The thing about being a writer is the money sucks. Therefore, most writers freelance as copywriters, write for Airline magazines, or they choose more virtuous second careers as teachers. I’ve considered all of the above, was only able to succeed at one (teaching), and when the money for that wasn’t enough, I asked myself how else I could make a quick buck. The answer came quickly: wait tables.
Sure, leaving a bar or restaurant with a pocket full of cash without robbing it was alluring. And sure, I spent my twenties relying on this medium to supplement my other virtuous work. But even at twenty, I was unable to be kind to jerks. At forty, I was pretty sure this would be an impossible feat. This meant a lucrative career as a bartender or waitress was out, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t cater.
The beauty of catering is the customer never knows your name and they never see you again. You’re in and you’re out and you don’t have to smile during it. I called Jason to see if his friend of thirty-five years who is a chef for a large catering company needed any help. Fortunately, both men forgot about my spotty track record working for fine dining restaurants, and a meeting was set up to meet the owners of the catering company.
“But I don’t have any resumes with restaurant experience on them,” I told Greg.
“It doesn’t matter, just send what you have. She can meet you tomorrow if you want.”
If my job search took all of five minutes, the interview took two. The owner looked me up and down and smiled, which told me I passed the first hurdle: no physical deformities. “Are you comfortable bossing people around?” was the second test. To which I passed again, by saying, “Sure, I’m a mom.”
“Great, we can make you a lead then. It pays more. Here’s the paper work. Can you work on the 5th?”
“Sure, but I don’t want to be a lead. I want to move a lot, but not think.”
“Got it. See you in a couple of weeks”
And thus, I landed myself a second job.
A few days later I received a text saying, “Wear all black and see you at 3” which served as my employee training.
“Are you bartending or serving?” Jason asked
“I have no idea.”
“What time will you get done?”
I have no idea”
“Is it a wedding or corporate event or… you have no idea,” he answered his own question. Where this could have made me nervous, instead I appreciated it. The less details I am given the better, because if I screw up, I can claim I didn’t know. If I have to read or sit through a formal training, my mind will wander, so I will still screw up, but my “I didn’t know” excuse won’t hold any merit. It’s much better to be ignorant and wing it.
I arrived to the site at three o’clock, was called Shanty, and asked where my button down shirt was. Before I could answer, the owner said, “Shoot, and you look so cute.” She looked grimaced while handing me a red, not black, button down shirt with their logo plastered all over it. How I would have had this shirt in my possession, known that “wear all black” really meant black pants and a red shirt that only they own, or why I was being called Shanty were beyond me, but I didn’t care. Everyone was smiling, they seemed to like Shanty, and were glad she was there.
I hopped into a huge truck with Roberto, who promptly told me he had never driven a car, nonetheless a twenty foot truck full of catering equipment. “Want to drive?” he asked.
“No thanks,” I replied and buckled my seatbelt. The owner called out a series of directions, none of which Roberto nor I listened to nor wrote down. On our way to somewhere, Roberto asked me why I wasn’t rich if I wrote books. “Good question,” I laughed.
“Can you teach me English?” he asked in perfect English. “I don’t understand grammar.”
“Either do I,” I said. “Maybe you can teach it to me.”
“But you have a mater’s degree and write every day, how could you not understand the rules.”
“That is another very good question.”
His confusion about this was derailed by the fact that we somehow had arrived safely to the site. The next two hours were a frenzy of activity where I achieved my career aspiration of moving a lot and not thinking. It was bliss. Catering isn’t rocket science, so it was pretty easy to figure out what was needed without ever asking. The flowers on all of the tables told me it was wedding, the two people stocking the bars told me I wasn’t bartending, I was serving, and the huge room of tables and lavish spread told me it cost the bride’s family a fortune.
Three hours into the job I asked my first question, “When do we get to eat?”
“Soon,” Roberto responded.
An hour later I asked my second question, “Where’s the bathroom?”
“I don’t know,” the bladder of steel owner responded. I found the beautiful restrooms myself and while visiting it wondered how many of the frisky guests, thanks to the open bar, had had sex in it. I returned to the party and asked my third question, “Do we ever get to have wine?”
“Do what you have to, but be quiet about it,” the ever knowledgeable Melody answered. “Want to have a smoke with me?”
I joined Melody outside, but amazed myself by not smoking. I didn’t even ask for a drag. Even more shocking was the fact that it had been effortless for me to be polite to all two hundred and fifty guests for six hours. Sure, it helped that they were polite as well, but under the name Shanty I could have gotten away with murder. As a twenty five year old, this would have only been possible by tapping into the champagne. On my drive home I smiled with the thought, Shanty may still be walking around with a tray in her hand, but maybe she’s learned a few things along the way.

Corbin Lewars is a writing mentor and author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which has been nominated for the 2011 PNBA and Washington State book awards. Her essays have been featured in over twenty-five publications including, The Seattle PI, Mothering, and Hip Mama. She teaches memoir and personal essay writing classes in Ballard. Contact her for details.