When people ask you what you want to do for your birthday, it’s almost guaranteed that you will not say, “go to work.” But knowing that many of my best friends would be out of town this weekend, and knowing that Pitt once again was playing at home, I decided that going to work or sitting home alone had equal potential to be miserable. Thus, I opted to go to work and make some cash. It turned out to be a profitable choice.
(Digression: I am currently reading Narrative Discourse for my graduate seminar. I believe that last sentences was an internal prolepsis in that it foreshadows future events that are within the scope of my narrative. End digression.)
Being at work at 8 am for our open meant getting up only 15 minutes later than I usually do, since it takes me half an hour to drive into the city and then 15 minutes to walk from the $5 parking garage. For those who don’t know, the parking on the North Shore is almost exclusively pre-sold or over $35, neither of which is viable for me. The morning is always slow because only the die-hards want to drink heavily before 9:00, and once again I was in the bar area. But there was a steady pace of people who sat, ordered some appetizers, and wanted to drink. And, as usual, I was working hard for $1 tips. Each time I delivered a round, I was presented with $1 for my efforts. By the time the game started, I was busy though, so the slow start didn’t concern me.
I ended up with lots of “hoverers,” people who stand next to a table waiting for the people sitting to leave. This is tricky because I don’t want the people sitting to feel rush, but I don’t want the standers to wait too long. I usually try to calm the standers by explaining that once the others leave, they are free to elbow others out of the way and rush the empty table. This type of “advice” about lack of etiquette usually put the standers on my side, instead of allowing them to become annoyed at their wait. Similarly, the sitters don’t want to feel rushed, and I need to laugh and joke with them so they leave a good tip. My line is usually something about, “Don’t let anyone glare you out of here; you earned this spot, and it’s yours.” Once the sitters do leave, I have to quickly clear away their empty glasses, napkins, etc, or the new people become annoyed. It’s a delicate balance. But my best table of the day were hoverers. They ordered nothing but alcohol, including about six rounds of shots. Their bill was nearly $300. I told them it was my birthday at one point. When I showed them my license to prove it, they dropped my ID in their spinach and artichoke dip. On the receipt they wrote, “Happy Birthday,” and left me a $100 tip.
They weren’t the only fun table I had on my birthday, however. I also had the return of my cell phone men, the group of guys who showed me how to use my iphone earlier in the summer. (Digression: note the external analepsis.) These phone guys turned a napkin into a birthday card and all signed it. Lots of tables wanted to guess my age. I know they were low-balling it, but it was consistently either 21 or 22. I’ll take it as a compliment. Several tables offered to buy me shots, but I explained I can’t drink while working or I will be fired. About three tables toasted me instead, and one decided to sing. There were many hugs (from men both old and young), some high fives, a hand-kisser, and one guy who asked me out.
The people I worked with also gave me superstar treatment. I got dinner, a custom-made dessert, and a shout-out over the PA system, announcing to the entire restaurant it was my birthday. I did not serve anyone else who was also celebrating their birthday, so no birthday twins, but one gentleman’s birthday was the day after mine. At midnight we passed the birthday torch (not literally).
I sold about $350 in food and $1400 in alcohol. I tipped out $50 and walked away (after paying my parking) with $400 in cash. Not a bad birthday.
