The next day, my brain started catching up with my body and I had several small meltdowns. They involved a lot of prayer, a lot of phone calls to past mentors and friends, and a lot of whining to my mom.
I tried not to look at Facebook to see what cool movies and tv shows my old college friends were working on. I tried not to think about the word "waitress" and instead thought about "server/entertainer", which kind of sounds more professional but also kind of sounds like "stripper".
My real moment of clarity came when my mom told me that I should just try it. "Just try it for a few weeks and then you can quit if you don't like it." Now that I had heard this from my mom and from Dennis, I felt confident that I could do anything for two weeks. I took a deep breath. I'm not selling my soul to the devil. This could be fun.
That night I went to work. I wore a black tshirt and some old black hand-me-down slacks. I don't need to tell you how Amish I looked compared to my tiny shorts and tank top clad colleagues. I was taught how to make tea and coffee. I cut lettuce, lemons and limes. I was handed a menu and told to memorize the side options. And I was presented with about 5 billion different names of alcohols, alcoholic drinks and their oddball nicknames.
Customer: I'd like a Soco Lime please.
Asia: I don't know what that is.
I got the hang of working the registers and trying to please customers. But this was a Thursday. And I had been reminded several times it was really the weekend shows that paid the bills. At the end of the night my trainer, a nice girl named Jackie, counted out my tips (about $24 in cash) and told me she'd see me tomorrow. She also said I shouldn't expect to sing for my first few weekends. I should just try to take it in and get the hang of it.
"Sounds good." I said and headed toward my car, parked right outside the front door.
"Oh and don't park there tomorrow." Jackie said.
"It's right outside the front door. It might get vomited on."
I turned around and headed out. "I'll remember that."