I’m standing behind a crowded bar, amidst a deluge of snapping fingers and twenty-pound notes waving in the thick, sweaty, night-club air. I approach an unamused looking character, tucked away at the end of the bar. “Hi there, what can I…” He cuts me off mid-sentence. “Cider.” I avoid the almost overwhelming temptation to roll my eyes. “What kind of cider would you like?” “Kopparberg.” “We don’t have Kopparberg. We have Rekorderlig. Which flavour would you like?” He explodes. “I’ll have a fucking pear cider. Is that too much to ask? I’ll have a fucking pear Rekorderlig!” I paused, and got the man his “fucking pear Rekorderlig.” Now, I’m not here to complain about rude customers, for the most part. When I paused, I took a few seconds to decide whether I would call the bouncers over and have the man removed from the premises. I could have done just that, had I decided to. I would have felt completely comfortable kicking him out; my job wouldn’t have been put at risk. I wouldn’t have even been asked any questions. That’s the point. Even if it would have been an issue, it would have been worth my £7.50 an hour ( $12.82 at the time of writing) to keep him happy. Regarding his tip, I can’t remember if he tipped at all, but if he had, it would have just been a nice bonus.

My jeans were deemed “too faded.” I would have to go and buy another few pairs.

A few months later, after collecting my pay and taking my two-week paid holiday time, I move back to the USA, hoping that it would be a better environment to advance my graphic design career. After several months searching for employment, I found a job online as a bartender for LongHorn Steakhouse. The role wasn’t ideal for a vegan, and it wasn’t in the career-trajectory that I’d hoped for, but I needed a job and, after my long search for work, I wasn’t going to pass it up. As this was a new store location, we had a week or so of extensive training. I was shocked when I approached the front door; there was a queue of 100+ waiting outside. I made conversation with a girl who had traveled Thailand working with victims of human trafficking. I remember being astounded at how she smiled so much after the kind of experiences that I can only imagine that line of work would bring. Eventually, the doors opened. We shuffled in, and were inspected one-by-one by the managing partner who smiled and shook our hands. My jeans were deemed “too faded.” I would have to go and buy another few pairs.

…we set to work for the staggering sum of $2.13 / hour.

As we entered the building, “Turn Down for What” was blaring from some small, but clearly high-quality, speakers at full-on night-club volume. The trainers were standing atop the tables, dancing along vigorously. As we went to sit down, we were asked, no, nagged to stand up, smile and dance along. Some were prodded up onto the tables, to dance as well. After the song ended, we sat down. At my table was a grand-mother. On the bar-team I was to be a part of were several university students, a single father, and a mother of three amongst others. All four of the managers took turns speaking to the assembled staff in varied shades of incredibly-excited-to-be-here. The first manager who had interviewed me evangelized and waxed poetic about Darden, the parent company of LongHorn Steakhouse, Olive Garden, Red Lobster, and others. Why, in only the blink of an eye, a mere ten years, she’d worked her way from bartender to low-level management. The possibilities with Darden were endless! Her enthusiasm was genuine, but the story left a sour taste in my mouth. Maybe I’m cynical, but she came across a little more brainwashed than career-woman to me. After training, which for me mainly consisted of nibbling on over-salted fries while surrounded by great steaming hunks of dead animals (that I didn’t have to eat, but couldn’t refuse to order) during dummy-service runs, we set to work for the staggering sum of $2.13 / hour.

I can achieve the “american dream” if I just work hard enough, close my eyes and say my prayers to the Koch brothers every night, like a good boy.

Within the first few days of real work, I realised a cultural difference. The customer, was king here, truly. People threw tantrums when their salads didn’t arrive after five minutes; we apologised profusely, and a manager “comped” (discounted) the salad from their meal and gave them a $5-$10 voucher for next time. I was reprimanded for referring to our patrons as “customers” instead of “guests.” Customers, sorry, guests, were entitled (as is common here) to unlimited soft drink re-fills in their massive glasses, and didn’t hesitate to dock money from the tip if they ever neared emptiness. They became angry with me when their food wasn’t cooked correctly, and were irritated when their third loaf of free bread took a few minutes to reach their mouths because I was in the back, fighting with ten other employees, sorry, team-members, to win a scoop of butter at the two-foot-square bread area. My tips were often found lacking in accordance with the dearth of space in that mosh-pit. Sometimes I would wish that I could take a cust…, guest, by the scruff of their neck, using their body as a riot-shield to deflect my co-workers, and show them what space I had to work in, show them the dressing-less salad bar, show them the single father curled up in a ball in the service-alley corner having an anxiety attack, show them that it’s not worth two-fucking-thirteen per god-damned hour to put up with their childish bullshit. But it is, because it has to be. It is, because at this point, I had no other option. Offending a guest, failing to pander graciously to their every whim like a good servant, would mean losing my job, no matter how rude, angry, and terrible they were. It would mean losing my good, American, job, where anything is possible, where I can be a manager in ten years, where I can achieve the “American dream” if I just work hard enough, close my eyes and say my prayers to the Koch brothers every night, like a good boy.

…the only way to earn enough money to live on is to have the bare minimum number of bar-staff at any given time.

Once I learned that the little Texan city I’d chosen over Edinburgh had little to offer, I moved to Chicago. A break-up also might have had something to do with it. There I found work, through a friend, at a charming independent restaurant, bar and brewery. I really enjoyed it there. The guests were pleasant and tipped at least a full twenty percent regularly, the owners and staff were stellar, and we were treated well. After several training shifts at the minimum $8.25 an hour, I was put on a few morning shifts and my hourly pay decreased to somewhere around $4.65, which was tipped minimum wage. I didn’t mind so much as tips were generally good. In less than three weeks, on the same day I moved off of my friend’s couch and into a rented room, I was let go. Business was slow, and I was the most recent hire. One of the owners ran after me down the street as I was leaving work. When he told me that I was being let go, he looked upset; I felt as though the news was harder for him to tell me than it was for me to hear. Because we are paid so little, and tips are divided between us, the only way to earn enough money to live on is to have the bare minimum number of bar-staff at any given time. Back in Edinburgh, we’d have several bartenders working simultaneously in even a slow part of the day, such as the morning was in this restaurant. Here, (besides paying a living wage) there’s no other option but to have one opener and one closer. This means that one bartender will open in the morning or close at night, alone. Otherwise, they won’t be able to pay their rent. I’m told there is some kind of law here which stipulates that if you don’t earn enough tips to reach minimum wage, then it must be compensated for in your pay-cheque. I asked one of the owners about this, for curiosity’s sake. I was told that they weren’t sure how it worked, and would have to check with the accountant. We were required to enter our tips in the POS at the end of our shift, but as the closer pulled all of the tips from the drawer at the end of the night, after we’d gone, I wouldn’t always know how much I’d earned until the next time I worked. I often left the field blank. I was never asked about it.

I wonder if they really understand what it’s like to serve a miserable guest a syrupy margarita in a Texas steak-house, knowing that the same drink would take them over three hours of work to earn?

I wasn’t, and I’m still not, angry with the owners, the management, the establishment or anything else. This is how it works here. I know it, and every other American in the service industry is painfully aware of the status quo. People here have accepted it as a fact of life that they’ll have to leave for their first job at 5am, before beginning a 5 — 12am shift at their second. Every one of us releases a sigh of relief when someone new is hired, because when things go quiet we know that it won’t be us who loses their job first. We deal with adult temper tantrums thrown over ketchup, over-cooked steaks and near-empty glasses on a daily basis, and we’re quiet, polite and submissive. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one the the whole country who understands that it can be different. That Scottish night-club hasn’t had to close its doors because it pays its staff the equivalent of $12.82 an hour. I don’t foresee McDonald’s pulling out of the country any-time soon, and restaurants, bars and night-clubs don’t lose their business because they refuse to let customers bully their staff and ask people to pay for their soft drinks. I find it an odd combination of hilarious and terribly depressing that the same American politicians who make a big, patriotic song and dance about how much opportunity there is in America oppose paying Americans enough to eat in the restaurants they work for, let alone save, go to school, or start a business. Either they’re simply cruel, or they’re dangerously out of touch with reality. I wonder if they really understand what it’s like to serve a miserable guest a syrupy margarita in a Texas steak-house, knowing that the same drink would take them over three hours of work to earn? Not as though it would matter. At LongHorn Steakhouse, staff weren’t allowed to sit at the bar. At any rate, it’s 12:54 am, and I’m getting up at five this morning to start a new job as a barista.