One Of "Those" Weekends ...

"Be patient," they tell me.

Nobody finds the real job right out of school, they say.

"You have lots of options."

One of the more talented broadcast majors at our graduation ceremony—during his own moment when the college had the continuous video feed of every graduate's handshake with the college president at the ceremony—held up a hand-scrawled note with the station letters he was going to work for. I remember smiling/laughing when I saw it. I was in a good mood that day, of course, but now I'm wondering if I should've—could've, done more to prepare for breaking the ice that is my entry into the "real world."

There's two more of those "entry level" job interviews scheduled for this week, which is good. If GIBS still hasn't found work yet with her newly acquired Master's degree, then I shouldn't be too hard on myself.

Or at least I tell myself that.

***

On Friday, the restaurant scheduled six servers—a needlessly unnessecary amount of staff that seemed more appropriate for, say, a holiday when, you know, "there's no school." That's our restaurant's typical excuse for over-staffing, and we'll typically look the other way.

We have to. There's no second option.

There are, however, second jobs. And most—if not all—of the other waitresses have those. Even the girls back in town only for the summer. And now everyone seems to be lamenting about the days when business was much, much better for us.

"There used to be lines going out the door," one says.

And in my short time at this place, I too remember when we were far, far more bustling with business. Of course, I was showing up late then and somehow managed not to get fired. So the fact that lately I've been doing better about showing up on time hasn't been noted all that greatly because I really haven't missed all that much.

Friday amounted to me arriving a couple of minutes late and ending up with what I broke down to being the equivalent of less than $10 an hour. By basic principle, for serving standards, that's inexcusable.

I'll make no bones, however, about having to work for a living. It's all fine and good as long as I'm rewarded for my effort. That's all I ask.

***

GIBS had a "lunch date" that day. It ended up lasting three hours.

The fellow she'd been speaking with has apparently been very big on recommeding her. As well he should be, but I've been growing somewhat tired of hearing about the connections she's made still without finding a job. After all, if somebody with her qualifications is still searching for work, then I have no idea how that bodes for my own future.

She asks me if I want to go out with her and a friend for Geneva's annual Swedish Days festival, and I say that after Friday's lackluster earnings at the restaurant, I want to really, really dedicate the evening to finding something—anything else for work. I'm tired and frustrated, which is always a bad element to have before going out to drink.

You can guess what happened next.

***

Not long after arriving at our bar at the train station, I receive a phone call from one of my Republican friends.

He and his wife are headed out to the "beer garden" at the festival. GIBS and I are supposed to be headed out there too, I tell him. But we're waiting for her friend ... who ends up arriving a couple of hours late.

By that point, I've joined RF and his wife before GIBS and her friend have even left. RF's wife feels somewhat ill, leaves early to go home, and so he and I agree the beer garden sucks a fat dick (Seven dollar entry fee, by the way, to see ... I don't know, some sorry-ass Dave Matthews cover band or something, I guess).

When GIBS calls, RF and I arrange to meet at the bar along the river. He's drinking vodka & tonic now, which catches me off-guard since this is the guy who usually drinks SoCo. But I share his newfound drink of choice—sans tonic.

The four of us end up talking for an hour or so before mutually agreeing we should head back to what—for GIBS, her friend, and myself—is our typical watering hole. We somehow lost RF along the way during the walk uphill. But, as it turned out, he just stopped by the restaurant another one of my buddies worked at—inviting him too to come out.

When he shows up at the bar, I offer to call him—and myself—a cab. But then, upon leaving, he says he'll walk.

And his walk is a long one. But I call the cab company back and cancel both cabs, now having decided to walk myself.

***

I am scheduled to work at 8:30 the following morning.

And, boy, am I hurting.

Cheap, domestic draft beer does that to you. Either way, I need to work. And nothing is helped by our business—or lack thereof.

It is not a financial windfall of a day, and matters aren't helped any by the end—in which I think I'm ready to leave and, instead, the hostess informs me that I have a check still "open."

Looking at the bill, that particular table immediately comes to mind: a family of four in which a young couple and their apparent parents, along with child requiring a high-chair at the table's end.

They had said everything was fine.

But maybe it was not. And now, they—apparently—walked out on their bill. The damage, you ask?: $40.

Keeping in mind that I work at a family restaurant (i.e. "family"-owned), this is the bosses' mother's response to the revelation:

"You're gonna' have to pay for that."

Of course, keeping in mind that this is America and that capitalism reigns supreme here, my response—internally: "Fuck You"—externally, is, "No, I won't."

And I KNOW I'm right.

Why?

Well, I've known a number of waitresses who have detailed their stories of tables walking out on their checks; each time, it's the waitress in question who is required to foot the bill. One girl who had just started at a local bar watched an entire night's worth of tips go down the drain because her final table walked out on a $100+ tab.

There is nothing derogatory about me openly wishing people such as those who utilize someone's physical services—and then not paying for them—should burn in the firiest pits of Hell. It's almost enough to make me want to become a Christian.

And as sad and unfortunate as every "dine-and-ditch" is, there was a quite reasonable logic behind my own argument that Saturday: I'm not responsible for my "bank."

As though the cheap bastards who decide to pull this stunt aren't bad enough, nothing could be worse than a restaurant in which the owners prefer to rely on their front desk to manage their money—and consequentially blame their servers for not collecting the money they trusted somebody else to collect anyway.

Nothing could be more insulting.

So when the shift ended with my boss saying he'd talk to me about it "tomorrow"—I told him I wouldn't be in again until Tuesday—I could hardly wait long enough for the bartender to fix me one of his Long Islands.

"How was work today?" he asked.

"It sucked," I said—quite matter-of-factly.

He mentioned that if I thought my shift sucked, I should consider that he was in for what was basically a two-hour shift. Pretty shitty, indeed.

But still, I had a graduation party to go to.

***

The last time I went to one of this editor's parties, it was her birthday.

I not only showed up drunk; I left perhaps even more drunk.

That had been, once again, another bad day. A former co-employee and I had done a pretty good number on a bottle of scotch while chilling out, and I had been invited to take some with me on the train.

Not pretty.

So besides arriving wasted, I tried to duck out with another former editor who had invited me to go get, uh, "stoned." After one look at me while walking with his friends, his buddy whispered something in the ex-editor's ear, and suddenly our plans to go hang out weren't happening.

Go figure.

I was scheduled to work at 8:30 the following morning. And that was roughly around midnight.

So when I was awakened while lying on my back on the sidewalk of some nearby neighborhood, I sat up to a dude offering a ride home.

"You don't want to drive that far," I told him.

And when his buddies laid on the horn at two in the morning, he ran back to the car and disappeared. I, meanwhile, sat there on the sidewalk, looking around and wondering how to get back home.

I finally found my way to the Blue Line, where a friend had offered to pick me up from O'Hare, crash at his place, then give me a ride home before work that morning. I'm looking at the Blue Line map and counting how many stops I am from O'Hare. The last one before the end is Rosemont, and when I hear that announced with the moon still out, I figure I'll safely make it to work on time.

When I opened my eyes, the sun was out. It was 8:00 a.m. and the Blue Line was now headed back to Chicago. I hopped out at the exact same stop as the one for the party. After catching the next outbound Blue Line, the phone rang with our teenage hostess saying the boss' mom wanted to know where I was.

"Um, O'Hare."

"He's at O'Hare," I hear her saying with the boss' mom shouting in the background.

I arrived at work two hours late, berated by my boss.

But not fired.

***

I'm still silently fuming on the train about the dine-and-ditchers. Gonzo has told me to get off at the Maywood stop and he'll drive us to the party from there. I sit camped out at the tracks in that suburb, admiring it's ghetto fabulousness.

Gonzo's ride is a Ford Tempo—ironically, what was nearly my first car. And just as I was beginning to think that I couldn't stomach another night of domestic beer consumption, Gonzo informs me of the good news that he's gone through the trouble of bringing a handle of Jim Beam.

My gift was a Hot Wheels Chevy Impala, citing that this was the nicest car I could afford.

Chicago Ridge was a bit of a haul and the turnout was pretty good considering the number of other events going on in the city that weekend (i.e. Intonation, Gay Pride, etc.). I'm a bit shy around faces I'm not familiar with—oh, that is unless there is the reliable social lubricant that is alcohol. While Gonzo plays it smart by mixing Coke, I decide to forgo a mixer.

Bad move.

I'm fine enough for the first hour or so, finally starting to forget about my shit job. There's some delicious homemade ribs, a swimming pool, and ... karaeoke? Normally, I dismiss participating in favor of watching others (that "bit shy" thing again). Just a few weeks ago, I went to a place in Chinatown for a friend's birthday party and saw perhaps the most amazing rendition of David Bowie's "Ziggy Stardust" I've ever seen.

On this particular Saturday night, my stage fright doesn't seem to be gripping me. Partly because it didn't seem everybody in the "audience" was paying attention, and mostly because I've refilled my cup.

My performances are a series of diminishing quality. While I'm disappointed that Janet Jackson's "Escapade" is not available, Johnny Cash's "A Boy Named Sue" is always a safe bet for me. I should have just left it at that.

But no, following a conversation with one of the waitresses earlier in the day about a Backstreet Boys song on the radio in the dining room, I actually sign up for "I Want It That Way." This is a song that might have been more appropriate for, say, a junior high graduation. At a college graduation, well, I think Ozzie Guillen might have a word to describe what to think of me.

And again, I should have just left it at that.

But no, perhaps driven to reclaim my masculinity or perhaps driven by another cup refill, I sign up for Young MC's "Bust A Move." RF has performed this for years and made it look easy. I know the words to this too, I tell myself. But upon being called to the microphone once again, the words come up much faster than I remember them. My version went something like this:

"This here's ... la duh the to uh nah nah the duh nah ..."

You get the idea. I'd say I didn't finish the song if I actually thought I started it.

We had been invited to crash at the house, but thanks to my early passing out and probably some justifiable concern about whether or not I would vomit (I didn't, for the record—not that I'd trust my memory), Gonzo is forced once again to actually having to carry me back to the Tempo. He is one strong Pollock.

***

I had actually worried at one point that I would be the first person to wake up in a home of strangers and I would be unable to get back to sleep.

Ha.

Instead, I'm on a leather couch back at Gonzo's home. He's up before me and already shaking his head. I don't want to ask how the night ended, but I know I'm going to hear about it anyway. I don't feel the painful, headache-type hangover I had Saturday morning, but rather the woozy, "I-think-I'm-still-drunk"-type hangover.

Gonzo and I go to grab some breakfast before dropping me back off in Maywood. The trains on Sundays don't run quite as often, so when Gonzo actually suggests grabbing a round or two somewhere ("Mugshots" sure looked, uh, "cozy"), I say we should err on the side of caution. If I miss the train, it's another four hours until the next one, and Gonzo has already done a remarkable job of keeping me entertained—or babysitting me.

***

Why is it that after nights like that, I always find myself doing yardwork for my uncle the following day? It was raining in Maywood, but when I arrived in Geneva the sun was out. And it was just in time for the Swedish Days parade. And the scene was crazy.

Hopping on my bike and still a little wobbly, I pass by a man sitting in a lawn chair on top of his van parked in his driveway. He is very enthusiastic about the parade from what appears to be a terrible view. And there are people dressed up as storm troopers walking down the sidewalk. And a German polka band. Strange people everywhere you looked.

Not me, though. No sir, I'm normal.

I try my best to avoid the parade, just get to my uncle's and then come home and take a very long nap. To say the weekend was "eventful" seems like an understatement.

Of course, the first thing my uncle asks me is, "So didja' find a job yet?"

*SIGH*