A few months ago, I was working as a bartender but looking for more work on the supply side of the business. I was taking interviews with several companies, and one day when I was at work, I was discussing what kind of pay is normal for those types of positions. The owner of the business was there, and he overheard my conversation with my colleague.
“Don’t we pay you enough here?” he asked me, as I stood in front of a group of about ten coworkers.
“No. I want a raise,” I said in so many words.
“You earn one of the highest minimum wages in the country, and you earn tips.”
“Yeah, but you’re only paying me minimum wage. I earn the tips on top of that.”
“No, I earn those tips for you,” the owner told me. “If I hadn’t built this restaurant, you wouldn’t be making tips. That’s part of the money you make. And that’s enough.”
I rolled my eyes and walked away because, well, that’s what I do. That guy tends to steam roll people in conversations, and I wasn’t in the mood for it. Instead, I was in the mood to kick it with my boo who was waiting for me outside. I checked my phone, clocked out for my break, and skipped out the front door.
This, of course, was not good enough for the owner. As I walked down the street to go meet my boo for 30 minutes of you-know-what, the owner chased me out of the restaurant.
“Pilar!” he called. I, like a fool, turned around, even though my boo was just a few feet away. “Why did you run out like that?”
“I’m on my break.”
“Look, I’m running a restaurant here, and we’re operating on razor thin margins. I don’t make any money off these restaurants. We can’t afford to give you a raise,” the owner said. Basically all these really dumb excuses that I don’t really care about. I had done the math. I worked there four days a week, and a raise of $1 an hour would cost the restaurant less than $2,000 a year. Or $128 a month. Chump change in the grand scheme of things, and also an amount of money that would not have greatly increased my standard of living or perhaps even my income (after taxes). The reason I wanted a raise was because I wanted the restaurant to show me that after two and a half years of service they appreciated me and wanted to retain me on the staff. I wanted a reward. I wanted a pat on the back. But not just a pat on the back – this was, mind you, my livelihood. I worked there for money, so I wanted that reward in money. Clearly they wouldn’t budge.
I stood there for fifteen minutes lightly bickering with my boss but also sending desperate looks to my boo who was standing a few feet away and pretending to check his phone because he didn’t want to get into it, either. Eventually, my boss returned to the restaurant, at which point I was so wound up that the remaining fifteen minutes of break were neither pleasant nor ample enough time for me to catch up with my boo.
“What was that guy’s problem?” my boo asked.
“That was my boss,” I said.
“Oh, what? He was complaining to you that he didn’t make enough money? If he wanted to make money, why did he open a restaurant? No one opens restaurants to make money. If you want to make money, go into investment banking,” my boo weighed in.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said into his shoulder as he hugged me tight.
This is not going to work I thought as he held me there. Originally, I had wanted to use those thirty minutes to drag my boo into one of the many allies or dark corners of parking lots that I had strategically mapped out so that I could get a couple minutes of dicked down while on my break. It occurred to me that my boss had just totally cock blocked me on my mission to get laid during my 30 minute break. I sighed and realized I had to give up the dream. Why is it that unattractive men with a meager amount of power always seem to interrupt my sex fantasies with their bullshit? Can’t a girl fuck and let fuck?