The process of filling out a job application for me became like balancing a checkbook of lies. "Now, let's see, from January to March . . . no, make it June. Reason for leaving? Small hurricane? Earthquake? That's it! Family emergency!" And so on and so forth.
The next job I had was at one of those big corporate Mexican places. There are two of them in Southern California and they are both exactly the same. I believe, in fact, that I worked at both of them at one time or another and I cannot remember which was which and when was when. Last I heard they finally got tired of competing with exactly the same menu and decor and became the same restaurant . . . or something.
We had a meeting once where several new salsas were introduced. So let me see, this one is tomatoes, onions, and cilantro with chopped peppers and THIS one is onions and peppers with a sprinkling of tomatoes and cilantro. It was a terrible job. The restaurant was huge. The plates were huge and heavy and the food was cheap. My first night on the floor I worked harder than I ever had, running a marathon of beans, rice, and margaritas. At the end of the night, while counting my bank, I was horrified to find that I had lost some money and only had thirty five dollars in tips. I racked my my brain, trying to figure out my mistake. Had I made bad change? Dropped something on the floor? When I finally worked it out, I was further horrified to find that there was no mistake; that was what I actually made. Of course the busboy and bartender had to be paid. My share topped out at $20.00. I think that's about four bucks an hour. I'd run a five hour marathon dressed like Carmen Miranda for twenty bucks. After two weeks of peddling varying combinations of beans, cheese, and tortillas, I received an offer to enter an entirely new facet of the service industry. I was tapped on the shoulder to become a personal assistant.
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