“I can see the light before I see the sunrise”

I was up at 6:00 to do the news broadcast (smoothest broadcast by far, btw), got breakfast at 8:30, showered at 8:50, picked up a guitar at 9:45, and found out at 9:47 that my manager from my summer job finally got married.

How does a day with such an excellent morning end? With an excellent night where I play mediocre guitar and beatbox. For and with excellent people.

After which the RA comes in bearing chocolate.

Berkeley, I’m a big fan.

Both sides of the fence

I love what I do when I love who I meet. People, people, people.

For the last month or so, I’ve been working with some splendid people. Beyond that, some of the customers I’ve served have been a real trip. It’s only been a few weeks, but I’ve received everything from career advice to commentary on technology manufacturing to a compliment on my diction (favorite compliment ever).

Today’s dinner shift, though, beats everything else on the “wha…?” scale thus far.

It started when two ladies walked in with what looked like two young, excitable boys. I brought them to their table, they told me I had a baby face, and I went off to some other table after throwing back some half-assed wit in the form of “thanks, it keeps me young.”

Then, when I delivered their food, they asked if they could take a picture with me because I’m “so cute.” At this point, the probably-European tourists next to us are looking sort of bemused but graciously grant my request for a few more minutes’ delay in taking their order. Upon continued insistence I sit down next to two of them, get my picture taken, get moved to the other side, and smile for the camera again.

Weird, but it gets weirder.

The two boys leave for a cigarette break after they finish eating, and as I’m clearing the plates from the table, the two ladies (L1 and L2) begin the following dialogue with me (my thoughts are in italics):

L1: My friend thinks you’re cute.

L2: *sort of giggles*

L1: Are you local?

Me: Yeah, I’m Singaporean, but I actually live in California.

L1: Oh.. yeah, I could tell. How old are you?

Me: 18..

L1: Oh you look very young.. actually she *gestures to L2* had a lot of questions for you.

Me: Sure; I’m here all night anyway.

*they both laugh*

L2: Um… are you attached?

Me: Uh… no, I’m single..

L2: So you don’t have a boyfriend?

Me: No, I used to… *my voice sort of falters throughout the phrase*

L1: Are you straight?

Me: [OH. The other two boys were girls! I’m being hit on!] Yeeahh, I’m quite straight.

L1: Quite? Like how much?

Me: [Oh my.] Like… very.

L1: Oh. Because we thought you weren’t.

Me: [Oh…. God. It’s the hair isn’t it. It’s the hair. Oh my God, it’s the hair.] Oh. No… I’m straight.

L1: Sorry for all the questions… do you think we’re very kaypoh [translation for the non-Singlish speakers: nosy]?

Me: *as my mind is still sort of reeling* No, it’s all right; A lot of my tables ask me a lot of questions. Um… sorry, I have to go take care of this *gestures to the bill folder I’m holding*

L2: Oh yeah, sure, no problem.

So I walked away, and did my waitressing thing for the next half an hour or so. The not-boys came back, we sang them the birthday song, and then they wave me over… for more pictures with me.

Birthday girl: Hey can you eat with us?

Me: No, sorry, I’m still working.

Birthday girl: It’s a birthday request! You really can’t?

Me: No, I’ve still got quite a lot of things to do. If I don’t do them then I’ll hold back my coworkers.

Birthday girl: Oh. What time are you done?

Me: 11.

Birthday girl: Oh. That’s too bad.

Then I go off and do things for another half hour or so, until I hear, “hey gorgeous.”

I turn around.

“Do you still have the box for our cake so we can pack it up?

Me: Sure. *I bring them the box.*

L1: “Thanks, sexy.”

Birthday girl: “Thanks, babe.”

Lo and behold

A customer walked in today and I recognized her as having dined in the restaurant lately. She was waiting for her husband, so we chatted a little bit.

As it turns out, she’d been an English major, and went through the reasons why I should be an English major too. Interestingly enough, she basically laid out the career plans that I’d been sort of thinking about in a more concrete way.

Call it God, coincidence, whatever – I”m on track to becoming an English major again.

The Jungle

So I’ve been reading The Jungle by Upton Sinclair (along with Treasure Island and The Audacity of Hope – generally left-wing stuff). For those who haven’t taken U.S. History, The Jungle is essentially about the horrors of working in the pure food industry is 1960’s Chicago. Except the timing of it is interesting because the only time I can read is on the way to work, during my lunch break, and on the way back to work; which is to say, when I’m not working, I read about others caught in the daily grind.

Granted, working for the Beef Trust and wading knee deep in blood and in freezing cellars is a far cry from being a server in Singapore. The conditions are different, but I feel safe enough saying that the people are the same.

Every night I walk to the trains with thousands of others around the country, getting onto the last hour’s worth of subways. You can easily spot the service industry workers by the color of their pants. We all wear black pants – the cheaper denim kind, not the business slacks. Whether we work in retail or in restaurants, we all wear black pants and the same tired face at 11 p.m. on the train ride home. Then we go to sleep and wake up the next morning and don the same black pants without renewing the mythical winning smile that service industry workers are supposed to have.

But in pockets of this nightly, home-bound crowd are couples; are triples; are groups. More fascinating to me than the groups of friends who finally found the time to get together are the twos and threes who come together from who-knows-where and then board their train together.

I think restaurant servers either come to be frustrated people convinced of the baseness of our species (especially after a day of old ladies scolding you for being too slow, pampered mothers demanding sauces one by one, and men snapping their fingers to get your attention) or hopeless romantics who watch fathers coddle their funny-hatted toddlers and find faith again when a table applauds enthusiastically for successfully taking their picture.

Getting the occasional “my friend thinks you’re cute and he wants your number” doesn’t really hurt either, depending.

Because all have to eat, all come. Those who have to be carried, those who carry, and those who think they should be carried by four others on a throne of gold. And as I clean, set, re-clean, and re-set those same 36 tables all day, I feel like while I haven’t seen them all, I’ve seen – and served – a pretty good range.

Which, and excuse the slight tangent, is also why I don’t think I’m an English major at heart.

I’m not a big fan of abstract. I don’t like finding meaning in a book or a poem or a song. I don’t even like poems all that much, save a few. But I do like people-watching. I enjoy folding paper sharks all day to put on the heads of those little humans who cannot find words but can certainly find happiness with the tug of their hands on the object of their affections; I enjoy the instant gratification that comes when a well-fed, friendly audience laughs at the lame, spontaneous jokes I seem to have become famous for in certain circles. And most of all, I just enjoy seeing how other people make each other happy. Even the ways they give grief to each other fascinate me. Most important to me, though, is that these are living, breathing people – and they exist out of the abstract.

So in some sort of a way, I think I’ve always really been more fascinated with the way we communicate. The reasons why picas matter so much, the justifications for inducing success or failure, the inspiration behind the designs that cause us to react. English is but my glue and central medium for it all.

I wonder what Communications majors do.