The Average Day

I'm dreaming about work again. I'm in the weeds running around frantically with a tray of food in my hand when I notice my section is getting bigger and more guests are sitting down. I stop what I'm doing and realize the restaurant is actually expanding. The walls are receding. The carpet is elongating. Tables and chairs are suddenly appearing. 

A feeling of apprehension grips me. This emotion, a conglomeration of anxiety and apathy, is normal in the restaurant industry. It dawns on me I will have to perform several tasks simultaneously in a very short period of time in order to please a tiny population of strangers. Part of me says I will be just fine. I've done this before, and I can do it again. But the rest of me asks why. Why don't you do something else for money? Why don't you save yourself from the perils of the dinner rush? Why not just walk away?  

My alarm chirps, and I awake to a pitch black room. A heaviness settles on my brain as though something is sitting on top of it that shouldn't be. The half of me that is still asleep thinks I'm at work. My hands think they should be removing dishes. I slide open my curtain and turn on the lights in my windowless quarters. Harry Potter had more space in his broom closet. At least he only had Hedwig as a roommate. I have two, and they are larger than owls.

I shower merely to prevent a bad hair day and to remove the crusty boogers from my eyes. I trudge up to the mess for my habitual breakfast of oatmeal, cereal, yogurt, three pineapple chunks, and a carton of TruMoo chocolate milk. I search  for a small table away from people making too much noise in the morning. I find a seat near the wall away from my friends. They think I want to sit with them but I don't. I don't want to hear about their jobs. Yesterday's struggles are the same as those thirty seven days ago.   My friends think I'm weird since I prefer to sit by myself as though my preference for solitude is a mental deficiency.

I open my book and hide behind it. I hope no one notices me, but inevitably someone sits down across from me. 

"What's going on?" this person says. I try  to word my response politely but cannot make my current situation more obvious.

"I'm reading," I say, which really means:  Go away.

This person still doesn't detect the social cues. Only people who don't read interrupt those who do. Fellow readers understand our mutual desire to be left alone. I've met non-readers who scoff at this hobby and attempt to sabotage me from further sharpening my mind.

I try not to be rude to anyone on the ship because we all live and work together. There is no escaping anyone. Sure, there are places to hide, but people always manage to find me in the only place we are allowed to eat, especially when I don't want to be found. I'm the kind of person who would rather ask how you are doing once a week, or even once a month. Moods around the ship rarely change. Most people are gloomy, and I avoid spending time under their dark clouds. A precious few are upbeat and sunny.

When I'm seated next to someone who isn't a scintillating conversationalist, I try to eat my meal as quickly as possible, so I can get out of there. An empty plate is a socially acceptable reason to part company. An empty plate signals that I'm finished. This discussion is over. Goodbye. 

Usually I wouldn't be so curt, but I don't have time to waste. I only have four to five hours of free time each day, and I intend to use them wisely. I don't want to discuss aching body parts, chopping vegetables, and inconvenient schedules. I've heard that all before, and now I avoid it at all costs. I want to be elevated and transported to a different world outside these walls.

I sort my trash and my dirty plates near the dish pit and head upstairs for work. I clock in, and the machine reads my thumbprint. My manager greets me and tells me my duty for the day. The task stays the same all week.

"You're on plates and bowls," my manager says.

I walk to the back of the kitchen and find a cart composed of drink racks piled on top of each other. I load plates and bowls onto the flat surface and cruise around the old-timers scoping out the buffet options. I restock the diminishing piles of plates as hundreds of overfed passengers continue to get their fill. It takes me roughly five minutes to replenish the entire restaurant of clean wares, but I stretch this out into three hours. 

I don't mind the monotony in such small doses. Brainless work clears the mind, so I fill in the blanks. I plan future excursions on the islands.  I chat with the dishwashers while waiting for plates. 

I chat with Mark, who is busy trying to look busy at the sandwich station. Mark is a fiftyish nomad full of energy and passion. He has taught English in Spain, explored South America, lived in New York City, and worked in the Grand Canyon. Ever since I met him at Piney Point during our basic safety training, he has been my main man who has saved me and my mind from dropping into a dark abyss of pessimism. We lift each other up with our mutual dreams.

When you restock plates continuously for three hours every day for a week or more, dreams not only keep you afloat, they keep you sane. I envision my bank account growing. I anticipate taking three months off without worrying about money. I haven't spent a single dollar in nearly a month. Everything I earn, I save. Despite the hardships and the boredom, I see how my shipmates can get addicted to this lifestyle. If I did this for two more years, I could pay off my student loans, a significant five figure debt, but my hair would turn gray and my heart would turn black. The constant toil and sleep deprivation is known to destroy kindness. 

I consult my watch:  only ninety minutes more of restocking plates before I can get off the ship. All the plates are stocked, and there's nothing to do. Rather than be scolded for standing around or be given a ridiculous assignment to take full advantage of my labor, I hide in the bathroom. Or I'll get a drink in the crew mess, seven decks below. I'll take the stairs, one at a time, because that takes longer. When your race is five months long, slow and steady wins every time. 

When a catchy song erupts from the speakers of the buffet, I linger in the dining room and avoid talking to anyone to better soak up the sweet sounds. The average song is three minutes, I say to myself. I just need thirty more of those, and I'll be set. When the song ends, I avoid the managers by taking the back way to the Linai, where I stare at the ocean and fill my lungs with real air. I take the long way back to the buffet and sneak into the sports bar to check the score of the game. Before I know it, I'm clocking out, changing into my civilian clothes, and slicing through the breeze on my fold-up bike. 

The bike collapses compactly enough to fit in my closet. When I get off work in the morning, I transform the metal origami into a rideable machine. Before setting out, I apply sunscreen even on cloudy days and then consult my watch. I like to be back on the ship at least an hour before my shift so I can shower and eat dinner. I have three hours to roam. I step off the gangway and pick a direction:  left or right. I explore for an hour and a half, then turn around. It's nearly impossible to get lost on an island, especially the circular ones.

My explorations envigorate me and remind me why I came here. I restock plates to hike in the lava fields and fly down winding switchbacks and to see what's around the next bend. 

When I return to the old ball and chain, it's chicken and rice for dinner again. Unlike breakfast, I usually sit with my comrades and tell them tales of my recent expedition.

I button the top button of my mustard yellow shirt, and I'm ready for the dinner shift. I check in with my manager and find my front waiter. The average age for our cruisers is 62, so nearly everyone likes to eat early. The dining room fills. My front waiter takes orders from eighteen hungry guests. She hands me the ticket. I run to the kitchen and round up spring rolls, salads, salmon tartare, and soup. Then I fetch entrees.

I look the cook in the eyes and wait until he returns my gaze, signaling that it's ok to order. 

"Two Skyline salmon, please," I say.

Then I wait until he plates them. When they're up in the window under the heat of the salamander, I top them with lids and stack them on my tray. Now I need five chef specials, but there are eight people in front of me, all waiting for the same dish. Sometimes I'm stuck in line fifteen minutes waiting for one dish.

If I have to wait in multiple lines, I can be trapped in the kitchen for forty-five minutes, especially when the guy cooking the steaks has a row of tickets twenty feet long. He once cooked 160 steaks nonstop for two hours straight, and he has another dish to make on top of his NY Strip duty. I used to get impatient waiting for the food and I would drum on my tray to amuse myself, but now I am accustomed to the chaos. When you have twenty people cooking dinner for a thousand, somebody's going to have to wait. 

Some customers must think I'm dipping around in the back with my thumb up my ass. There are people who do that, but not during the dinner rush. A woman once complained that her entrees took forty-five minutes. She was observing the tables around her who received their food  before she did. 

"We were here before them, and we finally got our entrees," she bickered. 

I didn't realize she was racing the other guests, so I tried to appease her with a conciliatory tone.

"I'm sorry about the wait," I said. "The lines are getting really long in the kitchen, but we are doing the best we can."

She demanded to see a dessert menu ASAP to get that order in to avoid waiting for her next caloric intake. Judging by her size, she would do well to forgo eating for the remainder of the cruise, but I did not tell her so.

"The desserts won't take long at all," I said, calmly. "They are already prepared, so I don't have to wait for them."

"Are you sure?" she asked me. She spoke to me as though I were a dog who peed on the carpet because he didn't know any better. Many cruisers assume the workers are uneducated immigrants. Many are surprised to hear that I have a college degree and am fluent in English.

"I'm quite positive," I assure this woman and walk back to my side stand while cursing her under my breath. I wonder where this lady thinks she is going. We are floating on obsidian water after the sun has set. We are surrounded by darkness somewhere between O'ahu and Maui on a luxury cruise in what many people consider to be paradise. And she's in a hurry.

A rushed lifestyle has become the norm. It is woven into the American Dream to consume and accomplish as much as we can as fast as we can. I'm rushing, too. Rushing to finish my work to retreat to my bed. I'm rushing my contract so I can head home to get lost in anonymity. 

I count down the minutes of my shift and cross off the days in my calendar, but I'm trying to stop doing this. I'm trying to prevent myself from constantly anticipating the next stage of my life. I want to say I'm perfectly content with today. But before I can do that, I hit the refresh button and yesterday happens again. 

Round and Round

For the passengers, this cruise is a seven day vacation around the Hawaiian islands, but for the crew this job is a five month loop repeating week after week. The ship starts in Honolulu on the island of Oahu. When all the guests come onboard, we sail to the peaceful island of Maui. We dock overnight in Kahului, a small port town that boasts a Whole Foods and a Regal Cinema. 

The Big Island is next--first the rainy and overcast Hilo (the state's second most populated city behind the capital) and then Kona, famous for its coffee and clear waters ideal for snorkeling. From Kona we hit the high seas on the longest stretch of our journey as we head northwest to Kuaui, also known as the Garden Island so called for its bountiful vegetation. We have another overnight in Nawiliwili, where the beach and the bars are only a five minute walk from the ship. 

Finally we return to Honolulu to drop off the passengers in the morning and then pick up a fresh batch of paying customers at noon. How can anyone be even remotely disappointed with this itinerary? You've got the big city of Honolulu with its unique mixture of skyscrapers, lush greenery, ornate palaces of the former Hawaiian monarchy, Pearl Harbor, and, of course, the beach at Waikiki. If you walk a few miles outside these tiny cities, you can find yourself hiking in the vast wilderness nestled between the verdant volcanic peaks. You could rent a car and drive on the rugged unpaved roads up to the  crater. Hop on a free shuttle to see Rainbow Falls.

Or take that same complimentary shuttle to Black Sand Beach in Hilo to swim with the turtles. From the ship you can watch humpback whales splash playfully. Ukelele music, fresh pineapples, monstrous swells, a cozy beach under a radiant sun:  these options are always readily available.  When surrounded by this every single day, how can anyone be sad?  It happens, I assure you, and it happens a lot.

Many of my coworkers complain endlessly about working long hours. They whine about needy guests with specific (and inconvenient) requests. They bicker about nitpicking managers and lazy employees and the subpar food in the crew mess and the disfunctional driers that take two hours to dry a soggy load fresh out of the broken washer that won't drain. The list is endless.  

To be fair, I am guilty of bouts of pessimism as well, and the lifestyle has its difficulties.  Working every single day for five months straight is strenuous.  To be surrounded by cranky employees can be emotionally draining.  And the guests can be frustrating, too, when they leave a table piled high with dirty dishes of half-eaten food.  Laundry is often a hassle. I have to check several laundrettes to find an open washer, and often the floor is covered with water as a result of my fellow shipmates who don't understand that the water must drain before opening the door.  The food is often disgusting, and the managers can be a bunch of nagging slave drivers. But, hey, let's look at the bright side. 

The job is simple, and we are paid reasonably well for exerting little effort. I don't pay for rent, utilities, meals, or laundry. Everything I need is free, and I can save up a lot of money in a short period of time.  The work schedule may be repetitive and monotonous, but Hawaii never gets old.

I've heard of the island blues from a Kenny Chesney song called "Round and Round." The country singer remarks that we always want to be somewhere we're not. Even if you're on a sunny beach in Hawaii, it is possible to feel stuck on an island and to feel trapped in a seemingly endless circle of repetition.  Our continuous loop around the world's most isolated archipelago is a perfect microcosm of our own battles against boredom in our daily routines.  

Happiness has nothing to do with location. Millions of tourists visit Hawaii each year to escape the harshness of winter, but the sandy beaches, colorful fishes, and rocky coastline views won't solve your problems. Beauty alone cannot shatter pessimism. A sad sack can be miserable anywhere just as an optimist can be exhilarated in unfavorable conditions.

Life onboard the ship has taught me the importance of maintaining a high morale. Working with so many irritable people can be stressful, if you let their depression affect your mood.  I tune them out.  I have come to expect a certain amount of chaos in the workplace, so I am not upset when things don't go my way.  I do my best to avoid obstacles, overcome challenges as quickly as possible and flee toward comfort.  Moments of discomfort are inevitable, but fleeting. Once the conflict is in the past, there is no need to reopen a wound.  I let go of every mistake and rejoice that I survived another day. I have survived every day of my life so far, and that fact comforts me to believe I can endure my current struggle. I will crawl into bed yet again and wake up to a new day.

I took this job because I was curious to work on a cruise ship, but I also wanted to rapidly save money to pay for a three month hike on the Appalachian Trail.  When I'm working a triple shift, my feet are aching, and I get an eight-top and must wait thirty minutes for their entrees inside a steamy kitchen full of irritated line cooks and impatient waiters, I imagine myself plodding down a quiet and shaded path surrounded by nobody but the trees.  Having a goal helps me wake up in the morning, eager to earn money and then get off the ship to play. 

When guests ask me what I think about working on the ship, I can never give them a simple answer.  Overall, I am giddy inside to have this opportunity. I never imagined myself being here, and the unplanned nature of this adventure only amplifies the thrill.  I love being able to say, "The company paid for my flight," because it makes me feel like I occupy an important position, even though I'm only delivering food.  Some rich person finds me significant enough to buy me a plane ticket.  

I love opening doors that have signs saying RESTRICTED ACCESS:  CREW ONLY.  I love climbing up the stairs, listening to the metallic clang of my footfalls reverberate as I pretend I'm fleeing the Pirates from the movie Captain Phillips.  I love interacting with guests who come from all over the world.  I love miming and pointing to menu selections with Japanese tourists who speak no English.  I love practicing my French with Montrealers and Tahitians who laugh at my ridiculous wording and inevitable mistakes.  I love wearing sunglasses to work as I bus tables in the outside lounge and tell a guest,  "This is easy living, brother.  Check out the view from my office."  

I try to have fun at my job.  I'm not performing manual labor; I'm playing a game:  How fast can I run to the kitchen and round up these appetizers?  My job is a workout.  I carry heavy trays and bus tubs, so there is no need to hit up the gym.  My job is social hour, a cultural center, and a Zen dojo.

I provide the best service I can in a sincere manner, and I try to make life easier for my coworkers by emitting a positive attitude, but I don't take the job too seriously.  I do whatever it takes to survive each day.  I do what I can when I can.  I'm not Superman, and I'm not a nuclear physicist.  If I bump into someone and shatter a tray full of wine glasses, I grab a dust pan and sweep up the fragments and throw them away.  I forget about my mistakes, failures, embarrassments of yesterday, and I don't even think about tomorrow.  

When I clock out, I don't care if my coworkers were slacking or if my managers pestered me. That is their nature, and I cannot change that, so I may as well make peace with their habits.  I don't want to relive those moments of annoyance, and I don't want to share my negativity with someone who doesn't want to hear my complaints.  Complaining is a waste of time when you're off the clock. 

I soak up the precious moments between  shifts and forget about the job.  My free time seems to stretch onward to eternity because I focus entirely on the present moment.  I immerse myself into a novel.  Music sounds sweeter.  The sunlight revives me.  

The ship sails onward in its endless loop as I search for new details amidst the growing monotony.  As we leave port, I realize that's one more day finished, and I'm that much closer to going home. I'm always aware of the time on my watch, the days I have left on my contract.  I also realize that when I'm older I'll look back on these days. I don't want to recount stories of constant nagging. I'd rather have stories worth retelling.

The Dinner Rush

I started my first day in the middle of a hectic dinner rush. I was learning how to be an assistant waiter in a restaurant onboard called Skyline.  I shadowed a coworker, let's call her Anna, as she rushed from the kitchen through the automatic doors and into the dining room. A band wearing tuxedos was playing non-denominational Christmas tunes. The spacious room was filled with the smooth sounds of a saxophone solo. True to its name, the decor was urban themed. Skyscraper pillars held the ceiling in place. The walls, too, were covered with simplistic paintings of really tall buildings. The tables, over one hundred of them, were draped with white tablecloths.

Anna hurriedly pointed out where everything was located in the server side stand, but I struggled to comprehend her Chinese-accented English over the melody of "Jingle Bells." She grabbed two hot plates and balanced a third on her forearm and set them in front of guests all the while telling me to serve from the right and to never call out a dish. When the head waiter takes the order, he numbers each guest. The one facing the door is number one, and then you proceed clockwise. Women's orders are circled. Children's entrees are confined within a triangle.

I was still trying to remember so many details, like where the bread is stored. Where do I find the water glasses? When is it acceptable to clear a table with a tray in my hand? The side stands consist of two shelves in the shape of an equal sign. The side labeled SOILED is where we store dirty dishes arranged on oval trays. We land clean glasses and food on the CLEAN side. The waiters maneuver in the space between. 

We all bump into each other, yell out "Landing!" before setting down a tray, and lightly tap each other's backs to let them know we are behind them. Drawers full of silverware, sugar caddies, butter dishes, and wine glasses are flung open. Then there are separate compartments for square tablecloths and round tablecloths for 2-tops, 4-tops, 6-tops, 8-tops, and the captains table. Several of my fellow waiters moved around me in balletic fashion. I was trying to stay out of the way while trying to familiarize myself with this new environment, but there was no time for that. Anna was scurrying back to the humongous kitchen, a cavernous maw of ridiculous scale. 

We don't have to kick the doors down; they swing open automatically. Inside the first room is the beverage station and beyond that is the bartender's domain. She works behind a cage and makes drinks for the servers to run to their tables. The ability to create small talk isn't essential here. 

Just to the left is the dish pit. There are three bins full of tepid, greenish water. Each one is designed to soak spoons, knives, and forks. Someone's job is to muck silverware, which means separate everything and load it into smaller rack. This is actually the sole responsibility of an unfortunate employee who does this for five hours each day for five months straight. If you hate your job, know that others have it a lot worse than you, and they only make a little more than seven dollars an hour. 

At the dish pit, there's a shelf to land trays, and beneath the ledge is a yellow bin and a blue bin. I'm smooshed between the mucker and two other servers who are shoving plates toward the dishwasher and then jamming water glasses into empty racks to the right. I try to move quickly but I'm deciding whether or not the butter is wrapped in a paper product or plastic. Where do I put the teapots, the ice cream dishes, the martini glasses? There's a spot for everything, but all my coworkers come up with different answers. Most advise me to put it anywhere I please, and then run away. 

The dishwashers across from me are drenched with sweat. Their hands move faster than a rock and roll drummer as they become engulfed by a cloud of steam erupting from the dish machine, a conveyer belt long enough to house a Harley Davidson. The water heats up past 180 degrees and emerges on the other side, where one guy organizes the disparate elements onto a stainless steel counter and another guy transports everything into the correct cubbyholes. 

Beyond the clean dishes lies the soup station, where frantic waiters ladle steaming French onion and burn their palms in the process. A restless pastry assistant behind them scoops ice cream from massive drums. She has the best job in the whole restaurant. Both the ice cream and soup are conveniently placed to the exit route that consists of one 90 degree corner, a popular spot to collide with a waiter carrying a tray full of wine glasses. 

We are just getting started here on this tour through the kitchen. Past the sherbet and sorbet the floor opens up into an assembly line, a cafeteria, or the trenches of war depending on your perspective.

To my right cold food like salads, fruit plates, and salmon tartare sit atop frosty beds or in refrigerated drawers. Salad preps continuously fill plates with greenery. On the opposite side lies a squadron of line cooks who are each responsible for a different dish. Signs with a name and picture of the dish hang above their stations. Hardly any of them ever smile. Mostly they stare menacingly, daring you to ask for a modified order.

Anna grabs a clean oval tray near the soup bowls and reads orders from a slip of paper she tucked into her shirt pocket. She needs a salmon, two chef's specials, a rack of lamb, and a New York strip cooked medium but the sour cream on the baked potato was 86'd. 

"You put the steak order in when you get your appetizers," Anna said while slamming her tray down onto the ledge across from the cook's station. Behind the line stood a tall, unsmiling black man lifting salmon fillets onto plates with a spatula. 

"I need one salmon," Anna said to the cook. She turned to me and said, "If you need an entree, you just go to the cook who is making that entree and tell him how many you need."

There are no tickets ceaselessly screeching and spewing out of printers. Head waiters use the Micros POS system to order wine and mixed drinks, but the food has already been paid for when he guests purchased their cruise package. Skyline is a complimentary restaurant, so there is no need to spend any money. Everything is charged to the room cards. No cash is exchanged except for tips. The only thing a guest must pay for in this restaurant is booze. 

As a result of this process, assistant waiters must join a queue behind their coworkers and yell out how many salmons you need when the cook acknowledges that it is your turn to order.  So we must wait in the steamy kitchen for the food to be cooked. And the lines get can get extremely long because these cooks prepare dishes for two restaurants:  Skyline and Liberty. Liberty is a more formal restaurant located upstairs. The waiters have to transport their loads up an escalator to reach their dining room.

When the cook places the finished dish onto the counter under the heaters, Anna grabs the hot plate without flinching and loads it onto her tray. She places a plastic dome atop the fish to keep the meal warm. Then she rounds up the lamb, the steak, and the two specials and stacks those on top of each other. 

When she lifts all her entrees, her tray resembles a skyline with buildings of varying heights, except these are poorly constructed and sway and threaten to topple over. She must balance the heavy load and maintain her own balance as well. Did I mention the ship was moving? When we are out at sea, the waters can be rough during storms, which makes the floor bounce as we are pummeled by forceful waves. The room suddenly goes crooked. The floor slants, and you find yourself walking slightly uphill and then immediately downhill. 

You don't want to drop your tray and smash the plates on the ground. Now the guests will wonder what is taking so long. Your head waiter will grow impatient because he's basically staring at the guests looking neglectful with nothing in his hands. The cooks will be cranky you must ask for the same order again, and you'll have to wait in line again for anther ten minutes. 

By that time, you'll probably be sat again because the hostess has grown apathetic and pushes buttons randomly on a computer, which means you're getting a family of six that someone less busy should have gotten. So now that's eighteen people who expect to be fed within thirty minutes. Over 800 guests have walked through the doors tonight, and some of them are cranky, tired, sunburned and seasick. The entire space is filled with pandemonium, but that is just another Saturday night.