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What a miserable day. The weather got the best of me. I had my entire afternoon planned. I would drink several cups of coffee, and then I would go to the park and harass the painters. Frankly, I think this is something we all should do on the next nice day. My plan was an easy one, I would just stand very closely behind each one (one at a time, of course), and grunt loudly with distaste. Finally, if they got really unnerved, I would announce that they weren't that bad, and if they kept it up, they too might get their work displayed at Little Pete’s. This would continue all day until I found an attractive female painter, at which point I would stand behind her yelling very loudly how incredibly talented she was, and isn’t it amazing that a girl so pretty could be so talented? I would keep that up until I got arrested.

Unfortunately, the weather was miserable and there were no painters. I was stuck instead thinking most of the day. Although this is never a good thing, today I was thinking about a most dangerous subject — work.

Don’t get me wrong. I actually really like my job. I’m not just saying that because it very well may be the only job I can get. The way I look at it is this — of all the jobs in the service industry, mine is the best. The money isn’t as good as most other service jobs, and the tips suck, but it’s better. It’s better because although most rich, arrogant a**holes can look at the servers and bartenders of the world and say, “They can’t get real jobs, they’re not as great as I am…,” when a guest comes to me it’s because he screwed something up and he needs me to fix it. Guests come to me admitting their uselessness. I love that. Granted, they may still be thinking that any fool could do my job, but I'm the one who just had to tie their bow-tie in the middle of the lobby with everyone looking.

The reason thinking about work is dangerous these days is because I think I have become cursed. I must warn some people here that things are going to get harsh over the next few paragraphs, but the truth must be told. There is some kind of sick conspiracy going on here to continually make me work with the stupidest people alive.

It all started with B. B was earnest enough, but he was a twit. We’re talking about a man who would send any guest who wanted to go dancing to Woody’s. B knew nothing about the restaurants around town, so he would read the description directly from the computer. Had B realized that all of those descriptions were written by me, even he would have had the sense to break out the Zagat rather than read what I put in there. I’ll never forget the time he read the description of Joseph Poon word for word to a rather horrified fourteen-year old girl.

Eventually, I escaped B, and headed west to what I hoped would be new and exciting pastures. Instead, I got K. K was the reason blonde jokes are still told. K was the person who never realized that she could play her a.m. radio at night. K had a stock answer to any question that a guest asked her. She would simply look at me and say, "Um…Paul?" and then I would help the guest. Then she would smile and giggle and the guest would give her a tip.

Thankfully, that wasn’t always the case. There was one gentleman who watched her relay every question he asked over to me, then asked me directly, “Does she know anything?”

“I can’t answer that conclusively, sir,” I responded. I got in trouble for that one.

I had to work with K for five months before she got a better paying job in catering. I remember, on one of her last days, a guest asked her where he could pay for parking.

"Um…Paul?"

Before I knew it, I was back home. Even after the difficulties I had in out west, this was still something I wanted to do. I made the right choice. I have one of the best bosses in the world, and the whole staff are friends of mine.

Save one.

M.

M is a twit. She’s not quite an idiot, because she actually has a lot of knowledge. She just doesn’t have any clue where to put it. Once, I started laughing because she kept saying “Van GOCK.” When she asked me why I was laughing, I told her that when she said that it made me think of “Manhattan.”

She responded with, “Of course it would, New York was Dutch.”

I've dealt with people who name-drop before. It’s unavoidable in the service industry. But I’ve never met anyone who continually name-drops my personal friends as if they’re people I would never know. The first warning sign was when, in conversation, she remarked to myself and another coworker, “Well, of course, you know W F, I'm sure.”

In fact, Shivers with fear at the mere mention of M’s name. Then there was the conversation I had with D B, who was complaining that she was calling him in New York “wanting to catch up on old times.” This seemed really strange to D, especially since he barely knew who the hell she was.

From idiots to freaks, I've had to cover them all. I guess the reason this all bothers me (aside from the rising high blood pressure), goes back to what I was saying earlier about the service industry. We know that most of the people we help think that any idiot could do our job. Then I look at B, K, and M, and I realize that they're right.

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