First, I have completed my first year post-graduation, and then some, by continuing my work as a server in various restaurant establishments. I have also been roundly rejected by the San Diego Police Department for the position of Police Officer I. As you might imagine, to someone who has not-so-secretly dreamt away his entire life of becoming an agent of the law, this was a staggering blow to my psyche, and ultimately precipitated the biggest decision of my life, so far.
I have no criminal record. I do not take any illegal substances. I am mentally stable, though I feel a desire to give my life meaning by protecting my fellow citizens (to some, my stability can now be questioned). I have a Bachelors of Arts in Political Science with an emphasis in International Relations from a well-respected public school in the state of California. I am a native of the city to whose police force I was applying. I passed the Police Exam with flying colors, and I even sacrificed several layers of skin off my palms when my legs temporarily gave out under me when I passed the Physical Abilities Test. How could I be rejected?
Immediately, the repugnant feelings of entitlement and disdain for those who were accepted began to ferment. I could nearly smell the stench of my fury as it rose up from my heart, blazed up my esophagus, planted itself on my tongue, and strained to pry open my clenched teeth to escape into earshot of those who might take offense. "How could they not pick me? What was wrong with me? I am young, I am fit, I am smart, I am clean, and I am dedicated. HOW ON EARTH COULD THEY IGNORE ME?!" Disbelief gave way to resentment: "Oh, of course. All the homecoming Marines took up all the slots. The SDPD shoots-to-kill with a higher fatality percentage than any other major city's police force. Who better than soldiers fresh from Iraq and Afghanistan?" My teeth won the battle, but I ultimately lost the war.
The fact was I was not needed, and seeing as though the Police Department is a bureaucratic agency much like any other in the city (Sanitation, Transportation, Utilities, etc.), there were re-application time limits. And while my resentful thoughts concerning the military were probably unfounded, I was on to something. The First Marine Division is quartered in San Diego, and veterans who have been honorably discharged are given preference in selection to the Police Academy. And it makes sense. Those who have been through boot camp successfully once could probably treat the Police Academy like child's play and pass easily. I, on the other hand, though determined, would have to experience the psychological and physical effects of the Academy without any idea of how I would cope. I cannot and should not fault the government for wanting people with experience relevant to their job requirements. I applied to a bevy of new restaurants shaking hands with each interviewing manager, wincing as they firmly-gripped my freshly bandaged palms and my limp fingers collapsed like a crushed animal in a vice.
Second, I decided that the change I had sought all my life, primarily a change of venue, was to be a move to New York City. My best friend in college graduated a year after me. Growing up in New Delhi, India, and spending his teenage years in Westchester County, New York, he had no particular attachment to San Diego. His mother and father did well for themselves, executives at Pepsi Co. and American Express at one point in their respective lives, and bought an apartment on the corner of Bank Street and the West Side Highway in the West Village of Manhattan. And though business had called the both of them away to work and live indefinitely in India again, the apartment remained. My friend had designs for such a posh, undisturbed apartment. And one drunken night, he offered me the passenger seat in his red 2008 Ford Mustang and a one-way trip from San Diego to New York City. I awoke the next morning in a haze, one only whiskey, good ol' times, and the beautiful mornings of Clairemont Mesa can conjur. Yet, in that haze, instead of struggling to remember the mischief of the night before, one things stuck ahead of the others. I was moving to New York.
It was an offer I could not refuse. Living rent-free in one of the most expensive areas in Manhattan, let alone the nation, I had finally achieved the East Coast transplant for which I had yearned for over a decade. The road trip was a long, but ultimately satisfying trip, replete with new friends, stunning landscapes, and the solemn realization that every highway east of Chicago required obscene tolls. We enjoyed date shakes, Kansas BBQ, Chicago style pizza, Chicago-style hot dogs, Wrigley Field, Buffalo wings, and the cherry on top: the Boston Red Sox @ New York Yankees in New Yankee Stadium. After an 11-inning bout, filled with comebacks, epic failures, game-tying home-runs, and a bullpen implosion, the Yankees took the game in walk-off fashion. The rain had slightly picked up, and many Yankee fans had long since gone home, expecting the Yankee win as a foregone conclusion (and the fact that the Red Sox' chances of making the playoffs were slim to none at that point in the season), and I took the significant presence of Red Sox fans who stayed until the very end as a moral victory. As I shuffled up the stairs to the train, I heard an inebriated Yankee fan slur, "I'd better not see any Boston fans on this fucking train." I shook my head and smiled to myself; I was home.
Arrival in New York was certainly surreal, but not without its problems. For one, I was broke. My relatively spontaneous decision to move to New York on short notice meant that I had not saved enough money to take me through the 11 day road trip AND last me until I found a job. It took every day of two months, scouring Craigslist for every job in the service industry for which I was remotely qualified, in order to find a simple job as a server at an Irish pub. Until then, my friends were going out and having fun, and though somethings they generously treated me to drinks, I felt guilty accepting them, pledging that once I got rich, I would buy them feasts. And even getting my job was an adventure.
In fact, when I was originally interviewed at the Downtown Galway Hooker Pub on 7th Ave. and Charles St., I let it slip that I was not a New York native. She would not give me the time of day after I erred on the side of honesty. I would not repeat this mistake. So when I came across the same posting on Craigslist, I sent the same résumé and cover letter, unaware that their generic posting was the same I had applied to weeks before (most restaurants choose not to disclose their name or location before reviewing your résumé and asking you to interview with them). However, when I received the same generic email response asking me to interview with them, signed by the same hiring manager who had shut me down, my mind began to churn.
I spent the next two days detailing a strategy, preempting every possible question short of a direct one, that could possibly lead me to disclose my true origins. My conscience could not permit me to lie through my teeth to my employer, so I compromised morally and settled on telling the truth and nothing but the truth, but not the whole truth. I traced my wardrobe back two weeks to ensure that I wore different clothes. I used hair gel to mold my shocked fibers into a cohesive statement, rather than their usual relaxed chill out session. I even opted to wear a blazer instead of my warmer wool coat. And of course, as my heart beat like a bass drum, sweat popped out of my pores, and my clenched knuckles lost their color, I was greeted by a friendly, cheery face by my side. Lucke, the other manager, invited me to sit down at a corner booth. And as she bade farewell to the previous applicant, I convinced myself to stick to my guns and not mention Southern California at any cost.
"Hi, I'm Lucke. I'm from Orange County." REALLY?! "NO WAY! I'M FROM SAN DIEGO!" I blurted out helplessly. We instantly hit it off. We did not even touch on work experience. She told me she would call me back within an hour or two and assured me that she liked me. Two hours later, I was employed.
The job itself was nothing new. Serving tables is an exercise in paying attention to minutia and thinking three steps ahead at any given time. You make sure all the condiments that one could possibly want with their entrée are on the table before the food arrives. You note the rate at which a customer is slurping their drink. You notice whether or not they are using their straw or removing the slice of lime or lemon from the lip of their drink. The little things matter because you never want the customer to have to ask you for anything.
Dealing with a highly volatile work environment, however, was new to me. The owner is quick-tempered, sharp-witted, hawk-eyed, and a 110 pound hurricane. Demanding, yet generous, pleasant, yet razor-tongued, she might be the best boss I have come across. I imagine she must retain these qualities in order to be so successful as to own three different bars in Manhattan. My co-workers were all pleasant, competent, and mostly friendly. A few of the bartenders were a little snobbish, riding their high horses and showing no regard for my work ethic or individual identity. The managers were mostly fair and cool. And then came George.
George was a 36 year-old Brooklynite who lamented the gentrification of "his city." He proclaimed to be old enough to command respect, but young enough to hang with the hip crowd. He tried buddying up to everyone (the female servers in particular), but instead of making good on his repeated promises to "look after" me, I worked 90% of the day shifts over the course of two months.
A brief aside: The West Village in Manhattan is full of restaurants and bars and residences. Places of business are hard to come by (usually in Midtown, around Central Park, or Downtown in the Financial District), as are their suit-donning workers. When they have quick lunch break, the understandably seek out businesses close by, so Midtown and Downtown lunch venues get considerable business and their servers make considerable tips. The West Village is devoid of such business. I would get to the bar at 10:30am, set it up by 11:30am opening, and then fold napkins until 4pm, when I was finally relieved by the night shift. With any luck, I might snare one table and squeeze $8 from them. But with a depressed minimum wage of $4.65/hour, $8 is a slap in the face.
Back to George and I. In order to get better shifts, I decided to go above and beyond the call of my job description. I organized the server side station by labeling locations for miscellaneous supplies, I polished the copper tables, I maintained the integrity of barstools by tightening screws, I replaced burnt out light bulbs, and even decorated the bar for Christmas (I should note that I was not alone in this endeavor). I would proactively acquire the list of the reservations and parties for the night from the cavern-like enclave of the hibernating day manager, if she were present. I would scan this list for any potential conflicts or overlaps, and bring these to George's attention. Yet instead of gratefulness for my attempts to facilitate the most basic operations of a restaurant, my "conscientiousness" (George's word) was met with scorn. I was admonished for "getting on his tits" and "being too conscientious." Eventually, I helped George so much that he told me that he was transferring me to the Midtown location. And while I had a heavy-heart and a bruised ego that comes with someone not wanting you around anymore, I realized that the Midtown location was plenty more lucrative. For the next week, I worked the thankless day shifts, with my eye turned towards greener pastures.
However, on Thursday, the day the schedule is usually posted, I noticed that I was not scheduled at the Downtown Hooker for the following week. Naturally, I assumed that George had completed my transfer to Midtown. I called them to ask for my schedule, but the scheduling manager had no idea what I was talking about. I explained that I worked for the Downtown Hooker, and that George had transferred me to Midtown, to which the surprised manager protested, "I'm having trouble finding enough shifts for my own staff. I can't take you on as well." I swallowed my fury and pain and confronted George in the most professional manner. He explained that he had suggested to our other manager that she try to find a few shifts at Midtown for me, that he would have just let me go, but he liked me. With my fists trembling with anger and adrenaline, I listened as George tried to backpedal. "I could put you back on the schedule for one day or so until we can find room for you." I curtly declined, glided to the bar, at which point my favorite bartender poured me a tall glass of Jameson. I thanked her, brought the glass downstairs with me, said my goodbyes to all the kitchen workers, then returned upstairs with an empty glass, donned my coat, and walked into the night.
I exited before the alcohol could hit me. But even the Jameson could not comfort me. Every warm, sweet gulp mocked me. I preferred the dry, bitter cold of the night. It was this cold that I hoped would fuel my now increasingly devious designs. Feeling like Edmund Dantès, I imprisoned myself in my bedroom, plotting out my increasingly incoherent designs for revenge: how I would call the owners and protest my treatment, how I could encourage my co-workers to throw down their aprons on George's desk (like Rudy) and refuse to work, how I could contact the CEO of the restaurant strategy/investment company that he hired to help direct us... The warm embrace of alcohol felt instead like waterboarding. Nonetheless, the gradual cessation of my boiling blood caught up with me, and as my eyelids grew heavy I resigned myself to blackness and dreams of retaliation.
I woke the next morning and set about applying to new jobs. The anger of the night before had transformed into a feeling reminiscent of shame and fear. I felt ashamed that I had reacted so immaturely to something that happens daily to thousands of Americans a day. I felt afraid that I had drank that glass of Jameson so quickly and impulsively. I recommitted myself to my forward progress and decided to cut out drinking while incensed and/or alone. And just as a friend of my cousin's alerted me to an opening at a posh bowling alley/club, I received a phone call from a part-owner in the family of Galway Hookers (no pun intended). She asked me why I had quit, and reassured me that the principal owner and she both wanted me to stay with the company. She offered to rehire me with assurances of better shifts and potential promotions. I told her I had to think about it, and that I would meet with her in two days.
I met with her two days later to discuss the prospect of me reclaiming my job. She told me that the owner and she had encountered a few issues with George, and that while they both wanted to hire me back, that it would come down to him or me. Since the head honcho was away on vacation, she estimated a decision within 7-10 days. Meanwhile, out of a job, my mother offered to fly me out to San Diego for my father's birthday, and to just spend some time with my friends and family. And of course, as soon as I booked my flight, I received a text from the part-owner: "George is no longer with us. Charlene will call you tomorrow about putting you back on the schedule."
The meeting went quickly. I was told I was the strongest server on the floor and that I would be treated with more respect than how George slimily forced my hand. I explained that I had already booked my flight, and that I could work as soon as Thursday of the next week (two days from today). They wished me happy travels, and I went home.
There have been other developments in my life, to which I will pay tribute in following entries. This trip to San Diego has truly been an experience that I ought to translate into text. And I have yet to mention the various personalities I have encountered in New York City that have already begun to change my life. I also have yet to mention my aspirations to federal service in the form of a Special Agent with the Diplomatic Security Service. All these topics will be covered in the near future, I assure you.
-Joe
