punch in, punch out

There are few things in this life that rival the sweetness of chocolate, the intoxication of new love, the delerium of red wine drunk in just the right amounts. But of the few things that do rival them, sorting through the junk mail of decision making, and gaining the certainty that you have chosen the right course of action is at the top of my list. I made one of these choices recently, and fatigue, stress, financial hardship notwithstanding, quitting the latest in a string of horrible jobs has left me glowing with gratification.

Today was my last day waitressing. Ever. I mean it. If I have to waitress ever again, I shall go mad.
If I ever have to decant wine infront of table, sweating out the ceremony of wine propriety,
If I ever have to fold my hands behind my back in true and subconcious servility,
If I ever have the listen to my well-intentioned jokes plummet flat onto a table occupied by humourless, stone-faced bumpkins,
If I ever have to be flagged down, whistled for, hollered at, or summoned with any less courtesy than would be used to beckon a cab...

I shall go mad.

You know, I usually feel a bit sad at endings, even if they are much needed and hard-won. I remember the good times at that restaurant, like understanding, even through the brokenest of English, the kindness and warmth of the plump Ukrainian cooks. Or the few minutes of conversation with patrons who understand that you have a beating heart beneath your apron, and it beats for people and ideas and a better future, just like theirs do. Those rare and fleeting assurances of competance when you see a room full of tables, all fed and serviced, filling the space with that lovely din of conversation and human engagement, and you can say to yourself, "I had a hand in this."

But today, there was no saddness, no remorse, no twinges of "Maybe I could stay on, it's not so bad." No, the party ended, and I should have got my coat on a long time ago. Today, I was at the beck and humiliating call of the owner, as he and his business friends commandeered a table, and me, in the middle of the brunch rush. I was condescended to, and waylaid by more tasks than I could handle. My arms quivered as I carried too-heavy plates and hungered for a moment to silence my own grumbling belly that hadn't seen a morsel since I woke. Instead, I gorged myself on delicious fantasies of dropping the plates and walking out, just like that. Of storming the owner's table and telling him I thought he was a complete jerk(insert various four- and offensively lettered words in the place of jerk) infront of his haughty friends. I counted down the minutes to the end of my shift with glowering impatience, minutes filled with the same question asked of myself, over and over again;

Why do most jobs end in such acrimonious divorce?

I've had approximately 29 jobs in my twelve years of working life so far. Most of them don't last past the first week, because I just know when I'm going to passionately hate something about the place. My seasoned eyes have seen it all, including sexual harrassment, and passive aggressive management, like punative scheduling and condescension, all masked in the cowardly guise of professionalism. Every possible and absurd assertion of authority has been used to put me and my fellow peons in our place. It's been a unique and invaluable education for me. Because I've learned an awful lot about the dynamics and diplomacies of minimum wage hierarchies, and just how terribly awry people go when given the slightest bit of power to rule. And it's gotten me thinking that I don't know how much I believe in the necessity of a chain of command.

Most people have a distinct personality(although I've met some people who are definately lacking in one), a personality that determines whether they are self-driven or need to be given direction. In any workplace, there are leaders and there are people who don't really give a darn. And you know something? They tend to balance each other out. Left to their own devices, and given the credit due and deserved that they are able enough to expedite food orders or ring in sales on a cash register, most people will rise to the occasion of competence. We don't need to be bossed around. We don't need to be told what to do. We simply need to be asked. Politely.

We are a society obssessed with democratic process. And with so little democracy used effectively in our political arena, the only real structure we have to create and excersise it in is our workforce. But it's missing there too!(Democracy-the political Polkaroo?) It's all about absolute power and the stingy distribution of its fruits. Why is it so hard for business owners to realize their staff is the bottom line, not net profits? That appreciating loyalty, accepting input and offering a sense of importance to their staff naturally breeds productivity.That regardless of who does what task, we are all just people, and that actually makes us equals. Without staff, all you have is an expensive space and an inanimate product that can't really sell itself. Without any graciousness or adherence to workers rights, all you have is a parade of strangers who will fill the space of the previous warm body infront of the till. Sure, capitalism has thrived on a disposable and ever-replenishing workforce.

But what damage has it done to our social morale?

I wanted to be magnanimous on my last day. I'd even planned on thanking the owner for the opportunity there(!?!) knowing full well how acidly my lips would issue such a lie. But I didn't do that. I bore the rest of my shift with as much class as I could muster, and when it was time to leave, I left. No sentimentality, no lengthy good bye speeches. I just took my tips and walked out the door, leaving yet another space to be filled. Some coins jingled in my pocket, and as I got further and further away from the restaurant, I knew I was getting closer to things that mattered, like my future. A place that offered no guarantee of escape from difficult bosses, demanding clientele, or moments of servility lived out of necessity. But it would be a place of my choosing, a place where debates on the unsolidity of poached eggs, or the techniques of good martini-making would never have to be endured again.

And so I let the bridges burn behind me.