Service & Sacrifice

I don’t know his name.

Five foot six, glasses, a bleeding thumb. 

He smiles often, works with friends. 

His body language tells me he’s timid, but not recluse. 
Kind, and not afraid of the eye contact that comes in casual greetings. 

I appreciate that. 

Do you know how many people say thank you to a drink instead of the one serving it?

I think too many of us live in a perpetual state of nervousness. 

Why is that? 

Eduardo, I’ll call him, was one of the only people I saw smiling yesterday. 

Smiling as he helped build up and break down a cocktail room designed to serve 450 people on a Sunday night. 
Smiling as his thumb bled from cleaning up broken glass on the dance floor. 
Smiling as he closed out an 18 hour shift at “New Jersey’s premier wedding venue.” 

I move between spaces of service and serving. 
Grateful for the perspective informed by both in tandem. 

Last night made me deeply aware of individual power on the collective. 
Deeply aware of the self-sacrifice that (American) capitalism breeds and necessitates. 
Deeply aware of the will that it strips from us, and that which it imposes. 

A high schooler gets called into work at half time. Leaves his soccer game to put thyme leaves on butter and serve chicken, fish, or veal to four tables of 12. 

A college student gets pressured into staying for the double. She put in her two weeks earlier that day, and has a final at 8am she planned to study for tonight. Instead, she serves lemon drop martinis and makes $50 in tips. 

Was it worth it? 
Self-sacrifice for what? 

The fear of falling out of line, even when the path forward doesn’t serve you. 
The desperate need for income, because we’re all in debt and want to wear Yeezy’s. 

We’re socialized to be cogs in the wheel. It makes it hard to stand up for ourselves. It makes it hard to discern wants from needs. 

Everyone is miserable so everyone is miserable. 
Tension is high and the party drags. 
Everyone feels it and eye rolls run rampant. 

Serve, buss, smile. 
Serve, buss, smile. 
Come to the bar and complain. 
Serve, buss, smile. 
Serve, buss, smile.

I wonder if guests notice, or if they're on autopilot too. 
Not aware of the energy around them, but enjoying what’s been manufactured for their pleasure. 

At the end of the night, staff can snag the Viennese leftovers. 
A cocktail room full of fancy desserts. 
A “Northern New Jersey special.”

As Eduardo’s taking down the tower of French macarons, I snatch a pistachio and hurry off to dump ice buckets. 

He yells for me to wait, and a smile offers “one more.” 

I grab a lemon and we pause. 
Share a smile and a giggle. 
A brief moment of relief, before we both resume our rush to finish up and get the fuck out. 

I wonder where he goes. 
How he feels. 
What it’s like to be Eduardo. 

I hope he has tomorrow off, but I know it’s unlikely. 
This is just a weekend job for most of us.
And tomorrow’s Monday.