Conrad Zero learns what I learned as a college student:  a large segment of the population think that service industry workers are their own personal emotional punching bags.

 

I’ve been told that I’m “too nice” and I’ve been told on occasion that I “tip too much”.  That’s because I worked several service positions as a college student, and I know how it is.  It’s true, you’ve got at least one dick-head per shift.  Usually more.

 

Sometimes they just have to tell you that you look like a fat, stupid cow in that uniform.

Sometimes they want to give you sage advice about how you should have paid more attention to your education, and you wouldn’t be such a pathetic loser.

Sometimes they just yell and scream and swear, and you never do figure out what they wanted.

Sometimes they snap their fingers in your face, as if that will make the register work faster to clear out all the people waiting in line in front of them so they can get on with their life; which is so much more important than the lives of all the other people in the store.  (anyone want to imagine the pictures of mangled finger-flesh that went through my head when that happened?)

Sometimes they are there to steal from the store and if you don’t let them walk out with what they want, they will most likely hurt or kill you.

 

It’s annoying, dehumanizing, and embarrassing.  But like all things I came to realize that some of those people were people who had their “enough button” punched several times too many that day.

 

Which is no excuse…but doesn’t change the fact that we’re all in this together and we’re all only human.  Which I guess is my way of making it around to; “If you CAN take a deep breath and put other people’s dickheadedness into perspective, just fucking do it.  Even if you shouldn’t have to.”

 

I didn’t always succeed in employing the higher angels of my nature.  In fact, more often than not, I responded by stonewalling the offender, or smarting back, or dumping them on my manager.

 

But at least three times, I marshaled the forces of light within, and here’s what happened:

 

Story the first:  Sir Saysnotalot

 

There was a guy who came in to a restaurant where I was hostess every weekday morning.  He would order oatmeal and a cup of coffee.  He was gruff and cranky, and never tipped.  He would say no more than was necessary to get his coffee and his oatmeal.  He outright ignored pleasantries on a good day, and responded to them rudely on a bad day.

 

I finally ended up being the one to get him his breakfast every day, as the waitresses refused to wait on him.  Since talking to me was such an odious chore, I decided that he wouldn’t have to talk at all.  He’d come in, and I’d say “Right this way”, and lead him to the same booth every day.  Not the usual cramped half-booth we were supposed to give people who came in alone.  Those were cramped, and cheerless, tucked into a dent in the wall like an after-thought.

 

Nope, I’d give him a booth by the window.  The whole time, I beamed my most brilliant grin at him, and immediately bring out his coffee and oatmeal without ever sending a waitress his way.  He never had to say a word.

 

One day, he looked up at me as I placed his oatmeal and coffee in front of him, and he said, “This isn’t your job.”

 

“Nope,”  I replied, “I’m the hostess.”

 

“Then why are you getting me my food?”

 

I mimed confusion, followed by careful thought – obviously exaggerated;  “I don’t know.  It must be your charming personality that inspired me.”

 

He regarded me with incredulity for what seemed like several minutes.  Just sat there and stared like he was trying to decide how to take such an obvious crack.  Then, he grinned, and chuckled, and said “Well, that must be it.”

 

From that day on, when I greeted him with “good morning”, he would respond with a furtive hint of a smile and “good morning”.  AND he started leaving a full FIFTY CENTS every day as a tip.

 

Story the Second: Ms. Vindictiva Suprema

 

There was a lady who came into the restaurant Thursday afternoon.  The place was usually empty.  I suppose she was in her late thirties.  She was attractive in an understated way, if slightly tending to the pear shape.  She dressed casually, but flatteringly, and seemed to have a fantastic eye for color and fabric quality.

 

She, like Mr. saysnotalot, she refused to respond to pleasantries, and would snap “window, smoking, booth.” at me, indicating that she wished to be seated in a booth in the smoking section that was near a window.

 

She’d order a muffin, and a cup of coffee, and sit for hours, reading her trashy romance novels and chain smoking for hours.

 

Then, she would pay for her bill in all coin, and leave a generous tip, also all coins.

 

And what coins they were.

 

Some of them were Indian head pennies, and some were buffalo nickels, most were mint condition bicentennial quarters or half-dollars or Susan B. Anthony dollars, and some of them were silver dollars.  I mean silver dollars.  The real deal.  The first couple of times, I exchanged them with cash from my own wallet, as I recognized a treasure when I saw it.

 

But I felt guilty.  Did she know what she was doing?  I felt a pang as I remembered my grandfather showing me a cigar box full of silver dollars when I was a little girl and telling me that when we were old enough to be responsible with them, he would give them to my siblings and I.  What if some ancestor had saved them for her, but never passed on the knowledge of their value?

 

“I’m sorry, Ma’m, but do you realize that there are collectable coins, and some of them are worth much more than what you are spending them on?”

 

She blinked implacably at me, “Yes.  I realize that.”

 

“Oh.  Because I don’t know how much this exact coin is worth, but I’m pretty sure it’s a real silver dollar, and those can be worth…”

 

She smiled at me, “They were my ex-husbands.”

 

“Were?”

 

“Yes, he REALLY wants them back.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I work very hard.  I get Thursdays and Saturdays off, and those days I worked on our business.  I did nothing but work so that he could have what he wanted.  Then he left me when he’d got what he wanted (she told me what it was, but I forget).  So now I’ve get what I want.  I go and get myself a cup of coffee and a muffin and sit and relax on my day off, and he’s paying for it with his precious coins.”

 

“Poetic.”  I respond.

 

We say no more about it.  Just exchange a conspiratorial grin whenever she hands off a handful of bicentennial coins, or a Suzan B Anthony dollar or two.

 

Story the Third: MR. Grouchy Gums

 

Mr. Grouchy Gums seemed to appear out of nowhere.  He was an old, stooped, cranky old guy.  Gruff, a little rude, and snide.  He would show up every day and never allow himself to be seated, but would march to whatever place he wanted to sit, and sit down.

 

Some of you probably understand what a bad idea it is to do that.  The reason the hostess is taking you past all those empty tables and booths, is because she is spreading the work out evenly among the wait staff.  If you just go and sit where you want to, it is likely that the waitress whose section you are sitting in, has just had people seated, and she will have to take care of them before she can get around to you.

 

The hostesses’ job is to coordinate the workload so that the wait staff can handle it efficiently.  Of course, the waitstaff get all the credit if service is good, and all the blame if it is bad, but the largest portion of the level of service you get is due to the hostess and her efforts.  Circumventing that inconveniences everyone, but most of all, you.

Mr. Grumpy Gums did that every time, and then complained about everything, and was angry and rude about it.

 

I started to cringe whenever I saw him hobbling across the parking lot.

 

Then, one day, after he said something harsh to me about what he saw as my slowness and inefficiency, I glanced down at his check, and made note of his name, and suddenly, Proverbs 15:1 came into my head; “A soft answer turneth away wrath; but grievous words stirrith up anger”.

 

I’m not one for listening to the Bible in particular, but I DO try to give some attention to my intuition.

 

I said “I’m so sorry that you’re upset Mr. ____.  Is there anything I can do to help?”

 

I shit you not, the man burst into tears on the spot.

 

“My wife is in the hospital, her appendix burst, and there’s been one thing after another.  They don’t know if she’s going to live of die.”

 

“I am so sorry.  I had no idea.”

 

I reached for his hand, and he grabbed my hand and held on like a death-grip.

 

“I’m sorry.  I will keep your wife in my prayers”. (Yes, I pray.  As someone who is deistically inclined, I pray prayers of thanksgiving and communion in general…but I have been occasionally been known to mention specific people to The Creator just to let him know someone is rooting for them.  I may not believe he will intervene, but the idea of communion is to share what is in your heart.  It can’t hurt…right?)

 

I lost track of how many weeks he came in, day after day, and reported her progress to me.  Sometimes he was happy, effusive, optimistic, sometimes he was sad, and terrified, on the border of despair.  But he was never cranky, rude, or disruptive.

 

One day he came in, and I asked him if he wanted his usual table.  He answered, no, that he would need two tables.  He was bringing his wife, and their several children out to lunch.

 

His wife came in with her walker, and he put his arm around me and said “Sweetheart, this is her, this is the girl that’s been praying for you.”

 

So, those, are my stories.

 

You might wonder why I told you those stories.

 

Honestly, because they are the ones that make me look good.  They’re the ones that happened when I was able to find the resources to act like a human being should…with good nature and humor, refraining from judgment, and with compassion.

 

We all like to remember the times we did those things.  And we all like to forget, justify, or otherwise modify and re-write the times we weren’t at our best…or more importantly, the times we were at our worst.

 

So here’s a little deal I’d like to propose to you:  I’ll try to treat you like a human being.  It’ll make that easier if you try to do the same.  If you fail, I’ll try to look the other way.  I’d appreciate it if you would do the same.  If I’m at a point where I just can’t take your bullshit, I’ll probably react badly and do something we’ll both regret.  I accept that you might do the same.  And I also accept that it’s unacceptable to society for either of us to completely lose control, and whatever the reason might be, there’s just no excuse for some behaviors, and a penalty has to be paid.

 

Sound good to you?