don't want to. As I write, Alan is still chained to his homework, hashing out one more paper before he has to drop me off in DeMun on friday morning. I loathe the day. It is almost here, and I will see nearly nothing of Alan until it is almost too late.
DeMun, Modai, Arc, work, read, write, crave, sigh, stagger, cave, lie, curl, sleep, cry.
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Methods by which I wasted time today:
- read up on the plastic surgery boom in the Far East. Thank you, Time Asia.
- decided that Michaela Romanini's face looks like something that one might find in a peat bog.
- licked my wounds.
- meditated. What is the sound of one nose collapsing?
- crushed on Alan's first love.
- found out that everyone I used to know back in Utah is starting to squeeze out babies. Lansakes, am I getting old, or is it just that dull out there?
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Random life-situation update . . . as if my gentle readers actually read out of interest in my personal affairs:
So I'm staying in St. Louis over the summer. Things are going well as far as my intended livelihood. I'll be living in a boarding house owned by a grizzled massage therapist named Patrick. My room is the tiny one on the top floor with a futon for a bed and a fold-down shelf for a desk. The rent is fair and the neighborhood is safe. I'll be living in the "De Mun" area, populated with fashionable wine bars and "produce markets." It's the sort of place I think an angsty, bohemian writer would live, which pleases me. All I need now is a battered typewriter and tuberculosis.
Two nights ago, I found out that my four hours of interview at Modai Sushi Lounge were not in vain. Fuck San Sai Sushi grill. Fuck it in the ear. Modai is immeasurably better. They play techno and lounge music every night. The sushi is made by a pair of wizened Japanese men. The bar has "mood lighting." It's the sort of place I would love to go for dinner and dancing, as well as the sort of place I would imagine angsty, bohemian writer would waitress at night.
Pair Modai with a part-time job at the Olin Library archive, and I'm fuckin' set. This is going to be one awsome summer.
If only I could keep Alan here with me . . . I'm going to miss the boy when he isn't visiting. Miss him like I'd miss a square-foot patch of skin from my back. Goddamn.
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Honey, Alan often tells me, should only be eaten if it comes from a bear shaped bottle. I used to agree with him whole-heartedly. But now I'm not so sure. What started out as an innocuous obsession has since populated our room with an ever expanding family of clover honey bears.
It all started one month ago, among the newly-stocked shelves of our school's on-site convenience store. Alan saw the bear. The bear saw Alan. It told him to liberate it from the shelf. The bear's allure - it's luscious plastic finish, it's glistening contents - was too powerful to disobey.
So we took it home. And the next day, we obtained another. And the next day, another. And another. And another. And then, while shopping at Schnuck's, Alan decided to diversify his honey-bear population and bought a jar of wildflower honey (with a bear on the label). We collected them all on the desk, so he could admire their permanent expressions of content.
Yesterday, our friend M-. payed Alan and I an extremely intoxicated visit. After about an hour of our company, M-. received a phone call:
M-.: Hey dude, what's up. . . . Oh yeah? Sounds good. Can I bring a friend or two? . . . (turns to Alan) You wanna come to some guy's backyard to drink beer?
Alan: No, not tonight. Larkin and I have a shit-ton of work to do. I've got a paper due Thursday.
M-.: (addresses telephone) Looks like it's just me coming over . . . yeah . . . yeah. . . . dude, hang on one second. (turns to Alan) DUDE. Is that all honey?
Alan: Yeah, man. Of course.
M-.: (shakes head) That's a lot of fuckin' honey!
Alan: You bet.
I just know M-. will wonder why we had seven bottles of honey for the rest of his life.
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Remember the bananaphone poem? Come on, of course you do. You know, that five-minute masterpiece of bullshit I whipped out just before poetry class? Here's a recap:
Banan.
A phone ring.
ring ring ring
he calls me every day on the banan.
A phone.
I've got my hunches
They come in.
Bunches celluar
Mod you lying son of a banan.
A phone.
I will peel back your
Yellow skin in four parts:
one skin two skin three skin four.
Daylight screams
and I banan.
A phone.
Well, it finally went through peer critique. Here, for your reading pleasure, I give you a few selected comments:
- Interesting how the word banan serves as noun and evolves in the poem to be a verb at the end.
- There is enough detail so that I'm drawn into the story, but what is the cause of the antagonism in the poem? Like "you lying son of a banan" and "daylight screams"
- hunches/bunches, a relationship metaphor?
- I wish I could critique the poem, but I just don't understand it at all.
- I also really like the phrase "bunches cellular" because it gives me this great image off the juxtaposition of fruit and technology :)
- I like the lines about peeling back the yellow skin as well because it could very well be talking about the actual banana or the phone or even a person who maybe has lied about something (cheated on her)?
- Is the speaker both a banana and a phone?
I just wish they'd gotten more creative with their responses! Oh well, at least I thoroughly confused them.
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