I suppose it's nothing to really be ashamed of. I mean, it's a summer job, and lots of people work food service, waiting tables well into their twenties and thirties while waiting for their big acting break, or working on that great American novel, or washing dishes while taking dance lessons on the side. It's natural, and in movies it always leads up to a well-executed kiss-off, with the throwing off of the apron and the witty retort and the joyful saunter out of the restaurant to the cheers of the patrons, the owner with an 'aw, shucks, you get'em, tiger.'
I can sublet downtown for dirt-cheap this summer, so all I really need to do is make enough to justify staying here as opposed to living at home again, without my own room or computer, living on superslow dialup. We're really only talking about part-time here, provided that I keep the drinking in check and refrain from late-night amazon.com trysts.
And to whom should I turn in an application, but infamous former hookup CoolKid? The same CoolKid who has taken to drunken text-messages at bartime? hey wats up im horn
Lovely.
"Hey."
"Hey."
::pregnant pause::
"How've you been?"
"I've been good, I guess. You?"
"Just working too many hours. So what's up?"
"Um, I'm turning in an application, actually."
I suppose the awkwardness can't really be expressed in a blog post, how neither of us really knows how to make eye contact, how I've got my hand behind my back, fiddling with my ring. He copped up to the drunked text message, surprisingly enough.
"Yeah, I think I texted you when I got drunk the other night"
"Oh... well, I can't really get text messages. I mean, I get them, but I can't read them. I just get error messages."
He's smiling, I'm smiling, I don't really know what to do. The restaurant is dead, so I can't hide behind a customer, or use an onslaught of patrons to excuse myself. I hand him the application, and he grabs a pen and writes "REF: COOLKID" in sprawling letters on the top of the application, obscuring my middle initial (P) and the first few digits of my social security number.
"I just became the trainer here. I'll give it to John to check your references and stuff, but that's kind of a formality."
Goody goody gumdrops. There's nothing like relying on an unsuccessful hookup for your summer employment.
On the upside, I suppose sleeping with the boss to get the job with iconic enough to be fun. Or maybe it's just cliched. I don't know.
At least I don't have to ask if you want fries with that.
