September 1–22, 2005 — Finally, a career

On the last day of August as I dragged furniture from one apartment to another, the vegetarian restaurant near my house called. Early in August I’d decided I might need another job to pay for my new apartment and had printed out a single resumé and cover letter. I’d given them to that restaurant. Then I’d gotten lazy when faced with more cover letters to write, and because it’s only easy to get a job when you don’t really need it, I ended up with a new job anyway.

The day the restaurant manager called I wasn’t carrying my cellphone and only one phone in the house I was moving out of still worked. It took multiple back-and-forth calls before I spoke with him and was offered a job as bartender and juicer. I said I could only work weekends, he said that was fine, and I committed to working seven days a week for the foreseeable future.

This business of blending fruit and watching people pay large amounts of money for it is turning into something of a career for me, and I’m not sure if I should be a bit embarrassed about the whole thing. On the plus side, I now get to serve alcoholic drinks as well as smoothies that are more complicated (and more expensive) than anything I’d made at that other smoothie bar.

I’d convinced myself learning how to make smoothies a second time would be easy, but everything was much more involved and much less documented at this restaurant. Measuring was frowned upon, and the goal was to memorize the ingredients in every recipe and to have a feel for how much of each went into a given drink. I fought a constant battle with the part of me that needs everything to be consistent and systematic. I was told my drinks were too neat and that I shouldn’t be afraid to spill things a bit. I had a difficult time with this advice.

But I got better. One of my first weekends was the busiest in the restaurant’s history, and I spilled things and swore and thought of quitting, but I made it through. I started looking at the list of ingredients less often. I looked forward to seeing some of my co-workers. I’d created a false sort of social life where I could talk to people without real fear of being rejected.

I worry it’s a dangerous precedent. I feel I’m setting myself up for a life of working mediocre jobs not for the money, but for a chance to talk to people. I’m realizing how much I miss having someone I can talk to living in the same building as me. Maybe I’m trying to replace that with the comfort of knowing there will be people forced to talk to me every Saturday and Sunday.

For now, though, I have a copy of the menu with notes scribbled on it describing how much ice goes in which drinks. Sometimes I read it at home. I’m showing far too much commitment to a job that pays so little.

But I have to get better. I can’t get fired. Otherwise, who would I spend my weekends with?