Member-only story
THE AUTHENTIC ECLECTIC
My Winter In The Decompression Zone
Hard, honest work and solitude helped me recover my sanity
Part 4 of the series. Find part 1 here.
A dear price to pay
It’s mid-September of 1995.
Last night, I started my new job. I’m a hostess at a Dees restaurant in downtown Salt Lake City. I greet people who walk in, seat them, and offer a soft drink, coffee, or tea.
There are four or five servers on the night shift with me. Terry [not his actual name] is their leader. He’s a good guy; the managers, staff, and customers all like him. I like him, too; he’s friendly to me but not in a weird way. He doesn’t ask any questions about where I came from. Thankfully, no one does.
I like that.
Terry’s been doing this for a long time. He’s friendly, self-deprecating, and efficient which means he makes great tips at even this 24-hour family place, probably a couple of hundred dollars a night, from which he “tips out” to me at the end of the night. I get about $20 of his haul. The other servers give me less, but I’m able to walk out of there at the end of my shift at 4 AM with about $40 in my pocket, mostly crumpled dollar bills.
