Fun While It Lasted

I was rather quiet around the pancake house regarding the newfound "holiday" job. But catch me on a bad day, and I was likely to murmur something.

So when one of the lifetime breakfast-shifters asked me about the other place, the roll of my eyes about the inquired differences must have been all she needed to hear before adding, "Night and day, huh?"

Then my Greek boss' mother must have come by complaining about me not using a tray or something before I replied, quite loudly, "Literally."

You be the judge:

STARTING TIME
DAY JOB: As soon as I wake up.
NIGHT JOB: As soon as I'm ready.

SMOKING POLICY
DAY JOB: Never.
NIGHT JOB: Whenever, and pretty much where ever I want.

TELEVISION PROGRAMMING
DAY JOB: Limited to family-friendly programming on local antenna programming (which immediately disqualified Maury Povich's two hours of paternity tests I like to round out my shift with, apparently).
NIGHT JOB: Bulls games, AMC movies ... hell, whatever we felt like watching.

EMPLOYEE MEAL POLICY
DAY JOB: A whole three dollars off ... everything. No more, no less. (And everything on the menu is at least three dollars ... unless you're anorexic.)
NIGHT JOB: Half off of anything you buy. (Except alcohol ... more on that later.)

BEHAVIORAL MANNER OF IMMEDIATE EMPLOYER
DAY JOB: Large Greek man in early-30s whom generally seems to have no desire to be working restaurant industry but enjoys the power of shouting at those under him what to do at certain points in the day. Since returning from the latest sales job I got duped in to and ultimately abandoned, he seems to realize how reliable I am at serving while granting that I'm incapable of arriving on time.
NIGHT JOB: Woman in her late-60s perhaps who must have inherited a fortune and sees fit to run it into the ground by taking over a formerly cheap sort of Italian fine dining establishment and trying to re-invent it in an already competitive atmosphere. We converse little, but since she spends her latter half of the day throwing back Beefeater's on the rocks before I arrive, she seems to sincerely appreciate me assistance on crossword puzzles.

BEHAVIORAL MANNER OF IMMEDIATE EMPLOYER'S ASSISTANTS
DAY JOB: The girl who makes our schedule also works six days a week. We generally get along, aside from the fact that she is a Packers fan.

My boss' nearly 60-year-old mother shows up almost six days a week just to roughly exercise her neurotic behavior by seating whomever she pleases, harassing me about whatever she pleases, and making the life of everybody (even, sometimes, the customer) a living hell.
NIGHT JOB: The dining room manager (or something like that) is a couple years younger than me and just recently proposed to his girlfriend on New Year's Eve, which puts him two wives ahead of me.

We also have my boss' boyfriend, who apparently sits at the bar the entire day, begins those crosswords we were talking about, drinks coffee, and then switches to Jim Beam around, well, the time I come in. Timing is everything.

ALCOHOL POLICY
DAY JOB: No liquor is served, although it's frequently mentioned that the place used to be a bar.
NIGHT JOB: A wide array of spirits and wines are available. And employees are entitled to one free post-shift drink—if the closing manager sees fit (which they typically do).

UNIFORMS
DAY JOB: Upon asking another server if using a purple pen made me look gay, she replied, "You're wearing an apron with an apple on it."

It's green, and it basically covers up whatever tie I'm wearing with my white dress shirts and black pants.

Oh, and I have a name tag with two smiley face stickers on it. Now ... does that make me look gay?
NIGHT JOB: Goodbye tie, name tag, and green apron; lose the button on the neck of the shirt and tie the knee-length black apron around your waist ... good to go.

CHECK AVERAGE
DAY JOB: $10 per person, at best.
NIGHT JOB: $20 per person, at least.

CLIENTELE
DAY JOB: Regular elderly diners or their immediate local suburban families.
NIGHT JOB: Curious faux posh-types of the local dining scene.

TIP AVERAGE
DAY JOB: 10-20%, or roughly a buck or two per person.
NIGHT JOB: Steadily around 20%, or roughly more than five bucks per person.

GUEST APPEARANCES
DAY JOB: Two of the boss' mom's grandkids, one of which is guaranteed to burst into tears moments after arrival.
NIGHT JOB: Two dogs, one of which was a black lab whose belly I often enjoyed scratching right before placing the same unwashed hand upon a loaf of bread about to be cut by myself for any cheaper patrons.

RATE OF SERVICE
DAY JOB: Steady on most days and hectic on weekends. Four-plus years in the same location brings people back.
NIGHT JOB: Slow as shit nearly every day. Less than two years in a new location has people asking when the old place closed.

MUSIC
DAY JOB: Most of the time, it's Sirius' Channel 2 which plays the same Dave Matthews song we've all heard seven-fucking-million times now and Lone Star's "Amazed," which never even deserved to be played once.
NIGHT JOB: Live jazz on the weekends and Frank Sinatra-type fanfare during the week.

COMPUTER SYSTEMS
DAY JOB: Truly old-school black-screen, green-type appearance on equally ancient monitors. We type in orders by numerical codes, as though we were performing confidential operations within our own kitchen. Using the series "5-2-3" (which equates to "SEE SERVER" bring printed) causes alarm and panic among cooks and expediters.
NIGHT JOB: Touch-screen system that allows us to swipe customers' credit cards at every terminal. Any special instructions can be typed in on-screen via a keyboard option, allowing us to verify such urgent requests as "AARON IS A GIANT HOMO."

"SPECIALS"
DAY JOB: On Wednesdays, senior citizens get ten percent off.
NIGHT JOB: On Wednesdays, we have karaoke night at 9:00 p.m. Oh, and the risotto changes daily.

The "new" co -workers warned me not to get excited after one of my bigger nights during the weekend. "Don't quit the day job," they told me, as though the extra money the party I'd had and added to my already automatic gratuity on the bill wasn't sign enough of my awesomeness.

Behold the call that came in last Thursday as I was on my way to the "night" job after the "day" was over. The chef's last day had been a few days prior, but there was already a replacement.

No matter.

The night place is now supposedly closed until the beginning of February. To many of the employees, shutting down came as no surprise. But still, not being given just a little head start to cover their asses and find work to, you know, pay their bills was a little insulting. Most, I assume had planned on leaving anyway.

And so as I spent my newly acquired free-Friday night out with one of the servers, and he mentioned places he'd be applying at before asking me where I would be looking, I simply sipped my drink, shook my head, took a drag off my smoke and said, "I'm not applying at any more restaurants."

And that was that.