Displaced Anger

Working with the public is interesting.

It doesn't matter what your patron/customer/guest does or says, you have to remain calm, you have to pretend it's not bothering you, and you have to smile. Or, at the very least, you have to not yell. Or scream. Or appear angry in any way.

Sometimes... sometimes, this is hard.

So, in those cases, when being nice is just too much trouble because they (patron/customer/guest) are really trying every last frayed nerve you've got, you displace your anger.

It's not an unusual concept - it's the natural order of things. Okay, for example, my dog Kota once heard a gaggle of geese flying over/past the house. He heard honking and commotion and he was pissed. Who knows why. Now, Kota doesn't get pissed very often (except once, at Beck, at Eric's house), and so the time with the geese is especially memorable - he was panting, barking and running around like a lunatic. The point is: He couldn't actually be angry at the geese. They existed unseen, they were just an annoying sound that he couldn't identify or assault into submission, and therefore, Kota displaced his anger and attacked his toy bear. I mean... he really shook the thing, too. Like, ran over, took the bear ("Rupert"), and shook it back and forth repeatedly. Take that, geese!

So, there you go. Displaced anger and inaccurate anger management are just traits that can be associated with one's existence if you are any kind of oxygen-dependant thing wandering the planet. And, tonight was no exception.

I displaced my anger. I had shitty patrons/customers/guests that pissed me off and I displaced my anger. I yelled at my coworkers, I swore at my boss... I acted like I act when I'm being a nasty brat. But, I had to. If it didn't make it's way out to the people who I can hug at the end of the night and apologize to, then it would make it's way out to the people who pay my rent.

This is the curse of the restaurant industry.

I think what makes it harder at the restaurant I work in, is knowing people through the whole "Six Degrees of New Bedford" thing and then knowing - inadvertently - the people who piss "you" off. Maybe you've seen them on Facebook, commenting and "liking" on other people's walls. Maybe you've waited on them 100 times before. Maybe you know where they work, what they do, and who they are more than you'd like to admit. Maybe you've even worked with them before and therefore are increasingly irritated when it appears they have zero understanding as to how things in the "normal" world of waitressing work.

Maybe I'm just pissed that sometimes nobody seems to understand how hard servers work for what little money they make.

Maybe I'm just bitter.

I'm ending this blog post before it gets nasty. It's heading in that direction, I think.

Just a final note:

I do like my job. Sometimes I just wish people knew what it was like to do my job. Tonight, according to my computer report, I served 45 people. Forty-five people got a happy, smiling, efficient as all holy hell server that they tipped out of societal obligation without realizing that I make three dollars an hour, love my job, and rely on these social constructs that encourage people to tip for service.

Do me a favor. Next time you go out to eat, or buy a drink at a bar, or pick up take-out, tip your server or bartender or take-out person as if it were you, and as if it were the thirtieth and rent's due on the first, and as if you really appreciate the fact that they are smiling and helpful and courteous no matter what. No matter what.

Thanks.

Oh, and if they are not courteous and helpful, then fuck it.

That is all.