I didn't work that hard tonight, but as I was closing out all my tables -- I didn't even have time to work through the credit card slips until 9pm and usually, on a Monday night, I have time to refill your water after you take a sip (last week I made $8 off of the one table that came in) -- I saw it. Dude, this is San Francisco and you're at the neighborhood bar. I know I could have done better, but $3 on a $27 bill? I could see the "Fuck you and your shitty service" hidden in your signature.
You know what, buddy? I made enough money tonight to eat lunch for the rest of the week. I used to measure money in how much I could put in my savings account (the balance of which has been $1.02 for over a year), but now I measure it in meals: $5 for lunch if I'm feeling rich and I scrounge for dinner if I'm feeling skinny because, even though I work two jobs and my boyfriend is the chef of the restaurant you just solicited, we pay $1275 for a studio and don't want to get into debt again. We're poor, motherfucker.
I don't know if you noticed that, of the thirteen tables in the restaurant, ten were full and I was the only server. It's illegal for the bartender to leave the bar and she was running my food because, um? I was busy.
It's cool though. I mean, I'm not upset at You. I'm not upset at all, actually. I'm in that eerie post-period phase where as shitty as things are, they're actually shitty; I can't blame them on my ovaries, I can't blame them on my depression; I just worked for thirteen hours straight at two different jobs. My left hand is bruised, my right hand is cut, the dog ate the GameBoy (but not the DS), I've had a migraine since 8am, I am Actually having a Bad Day, but I am completely at peace with that only because it was a genuinely Bad Day, and it wasn't my fault necessarily (even though it's my life and everything I do is my choice).
Did you know that I'm not just your server for the hour you nibbled on salmon and drank your Bass? Did you know I come home and read the books that thoughts are made of, that I called my boyfriend after my shift was done to whine and he couldn't talk because he was in the middle of a Halo game so I had to call my mom instead, that I my digestive track is currently working on approximately 600 calories today which is 500 more than I ate yesterday? You came into the restaurant to get over your shit; I don't have that luxury. But I don't blame you for the $3 you left on your $27 tab, because it's my fault that I'm too busy to think, that yesterday was my first day off in three weeks and I spent it fluttering my eyelids at the hell that I knew today would be. I blame myself entirely.
It's tomorrow, and you and your shitty $3 don't exist anymore. To bed!