There were a couple things on my mind as I washed dishes at the restaurant the other night. First, was I that intolerable to be around that I was sent dejectedly to the back to do everything no one wants to do? I thought of Dormin chopping onions in the back of the house, failing to learn English, or do any of the things they had promised him he would learn. I don't know his story, just that he can wash dishes like a madman and ensure us a quick and easy close. Como se dice "thank you for washing all our dishes," en espanol?
The next day, instead of letting me know that I did something wrong, I would be banished to cash register, left with the sinking feeling of terrible management, and a sort of admiration of our service manager for the look of empathy he gave me when I returned to the line. I could have walked out.
I think about that every single time I leave those doors for break. I beeline it to my car, or to the grass, huck my things, and watch the traffic, wishing I had the courage to never come back.
If I was free, I'd be romping on bioluminescent beaches and swimming at night in just my underwear. I'd be breaking into private drives and visiting Spooner's grave by the Shagbark Hickory in my old yard. Not working 45 hour a week for no gain and feeling increasingly regretful for the time not spent with my friends and family.
I am a workaholic and I love to hate my job. Work is my vice. I can't get enough of it, even when it gets in the way of the things I'd rather do. I'm miserable when I'm working, and even worse when I'm not. Every bone in my body longs for a job that I actually enjoy.
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