Hostess by Ari Kozloski
A piece from Copy Editor Ari Kozloski about work…among other things.
At the hostess stand, you have a lot of time to think about what you will do when you are not at the hostess stand.
You set reminders: “Gallery opening tomorrow @6!!” “Call dad.”
You make grocery lists: Cigarettes—a ridiculous purchase for someone who can’t inhale and has a genetic predisposition to addiction, but sometimes you crave a mouth-hit on cooler nights out with friends. Peanut butter. Bandaids.
You contemplate man’s domestication of fire. Can I have a light? That little flicker of domination. Casual. More casual than you are with customers, which is neither very casual nor appropriately professional. Your boss doesn’t notice this because what you lack in professionalism you make up for in that low-stakes deceit often called charm.
“No, Mr. Walk-in, you cannot have that four-top to yourself but, Mr. Walk-in, please understand that I’m with you. Nobody knows the frustration of curbed entitlement such as you and I, and I’m simply playing my role here. Yes, I see that the restaurant is almost hauntingly empty and you should really have your pick as far as seating. But there are things on this tablet I’m holding that you couldn’t possibly understand, and you needn’t burden yourself with such considerations anyway. I’m with you. You know that, right?”
Unless, of course, Mr. Walk-in is a regular and/or member of the cast of Friends, in which case he can sit wherever he pleases.
You think back to your first day on the job, when you were completely taken by how good the bathroom smelled. Something equally gourmand and linen-esque, with a hint of cologne.
“It’s the candle,” your manager had explained with a collusive sort of smirk. “Custom from Montauk. They’re only $24 on the website if you want.”
Because the restaurant is a zhuzhed up fish fry, you’d found both the existence and asking price of this candle absurd. You went to the website anyway and saved the tab.
Sometimes you steal things. Not the candle, but small, disposable souvenirs. You don’t want to get fired and you never really caught the klepto bug, but you’ve always liked to feel like you’re getting away with something. And what’s the occasional grab, anyway, when every shift makes your knees feel like they did when you played soccer in highschool and your brain feel like the static channel on an old TV? So you shove a “free drink” card into your pocket and trace along its edges for the rest of your shift. You’ll quit soon, let a few years go by, and when enough time has passed that the revolving door has ushered in an entirely new staff, you’ll come back to reap the rewards of your investment. One free drink, please.
You think about your grandma, who really was more like your mother than anything else, and you realize that all this time she has been a person. Not just your grandma or even your dad’s mom but also and mostly just Carol. This thought has been inaccessible, you reason, because most of her stories took on a cinematic haze owed to their inextricable ties to things you didn't understand (eg. motherhood, being white, and/or her childhood in Sparks, Nevada circa 20-years-before-caller-ID). And you don’t know what it is about this day in particular that has illuminated this truth, but you realize all of this and write on a small notepad separate from your grocery and to-do lists: GRAM IS A PERSON. So you don’t forget.
You suck in a little and try not to play with your hair. Even though you almost never touch the food, people come here to eat, and hairplay, according to your manager, infringes upon this noble intention. Your coworkers, however, are apparently immune to this expectation. At the top of your third ever shift, Jessie approaches you with his phone out. He’s hot, but only by way of his position as bartender and your senior by twelve years.
“Can I take a picture of your hair?” he asks.
His face is, well, normal. Completely devoid of any indication of shame or even sheepishness. You must be searching for such an expression for too long, because he continues:
“It’s for my friend, she’s a curly girl, too.
Aw, come on.
Thanks!”
Whoosh: a photo of you for his curly girl. And poof: your attraction to this patchy-bearded freak. Of course, it’s not the first time someone has stopped you with overly-familiar commentary on your hair—in fact, it’s not even the first time that day. Your afro brings something out of almost everyone:
White men somewhere between father and grandfather age can’t help but either thank you for taking ’em back or offer a raised fist and a cheerful “Wooh! Angela Davis!” Bald men can hardly contain their laughter as they gesture to your hair and wink: “Can I get some of that?”
Woke millennials ask if you’ve heard of Pam Grier, and compliment you for what they seem to sincerely believe is an exact likeness. The input is so constant that you even have to remind yourself not to snap at other black women when they ask for your wash day routine.
So Jessie’s not the first. But this time he’s gone and ruined himself as your work crush and/or primary entertainment source, so your irritation is compounded.
You don’t hate all your coworkers, though; you’re even fond of some. One of the servers graduated from the university you attend and has worked at this restaurant since it opened. Actor. You like talking to him because he is personable in a clumsy, sincere way that is equally comforting and comical. You dislike talking to him because he graduated from the university you attend and has worked at this restaurant since it opened, so what does that mean for you?
You seat people, too. There’s a good bit of that. And sometimes when you seat people you are unkind, condescending, and you feel terrible about it. But, good god you’ve had the reservations plotted for hours, must every party want the corner table by the window? And yes, of course the buffalo shrimp is spicy, and what kind of idiot would need to call the restaurant to confirm that? So, yeah, people are unfathomably daft; but you feel terrible for responding accordingly because you, too, enjoy dining out and would hate to be greeted and/or seated by yourself. So you smile real big for the next customer, compliment them and shift your voice into that warm, connective cruising gear that makes them feel like the only people in the restaurant.
Sometimes this warmth is forced, but other times it’s sincere. Like when there is a small blue cake icon next to a girl’s reservation.
She arrives with her friend a few minutes before 7:30, and they look at each other in a way that says “Oh, shit, I didn’t know this would be the vibe, I should have worn a longer and/or more opaque dress.” It’s sort of an old people and/or family restaurant, and you feel a little bad for this girl who looks to be celebrating aging either into or out of your exact age, which is 19. They are best friends, they tell you, and this dinner is sort of a dual birthday celebration. You love them. You joke with them about the bathroom candle—“Super yummy, right? And only $24!” You give them the last of the four booths, an inordinately coveted honor amongst the restaurant’s regulars, and steel yourself to explain this transgression to an angry septuagenarian in the next half hour.
For the last ninety minutes of your shift, you are mostly staring into the side of your manager’s head, willing her to send you home early. It takes an oppressively slow night for her to take the hint, though, so you usually get off around 9, and the first step outside feels like leaving the movie theater. The weather has changed and, oh!, it’s dark out. You feel real again. Your phone buzzes with your reminders: Cigarettes. Peanut butter. Bandaids. It’s early enough to make it to the store before they close but…the static. Suddenly your lists, everything, can wait. The downtown 6 is coming in just a few minutes and you trudge to meet it. You don’t even call your dad.