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Headshot

Last updated on March 9th, 2019 at 03:55 pm

Displayed on his laptop was the Facebook photo of someone I barely recognized. His was a good-old boy face, with clean features and a fresh haircut. He carried himself with forced-casual posture — shoulders back and spine slightly hunched — and it screamed American Eagle catalog.

Teddy and Kathy laughed at his modeling photos as they passed the bowl back and forth, him clicking and changing the picture every other toke. Teddy gestured towards the screen. “Look at what Ky’s been up to.”

Ky was a server who started working at the Thai restaurant just before I left. We didn’t talk much: I remember he seemed real country, real green. He mentioned getting into acting and modeling. I could barely place his face on the Photoshopped Malibu Ken in front of me, who went through a wardrobe change and pose shift with every mouse click, the only ubiquitous feature the plastic smile on his face:

Here he is, wrapped in a scarf!

Now, flexing his abdominal muscles!

Wow! It looks like Ky’s ready for a night on the town! Let’s go, Barbie!

They laughed and pointed and laughed some more, half in good-nature, and the other half, not so quite. “Hey, I mean, good luck to him,” Kathy said.

“Yeah, hope he gets something out of these pictures,” Teddy added. Like these dismissive platitudes negated their ridicule, or concealed the resentment laced twixt every laugh, every comment, every puff of smoke exhaled in Ky direction.

I remember doing the exact same thing, once upon a time, while visiting my friends Jenny Beth and Danielle, in Nashville. Late one night and bored, we started flipping through the 30-pictures-deep Facebook modeling album of a former CTY co-worker. He proudly posted a short prelude, explaining that he never considered modeling, but a friend suggested it and he “loved the results.”

The “results” were far more over the top than Ky’s photos, and included super-mega-bonus suggestive captions, like “wanna get nailed?” as if wearing cut-off jean shorts, an open flannel shirt, and a firm grip on the shaft of a hammer wasn’t suggestive enough. Or if clutching a toy jack hammer directly in front of your crotch didn’t slap you across the face with a laundry list of double entendre, one was provided for ease of reference (“I’d hammer you, too.”) We laughed and we pointed and we laughed, until we went through the entire album, trying out each caption in our own sexy voice.

Half in good nature. Half not so quite.

This time around with Ky’s photos, it wasn’t as amusing. I walked out of the room, and the click of the mouse and more laughter followed me into the hallway. Their gaiety hit too close to home. It was a low blow, making the subject of their ridicule someone who was getting started in entertainment. Be certain that anytime you attempt something difficult, something without a proven record, people are lining up their bets against you and laughing as they do it. Rare are the people who wish you the best of luck, and mean it.

Which is helpful, in its own way. Ridicule weeds out those without the gumption to stick it out for the long run. If you can’t handle some razzing at stage one, it’s unlikely you’ll have the staying power to last the seasons, when ridicule melts to begrudging acceptance, and eventually, blooms to admiration.

Still. “Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a difficult battle.”

Photo Credit: Shannon Huppin

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Spin

Last updated on March 9th, 2019 at 03:55 pm

There’s a crazy homeless lady yelling obscenities outside my window. I hate callously tossing around words like “crazy” and “homeless”– that could be someone’s grandmother outside – but she’s got a schizophrenic gait to her speech, see-sawing from sing-song to Banshee. That’s the “crazy.” And she parked her shopping cart of worldly possessions next to my car, and is using the rear end bumper as a roof. That’s “homeless.”

Teddy suggests we get out there and tell her to move, but he doesn’t read horror scripts all day, so he doesn’t know any better. There’s always that guy in slasher flicks who approaches the seemingly vulnerable creature, disguised as an old lady or the ubiquitous little girl (equally ubiquitously played by Chloe Grace Moretz.) His hand is outstretched, like he’s about to pet a baby bird. He’s hunched over, his eyebrows furrowed, and in your head you’re screaming “No! Don’t do it! It’s a trick! She’s going to bite your face off!” but he inches closer and closer, unconcerned with your pleas because you don’t possess telepathy and he is inside a television.

He gently touches the old lady, and…

Nothing happens. He smiles…

Right before she rips his face in half.

I will not be this guy.

The alternative to asking the crazy homeless lady to move is realizing that she may be obnoxious, but she’s not doing nobody harm. We should just stay inside our warm, safe apartment, with running water and electricity and cell phones, counting our blessings.

Then get on the cell phone and call the police, and ask them to move the crazy homeless lady.

I prefer this option, though I’m not sure what good it’d do. In Los Angeles, there’s this “live and let live” attitude towards the homeless and panhandlers that still escapes me. There’s a panhandler I regularly pass, stationed right where the “10” empties onto National Blvd. Her scraggly brown hair is tied back in a ponytail, and tucked into her USC sweat shirt. Every time I get gas or groceries, she’s working that corner, though her specific duties vary. Sometimes she’s got her cup in hand, walking down the long line of cars waiting for the light. Other times, she’s flirting with the homeless wheelchair guy, or drinking a 40 out of a brown paper bag.

Yesterday, I saw her at Starbucks, ordering a Frappuccino. It was half-off, part of the Happy Hour special they were running, but still.

Across our apartment, a woman parks her van loaded with cans and bottles she’s collected inside an outdoor garage. Like others, she makes her living hunting recyclables. I never gave it any thought until I overheard her conversation with another professional recycler.  “People look down at me,” he said, “but shit, I ain’t working for no man. I make my own money, and I make my own hours.”

He’s not a recyclables hunter; he’s an entrepreneur.

And what one might refer to it as panhandling, others call hustling.

In upstate New York, you throw an empty bottle on the ground, it’s littering. In Los Angeles, you know it’s going to get picked up: so you call it charity.

In many American cities, employing someone at no pay to keep the coffee machine going and fetching printouts is called slave labor. Here it’s an internship.

If that’s not spin, then I don’t know what is. It permeates from every crevice of our lives, a byproduct of being concerned with how others perceive you. Spin is everywhere and it’s still spreading, bleeding over Ethernet cables and wireless routers, diffusing from our real lives to our online lives and back again. There’s merit in developing the ability to spin, especially when it’s your Facebook or blog account that notifies others of your engagement, your job promotion, or what you ate for lunch.  It’s more fun (and easier on the ego) to spin a post about triumphing over adversity, versus admitting this recent slump of failures has got you frustrated and rapidly losing faith. And why admit you got your heartbroken when a simple “In a relationship with…” toggle box explains it all, and the only thing left to do is untag your former significant other out of your life?

Spin grants us a glossy veneer to cover blemishes. With a click, any defeat can be turned to victory, any failure, a success.  “Be all you can be,” has given way to “be all you’re perceived to be.” This power comes with the very real possibility of losing sight of who we actually are and what we actually feel. Until one day we find ourselves out on the street, babbling schizophrenics all, torn somewhere between our real lives and digital selves.

Photo Credit: Ed Yourdon

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Tipping (Isn’t a City in China)

Last updated on March 24th, 2017 at 06:50 pm

Allan soured his face as I explained his duties as the bus driver for today: keep your phone on. Answer the calls. Make sure you’re constantly looping back here from LAX — don’t just stay at the airport.

He had this “I-can’t-believe-my-lot-in-life-is-driving-a-bus” expression on his face. The sentiment seeped into his posture, and into his surly one-word responses to my instructions. He maintained that presence the entire day, up till the moment I signed his parents, indicating services rendered, and that he completed his duties.

After I shook his hand, he paused, then said, “Handshakes and thank you’s are nice, but that’s not why I do this job.”
I smiled and blinked, in that confused way we do when we don’t understand someone and hope they’ll go away if we stay cheerful and silent. He placed the form I just signed back in front of me, and pointed out the highlighted section about “gratuities not being included in the fee.” And he repeated himself:

“Handshakes and thanks you’s are nice, but that’s not why I do this job.”

Ah. He was, very not so subtly, asking for a tip.

I looked to my boss, Charlie. He had the very same smile plastered to his face. “I need you to tell me exactly what you need.” He blinked repeatedly.

Allan gestured to the paper. “Would you go to a restaurant, eat, and just pay the bill? Is that how you treat your waiters?”

Charlie explained to him, as nicely as he could muster, that we didn’t tip the drivers, and this was something he was going to have to work out with his company. Allan snatched his papers and stalked off, calling in heavenly reinforcement with a “God bless,” reminding us not tipping bus drivers wasn’t the Christian thing to do, before he disappeared out the door. I’ve never seen him since.

Despite knowing Allan was a troubled man working on his own issues, the whole experience left me feeling dirty. Well, not dirty exactly, but worse — cheap. I lived and worked in this community for a few months and had completely removed myself from the service industry for the first time in more than a decade. I surrounded myself with a constant stream of people whom I could tell, based on how they conducted themselves, saw these men and women in the service industry as beneath them. Did that influence or contact high or whatever you want to call it put me out of touch with my own humility?

Humility — how you view your importance to this world — is the quality I value above all virtues and attributes. It’s difficult to teach, and more difficult to fake, as it shapes your every interaction with others. At the same time it’s a quality closely tied to one’s resiliency; it toughens you up to do the hard work when your other resources: money, time, intelligence are scarce. And precisely because I value my humility so greatly, it strikes a nerve when Allan’s response challenges it.

Maybe Allan’s correct, and it’s proper etiquette to tip these drivers; just because we set the precedent of not doing it doesn’t mean we were right in the past. Navigating the rules and ethics of tipping is a treacherous path, though — put out a tip jar in front where something gets sold and money changes hands and we ask, “Oh, am I supposed to tip?”

Everyone knows they should tip their servers, though percentage points are often points of contention. Some tip bartenders extra generously, and others tip them the same way they tip strippers: a dollar per round, more depending on the square inch of cleavage shown. What about the baristas at our coffee shops? The furniture movers? Cab drivers and delivery boys? Sushi chefs? Camp counselors? Bell  hops and door men? Who do we tip and how much?

It sounds like an over analysis, but I don’t see it that way, because I am, and everything I achieve is, a byproduct of this system. In eleven years, I’ve made my living on both the overwhelming generosity and bitter stinginess of others. Every person whose food I served or dish I cleared, has microscopically yet very definitely had a hand in shaping who I am, and I am blessed. I am grateful. Not because of some glamorous lifestyle, or because I have so many great things, or because of any significant achievement: I am blessed to be at a station in life where I can make those things happen for me, if I work for it. Because of those people who tipped, I’m in position to earn it.

That’s the idea behind tipping, isn’t it? That no one’s entitled to it, no matter your life’s station or  your job title. No one’s entitled to the extra, even if you work in a profession where “a minimum 18 percent gratuity is charged for parties of 6 or more” or if it’s the kind of place where you put out a tip jar. We are not entitled to the tip. The same way we’re not entitled to the promotion because we’ve been with the company for x number of years, or the paying gig because we interned for three months and got really good at fetching coffee. We’re not entitled to any of it.

Everything we want, we must earn

Photo Credit: Tom Raftery

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Sell Yourself

Last updated on March 24th, 2017 at 06:52 pm

You could tell he was a best-selling author the moment he stepped on the elevator. It was in the smile: the smug smile of success of someone who needs success to smile. If that didn’t tip you off, then the collared shirt with his name embroidered over his right tit and the words “Best-Selling Author” embroidered over his right tit did.

His beard resembled a furry cat, a tawny feline that perched onto his chin years ago and never left. Instead, the pussiness seeped into his pores and oozed throughout his persona: the entitlement in his strut, the condescension in his tone – he was a self-satisfied pussy alright, content with a belly rub, maybe a broken-winged butterfly to bat around. Behind every. last. word. was an inner sigh of contentment. An, “Ahhh… it’s me, bitches!” right as a Swizz Beatz beat dropped and looped endlessly in his head.

He was the kind of person you’d meet at wine ‘n cheese parties. He’d listen politely to whatever you said, nodding too often, after every. last. word. because that’s what he learned in his interpersonal communications class. Except the glazed look in his eyes and the superior smile itching to break out over his face gave the game up, and finally you’d pop the unavoidable question: so what do you do?

And he’d one-up your every utterance with his trump card, his bitch of spades:

“Me?” dripped with false modesty and fake surprise. As if he’s never heard the question before. “I’m a best-selling author.”

Then you nod and say something to the effect of “how fabulous,” though you may never have used the word “fabulous” in your life, before sipping the box wine and nibbling on some stinky Cabrales. You’d re-read the words on his shirt.

“I never would have guessed,” you’d say.

Promote, market, sell yourself. You gots to do it if you’re going to make it, yeah? Chalk one up to naivety, but there’s got to be some finesse to it, a balance between creating buzz and hawking yourself on the street corner with the name “Kandy Kane” screened onto your booty shorts. The line’s a blur at the best of times, and a beer-goggled squiggle at the worst, when wearing a shirt with your resume embroidered on it is an acceptable practice in branding. Seems the line will continue getting fuzzier and fuzzier, too, as this generation emerges into the market, a generation brought up believing they are all unique snowflakes, and encouraged to tout the specificity of their successes and talents with alarming ease.

The problem with this is you’re only as good as the hype until you begin to believe it. At that point, it’s all downhill, because the second you start believing you “made it,” the drive that got you there begins to diminish. Humility and humbleness won’t blow you up like a youtube video gone viral, but they’ll continue pushing your talents long after any glim and glamour has worn off. And no matter how loud the marketing gimmick, it can’t match the volume of the art you make or the content you create. If these don’t say enough about you, nothing will.

Photo Credit: Famelab Italia

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No One’s Listening

Last updated on November 2nd, 2021 at 05:09 pm

Jeff sat. He was new blood. A transplant. Like a minted quarter, shiny and uncirculated and fresh to death.

Seated around him, three individuals who arrived a month previous. All whom sang the song and danced the dance required to get established in this town.  He had every opportunity to pop questions, to mine for nuggets that’d make his transition easier. Finding even one morsel would make the effort worthwhile. Competition’s fierce, and that one byte of data might separate him from permanent resident status or a return ticket in three months with nothing but a story.

And he squandered the op. Instead, he talked. He shared his glorious triumphs, scheduling appointments from a league away, blowing in with the wind and blowing the hair back on his interviewers for his unpaid internship. He glowered about the bigger fish to come.

If you’ve heard “Los Angeles is a lonely city,” that’s why. Many people talk. Few listen.

The interaction, where one person opens their mouth, sound comes out, then the other person gets their chance, often isn’t dialogue around here. They’re two separate conversations, tangentially related. No interplay; just moments of waiting for the person to breathe or pass out, so the other person knows it’s their turn.

Does the entertainment business attract people like this? Or does it bring out this quality in them? Everyone’s looking to make it, on their own dime, sweat, tears – smart, brave souls, most – and that pursuit engages most of their energies. Their hustle consumes every morsel of attention. Any conversation not about them or their feats or their struggle is of no interest.  Their attention wanes in the time a youtube video buffers. Eyes glaze in the 20 seconds post posing an obligatory question.

In the trenches of this environment, a battle rages. It’s a war of soul, an internal conflict when you wake up every morning. The battle is reminding yourself to be sympathetic and kind. To be human. To remember when it’s all over, all anyone has is what they gave back to the world.

Most days, it’s a losing battle. Platitudes and sage words don’t advance careers. They don’t pay rent.  They don’t take away the loneliness.

How long can you look out for others who aren’t looking out for you?

How do you work hard and honest when most would take any edge you give them?

Offer up your soul and they’ll dump on it. Eventually, you get tired of cleaning shit up.

Seen one way, it’s a travesty to acknowledge you’ll walk away from this town jaded.

Seen another way, it’s an opportunity. An opportunity to stand out by being the person who listens, the person who looks out for others as much as he looks out for himself.

First thought that comes to mind is “it can’t be done.” This is a business built on relationships, but it’s also built on smoke and mirrors, on nepotism, and big deals brokered and broken in old boy’s clubs. And trying to rise against that with, what – kindness? heart? – is an act of madness.

Except this is a town where game changers also emerge from the mist. Not in the same abundance as the people who don’t listen, but they’re present. People who were told “you can’t do that,” or “nobody does that,” and do it anyway, because they believed in something more than their own personal advancement. Because they saw an opportunity the rest of the cogs were too busy churning to notice.

Of course, it’s hard to be one of these people. A game changer.

Why else would so few do it?

Photo Credit: thesohnzone

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Can’t Be Done

Last updated on March 9th, 2019 at 04:03 pm

“You can’t be an assistant and a writer,” Teddy said.

Why?

“None of the assistants at the agency want to be actors or writers,” Teddy said. “They wouldn’t have time to do both. It’s just not done.”

He forgot. That every day in Los Angeles was another day someone back home said wouldn’t be done. He forgot how many friends wished us good luck (zippo,) how many thought this was a pipe dream we’d never execute (∞.)

Leaving home, leaving behind the foundation of a career, family and friends to live in a city with no home, no job, and no contacts, that’s “not done,” either. But we did it.  What we’re doing here – trying to make it in Hollywood – is something most people consider can’t be done. It’s something, for the great majority of people, won’t ever happen.

Yet those people still arrive in droves every year.

Us included. Here we are.

He lost sight of this.

Intern for any company or agency. You see the number of scripts in this game. You realize why it’s so difficult for any good script – any great script – to get noticed. As Eric says, “All the bad scripts are clogging up the system.” The WGA registers tens of thousands of scripts a year – and around 500 films are released a year in the states.

It’s completely improbable for anyone to write one of those 500 movies. That doesn’t stop them from getting up every morning and chugging out word counts, editing, and studying scripts. Relative to this long shot (they’re all long shots) juggling an assistant position and writing doesn’t seem too difficult.

Why can’t it be done? Why can’t you be an assistant and make it as a writer? Not enough time? Means you wouldn’t have enough time. You wouldn’t make the necessary sacrifices.

If it costs a studio $50 million to produce a picture, they’d say it’s impossible to do it for any less. Yet someone like Avi Lerner comes around and makes the same film for $20 film.

Saying something is impossible means they themselves can’t do it. Can and can’t are relative terms.

Teddy said isn’t how it’s done — making it as a creative artist by first being an assistant. That it doesn’t fit the model – what model? There is no model, no guaranteed path, that’s what makes this particular hustle, making it in Hollywood, so hard and so beautiful and so demanding. There are no guarantees, no right or wrong ways.

There are only the people doing it. And the people telling them why they can’t.

Photo Credit: pankie18

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Restaurant Work in Los Angeles

Last updated on May 5th, 2018 at 11:23 am

“Sounds like a no-brainer,” Teddy said. He reclined deeper into the sofa, sunlight splashing off the cigarette drooped from his fingertips. “What did you come out to Los Angeles for? You didn’t come out to serve, or to learn more about the restaurant business. You came to write. So take whichever job will help you do that.”

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The “U” Rock Tradition

Last updated on March 9th, 2019 at 04:05 pm

Cobie, in his old-soul, understated-fashion, raised his hand.

“I’d like to say something,” he announced. He had thick curly hair and the gaze of Julio Aparcio. He turned his matador eyes to his hall mates.

“I think we all need to give Chris a hand for laying down the law on some European kids at breakfast.” He started clapping. A quick “Yeah!” sounded, followed by hearty applause. Until that moment, sitting amongst my 13 charges for this session, a circle of cheering 13- to 15-year-olds, I did not realize how badly I wanted the recognition.

I was 24-years-old. I had seen the world, jumped out of a plane, bungee jumped, moved from one American coast to the other with an idyllic dream and little else. I achieved many of the things liked-minded men set out to do, and it mattered very little to me if these students hated me, admired me, or were completely indifferent.

But to say right then – my butt sore from dorm-style, barely-there carpeting and olfactory senses offended by this gaggle of unshowered teenagers – to say their looks of admiration didn’t leave warm and fuzzies, would be a lie. It was my reward for standing up to half-a-dozen European language students who tried butting ahead of my meeker students at the breakfast line, and I welcomed it.

Just like that I was an addict, hooked after my first taste. I knew I’d do anything to keep that respect. I knew I never wanted to let them down.

The event brought to mind the tradition of the “U Rock.” At the start of the daily RA staff meetings at the Center for Talented Youth in Los Angeles, one staff member presents the U Rock to another staff member. The rock appears as follows: a rock, about the size of a grapefruit. With a “U” painted on one face, in green. It is awarded to someone who displays extraordinary action the day previous, or who deserves recognition for their devotion in their roles as RA’s. The next day, the current wielder of the U Rock recognizes a new RA, and the rock makes its way around the staff.

By second session, the “U Rule” is introduced, which follows the same guidelines. It appears as follows: a wooden ruler. Scribed hastily on the back, in a blue Bic pen: “U rule.”

When the U Rock is first introduced, considerable thought is usually put into who its newest heir will be. The newest member of the club should prominently stand out from the rest of the plebes, the Balto of the pack, so to speak. Perhaps they dealt with a particularly unruly student in a constructive way. Or their Daily Activity from the day previous was extremely creative, executed with razor precision. Whatever the reason, the point is, there was meaning in the U Rock. You felt pride, even if it was just a twinge or a tickle. It felt good to be recognized, and consciously or unconsciously, it reinforced the behavior that earned you the recognition in the first place.

No one admits as much, of course (and as long as the tradition of the U Rock continues, it’s doubtful anyone will.) After all, the U Rock really is nothing more than a pat on the head, albeit, a heavy handed pat, that you have to schlep four flights of stairs to the meeting room the next day.

By the time the U Rule got introduced to the game, however, the U Rock had lost its momentum, a stalled car at the bottom of a trough. There were several reasons for this:

  1. The Introduction of the U Rule – with two mementos recognizing good behavior, the value was reduced by half. It was the first law of economics: supply up, demand down.
  2. Lowering of the Standard – the bar previously set for the U Rock was dramatically lowered, for a variety of reasons: tiredness in the staff, laziness in reflecting on who really deserved the recognition, or the desire to recognize friends over the deserving. E.g., “I want to give it to Stacy, for taking care of my hall while I was at weekend duty,” (a duty everyone performs, and required by the job) or “I want to give this to James, because he’s a good friend.”
  3. “Who hasn’t gotten it yet?” – the desire to give the U Rock to a member of the staff not because they earned it, but because they haven’t received it yet, pervades the tradition every year. This is likely the guiltiest culprit behind nerfing the value of the U Rock.

The U Rock becomes worthless in the face of these culminated reasons. Its intended effect – to recognize good behavior, to reinforce the behavior, and to inspire others to follow suit – is null. What started out as a subtle yet powerful reward starts tip-toeing along the “everyone’s a winner, everyone get a medal” line, a perpetuation of the sort of emotional coddling that leaves young adults unprepared for the challenges yet to come.

It begs the question: does the U Rock serve its function? Is it still a worthy tradition to uphold at CTY LOS when its value is slowly but inevitably reduced to nil?

Before Cobie raised his hand, I thought not. Since then, I’ve realized this: if the U Rock only sincerely recognized one person in six weeks of CTY, it’d be worth it. If it acknowledged one stellar act of courage or kindness in six weeks that otherwise would have gone unnoticed, then the practice should carry on. Qualities like courage and kindness aren’t necessarily inherent – they can be encouraged and cultivated, and genuine respect is a powerful agent for this growth. It sets the stage for that next act of courage or kindness, when it’s more difficult, when the stakes are higher. For the sake of building this foundation in even one individual’s life, yes, more than ever, the U Rock is a tradition worth upholding.

Photo Credit: all2gethernow

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Free

Last updated on March 26th, 2017 at 05:35 am

Most people jump at the opportunity of “free.”

At the end of our serving shift, I told the other server our tips were a dollar over, and I wanted her to have it. She tried shrugging it off. She continued pushing the vacuum cleaner over the tan carpet. “Don’t worry about it,” she said.

I insisted. I told her I left it in my pocket and almost forgot it. If she didn’t take it, the guilt would eat me.

She thought about it for a millisecond. “Okay. I’ll take it. I’m poor,” she said with a short laugh, then, just as quickly, “just kidding,” as she shoved the money into her hip pocket.

For Karen, the Lobster Meat Summer Roll was love at first sight – filled with delicately cooked lobster meat, fresh spring mix, mangoes and strawberries. The sushi chefs wrapped them in rice paper, then drizzled a tangy Thai citrus sauce on top, and perched it upright in a tantalizing balancing act. “Oh, that looks good,” Karen said.

So good, in fact, that when she saw Tracy carry an unfinished piece back into the kitchen, her eyes grew to size of saucers, lustful, in hope and anticipation. “Oh,” she said softly. She quickly followed Tracy in. She asked, “Are they going to take that home?”

“Uh, no,” Tracy said.

“Good,” and with one swift bite, it was gone.

Wei-Yi breathed in figures and numbers, and spat out the results in different languages. She couldn’t pick up how to be a good server, however. She didn’t last long. Yet she forced the restaurant to limit the post-shift meal (and its 50 percent discount) to one item.

“How come you’re ordering so much?” Alan asked, watching her ring in her and her boyfriend’s dinner, as well as her lunch for tomorrow, into the computer.

“Well, it’s 50 percent off. Why wouldn’t I order a lot?” she said.

Kathleen, who eventually replaced Wei-Yi, had a similar mentality. She shared the same cluelessness about restaurant work, too (though she remained blissfully free of the intelligence.) Once, she forgot to remind our Head Chef to keep mushrooms out of the Sautéed Noodles. The dish came out incorrectly, and that the fault lied even remotely upon her never crossed her mind. The notion she should offer to pay for the wasted dish – beyond her grasp.

Instead, she volunteered to eat it.

“Oh, I was hoping you’d ask!” she replied when the owner asked her if she wanted it. “I love noodles!”

And you’ll find the sushi chef, Alan, constantly rummaging through the fridge, a stray Greyhound looking for its next free meal. The wiry 26-year-old – who’s first in-line for breakfast, lunch, and dinner – knows how to put the food away. Just as long as he doesn’t have to buy it.

Before the staff dinner, he came into the kitchen, and picked out a yellow banana – ones used for tempura dessert. “It looks like it’s going bad,” he said.

Frank sat atop an empty soy sauce container. He didn’t even look up from his newspaper. “So just eat it,” he’d replied, but Alan’s didn’t hear, already half-way through the banana.

The word “free” in “The Free World” has taken on a new meaning. “Free” has infected our consciousness, and today we’re a culture scrambling for handouts: checking Craigslist for rummage “sales,” or visiting BJ’s for free samples. Fans at a sports event will dive over three seat rows to get an extra-large t-shirt they’ll never wear, shot from an absurd cannon-contraption, simply because, besides their dignity, there’s nothing to lose.

Free downloads.

Free money.

Low shirt, short dress, and a seductive glance equals free drinks.

Free morsels on toothpicks – little pieces of Bourbon chicken you take not because you’re hungry but because they’re waving it in your face and jeez, it’d just be rude to refuse.

No sex! – but here are your free condoms, just in case.

Free HIV tests.

Free month supply of Extenz – “you just pay for the stamp!”

Free magnets, pens, pencils. Free meals, free lunch, free time.

Free Willy. Free mugs. Free ringtones, wallpapers, and Proactive Refining Mask solutions.

In this world dominated by “free,” it’s rare to find someone like Martin, who looks down upon the notion of handouts or charity. It’s rare to find someone who refuses “free.” On one slow Saturday evening, Frank planned on leaving work early to have dinner at a new restaurant down the street.

“Would you like to come?” he asked Martin.

“Uh, no,” Martin replied with a snicker.

Frank ignored it, as he did whenever he already made up his mind. Ten minutes later, Martin changed out of his uniform, and they put on their coats. “Can we do separate checks?” Martin asked, as they stepped out of the doors.

Before he left for the city one weekend, he ordered two Jack and Cokes for himself, and a martini for his friend. I told him it was on the house. He left a $20 bill on the bar anyway, went outside, and waited in the car that was warming up in the parking lot.

I followed him out, and threw the bill through the window, into his lap.

Two minutes later, he came back in and slapped it on the black stone counter. He gave me a serious look. “Ming, don’t ever take anything for free,” he warned. He didn’t elaborate. Martin rarely did. That was his style: put out a nugget of wisdom, and see who picked up on it.

Then he was gone.

It was this attitude, this nose-in-the-air defiance to the Free Movement, that earned him the respect of others. It’s why I respected him. Because a person who never takes is a person who does not need.

And a person who doesn’t need – wouldn’t you call that being “free?”

Martin wasn’t – isn’t, perfect. Far from it. He is still guilty of his own childish behaviors, susceptible to the whims and fancies of a 7-year-old child. Yesterday he tells you he’s getting married and moving to Indonesia. Tomorrow he’s living in Kentucky, working for another restaurant. Anytime someone tried to give him money, he made an unnecessary production of the affair, so that people had no choice but to recognize his principles. Kayleigh once tried giving him $5, for the coffees he bought her, but he refused the money. They argued for a few minutes, until Martin finally took the $5 bill, and threw it into the trash. Then he walked upstairs, with Kayleigh shouting at his back, “I’m not taking it back! It’s staying in the garbage can!”

“Fine,” Martin said.

Minutes later, Big Chef came running up the stairs, holding the $5 bill. “Money, money, money! Honey, your money!” Kayleigh laughed, and half-exasperated, half-relieved she didn’t just throw out good money, said, “Yes, Honey, my money.” She took the bill and put it into her apron. Martin smirked from the corner of the bar.

Someone once referred to him as a martyr, which is more accurate than not. I prefer thinking of him as a person with honor, though. A person with pride. He is someone who takes nothing for granted, here, in the Land of the Free. He knows there are notions and values that no one can just give away, with, say, two proofs of purchase and the cost of shipping and handling.

No. There are still some things you simply must earn.

Photo Credit: Gwen Wright

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Service

Last updated on March 26th, 2017 at 05:35 am

“It’s not just about making tips,” Frank said. He’s always said it. “Don’t look at your job like that. Otherwise, you start thinking, ‘I’ll treat these people sitting over here better than those people over there because I think they’ll tip me better.’ You might know they won’t leave you a good tip. You might remember the last time they came in, how nice you were to them and how the man thanked you and shook your hand on the way out, but when you counted the cash on the table, you found they only tipped you 13%. Some people will think, ‘I’m not going to be nice to them now,’ but that’s no way to serve.”

Serving was how he passed the time in high school and college. He did well because his memory was sharp, he was quick with figures and quick with his hands. But his belief in delivering quality work with quality service kept him in this industry that turns naïve idealists into cold, calculating machines. Which was easy enough in good times, but during the bad times, you see how quickly those ideals get compromised.

“You don’t know how lucky you are. You can go out to dinner, spend $100 before tip, and it’s not a big deal. You can’t appreciate it.” There was truth to his words. Looking back, by the time the server cleared the dessert plate, the whole event was another memory. It was a miniscule detail the moment it was over, like brushing your teeth or putting on a clean t-shirt in the morning. “But for some people it’s a very big deal, and you have to treat it that way.”

“What if this is a family who can only afford to eat out once a month?” he asked.  A family of six; the father works six days a week while the mother stays home to take care of the kids. After the parents look at their budget, after deducting the costs of rent, utilities, groceries, putting money into the college savings and the account that looks more like a bad joke than a retirement fund, they figure, okay, we can afford to take everyone out to dinner once a month.

Their meal won’t be special to you. The parents won’t order wine or cocktails. The whole table will order water with lemons because it’s free. They’ll ignore your carefully crafted specials pitch, and opt for four of the more inexpensive entrees, and they’ll ask for a few sharing plates. They skip the appetizer, and the dessert.

Their check won’t be special, and the accompanying tip even less-so. Other than the 35 seconds spent grumbling over their meager contribution to your bottom-line, you won’t remember these guests in any way.

“To them, though, that meal is special, so you have to treat their experience the way they might see it. That’s how you look at your job.”

“What if you ruined this meal for them?” Frank continued. “All month, they look forward to the one night they get to go out, and do something special for the family. And you ruin it with your attitude, because they tipped you 4% percent less than you think you deserved.”

This responsibility isn’t a burden many servers carry on their shoulders. More often than not, they care little about the quality of food and even less about the quality of service. Their primary concern, at the end of their shift, is escaping with more money in their pocket than they came in with.

“That’s why you have to be different,” he said. “You have to care more. You have to know serving is not about you.”

Photo Credit: zoetnet

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