The Harpist Wants A Diet Coke...and Other Tales Of Servitude in the Southland

(the following is from an old Myspace blog I wrote in Oct 2007)

"Excuse me... the harpist wants a diet coke."

I stared at the man. What was that? I repeated it to myself.
The Harpist? Wants a Diet Coke?
Really?

(beat)

I didn't even know there was a harpist here. And, how is she gonna be able to drink it while playing a harp? Furthermore, sir... why did you insist on grabbing me and passing along the profound information that "The Harpist Wants a Diet Coke" when you see I have a tray full of glasses and another handful of dishes, and I am jogging-not strolling, not even walking- through the crowd of wedding-goers you see before you? Do you not see the bar 15 yards from you?

But, I understand the consequences of actually asking such questions out loud. No, no... instead I must internalize this frustration/annoyance, smile at this man (who later gave the blessing of the meal at this wedding and talked about "turning the love here tonight into energy and that energy nurturing our hearts, minds and souls" woo woo), reply with a charming and very Southern 'Yes, sir', empty my tray and head to the bar to get a Diet Coke for the previously invisble harpist in the corner.

For a moment, the frustration of an earlier incident in the day crept back into my mind. You see, the wedding I was working was a default. I had gone to work at my current place of steadiest employment, Maggiano's. Upon arriving there (to make a long story short), I got "made an example out of" by my boss and sent home. Like I was in third grade. Again. Only minus the fun, innocence, and irresponsibility and instead of a teacher I have a balding, miserable, dickhead boss. So, I left.

Fast forward to being desperate for money and booking a catering gig. And now, here I am working a wedding in Malibu, face-to-face with a man who has just interrupted a nice bussing rhythm because he wants me to fetch a Diet Coke for a Subtle Harpist. Through the course of the night, I will find myself cornered by a drunk couple who think our company staffs just about the cutest waiters they've ever seen, enduring park rangers who insist we expand our catering contract to include janitorial service, listening to an absurd toast by the bride's astrology-obsessed drunken father, attempting to tune out the band (2 white guys who insist on jumping from Spin Doctors to Blues Traveler to Digital Underground to The Gorillaz), passing hors d'oevuers to people who get a kick out of pissing me off by challenging my knowledge of the ingredients contained within said appetizer and then not taking any off of my tray (thereby not lightening my load) and explaining over and over again to the drunk guy at a table that I am not the chef and therefore could not tell you how our mini-quiches were made so small.

On top of it, I was distracted. My thoughts kept drifting to someone in particular. Someone I like. It was just one of those days following one of those nights and you just keep thinking about this someone. And this is going to sound horrible following that romantic thought, but I was also distracted by the LSU-Florida game which I needed updates on every few minutes and was a close as fuck and a game that I regretted missing. (Apologies to the someone in question that the football game was as big a distraction, but you were distracted at the time too by a big mouse in a magic castle, so we remain equal on points...)

All in all, however, the gig wasn't bad. I made good money.

I notice that serving is getting to be a part of my life that settles into some form of two extremes: ridiculous and maddening or profitable and tolerable. Sometimes the two meet. Today was an example of such a meeting. My restaurant debacle was ridiculous and maddening, the gig was ridiculous and tolerable, but the whole day turned profitable. As I am now in my mid-20s, I am beginning to feel slight and perhaps self-imposed pressure to create a more stable life for myself. This past year has been both a successful and profitable year for me acting wise. Thank God for that. But service-tude is becoming an increasingly less acceptable form of income to me. It's a lot of shit to deal with even on the days when you make good money. But many folks say it's a necessary evil. And, unfortunately, they're right I think. Which leads to the conclusion (hopefully it's just a temporary one, though, while I figure out a way to dump the server thing) that I just need to shut my mouth and pay the damn bills.

So, for now, the Harpist can have her Diet Coke, no ice, with a wedge of lemon.
Never mind it's out of the way...
it's what they pay me for.