Sundays

God created Sundays for the normal people, the nine to fivers, the weekenders, and I believe he did it to smite us lowly restaurant workers. You see, for you normal people, Sundays are well spent with family. It's the one day of the week that everyone gets dressed up together and goes to church to tithe and enjoy fellowship and revel in the word of the Lord. A cleansing and cathartic experience after which the whole family enjoys breaking bread together. More often than not, though, the preacher goes long, and Mom and Dad converse with members of the congregation after the service while young children pull at the hems of their slacks and dresses with pangs of hunger in the pits of their stomachs. And hunger, my friends, can do strange things to even the most pious individuals.

In the service industry, however, Sundays have an entirely different slant. We are torn from our slumber and forced to face our hangovers with fur coated tongues. There is no time for family as we try to recall what went horribly wrong the night before at the bar after work. Showers are spent calculating exactly which Red Headed Slut or JagerBomb or shot of Patron pushed us over the edge of the cliff. As we don our uniforms, our minds try to piece together the events of the previous night; clouded and murky and disjointed bits of memory that make little sense in the misfiring synapses of our pounding brains. It is at this point that we pray to God that we didn't do anything too stupid or embarrassing the night before, perhaps our only religious effort of the day.

Enter the after church crowd, their souls cleansed, their sins forgiven, their patience and tolerance defiled by empty bellies craving sustenance at any cost, tempers shortened by low blood sugar, and behaviors quite unsaintly. Many of them will be forced to wait even longer for their daily bread, as the restaurants cannot accomodate the overwhelming overflow of eager customers all released from fire and brimstone at exactly the same moment. By the time the ravenous suits and ties and Sunday dresses finally arrive at the table all foaming at the mouth and chomping at the bit, they have little but contempt left for those of us who have merely prayed to the porcelain god, and for we, the walking dead, the feeling is mutual.

There are no trucks that deliver goods on Sunday. After the two busiest days of the week, the odds of NOT running out of any product are staggeringly against you. Even the most meticulous manager, skilled at ordering, rattling off useage figures, and calculating customer counts cannot forsee the whims and fancies of the public at large, nor can he control the rate of decay of produce, or prevent accidental spillage, or the malfunction of refrigeration equipment. Sunday is the day of reckoning. It tests your metal. It is not for the weak of heart, or for those with a history of stroke in their families. Things will get ugly, feelings will be hurt, and apologies may even be called for.

And yet, after all the customers are fed, and the egos are stroked, and the complaints are listened to, and the fires are put out, and the hangovers subside there is a sense of accomplishment that is unlike Friday or Saturday nights'. You did your best with what you had to work with. You lived to fight another day. You rallied the troops and got the job done. And the normal people? The nine to fivers? The weekenders? Well, once their blood sugar returns to normal so do their behaviors. It is their nature to forgive, and even a sin as great as running out of strawberry waffles is once again overlooked. That is, at least, until next Sunday...