My little sister loved Bob's Big Boy hamburgers and when I was a waitress there, I would occasionally bring one home for her after work. Waking her up by waving a warm juicy burger under her nose brought a groggy joyful sigh – even if it was 2am. I reme
mber my first day on the job and my panic at having to take orders when every table in my section filled at the same time. Nothing makes or breaks your ability to maintain your cool under pressure like waiting tables at a family restaurant. It should be required training for all military personnel. Coffee shops serve the whole gamut of humanity, early evening brings old couples and young families, while late night the place becomes the last stop for after hours workers, dates, and partiers looking to sober up. Single men sat at the counter, ordering the same meal night after night, engaging in what little conversations they could with the patient smiling girl paid to be on the other side. One regular used to stutter and work up the courage to finally blurt out “wwwwwhaaat’s good tonite?” and after I proffered a few ideas, settled on his usual ‘medium tip with blue cheese on the salad’. He never ordered anything else, but always asked his question, working up something close to a conversation. Another counter regular was the spitting image of the horror film star, Vincent Price. He was always smiling and chatty and went to the Sav-on drugstore after his dinner and got a nickel ice cream cone - he loved the idea that you could still get an ice cream cone for a nickel. Wouldn’t it be funny if it really was Vincent Price, getting his dinner at Bob’s Big Boy and having a nickel ice cream cone afterwards, how weird would that be? The busboys were all from Mexico and whether they had legitimate paperwork or not was a grey area that no one bothered to discuss. Most, if not all of them were married and lived frugally, sending the bulk of their money back home. Our group (about 6 or so) lived in a ramshackle house just behind the restaurant. Jesus was gaunt and serious, all business. Felipe, in his 60s, was a cheery tiny man. I remember him constantly laughing and talking rapidly in Spanish (which I spoke not a word) his eyes lit up and hands waved describing the plot of his favorite movie, Godzilla. Santiago was young and handsome, an industrious worker who spent his free time and money going to the Forum in LA hoping to be a boxer. He was always sighing in my presence and exclaiming ‘Corazon!’ until finally I gave in and stopped by their home after closing for a visit. They were all very hard working; warm, decent guys and I had absolutely no qualms about being at their house after hours. I did have uneasiness about working at the restaurant and going home at nights to a nice house up on the hill with a swimming pool while many of my co-workers lived in make-ends-meet conditions. That is the dilemma of an entry level job for someone with little experience in anything other than babysitting and doing homework. Later, while in graduate school, I extended my job repertoire by becoming a motel maid. A 
wonderfully relaxing and mindless job - a vacation compared to waitressing, but then it paid way less. I almost feel sorry for those who have never had a nickel and dime job at some point in their lives, it is an experience which pays with a reality check whose value cannot be measured in dollars. On the rare occasions that I eat out, I leave my tip, visualizing the staff in the back room smoking, drinking sodas, complaining about rude customers and evil supervisors, strategizing how to placate aggressive cooks who sabotaged their orders for amusement, telling jokes, making their plans for the future. After doing my time at Bob’s Big Boy, this battle-scarred savvy waitress is ready to tackle whatever comes to sit at her table.
mber my first day on the job and my panic at having to take orders when every table in my section filled at the same time. Nothing makes or breaks your ability to maintain your cool under pressure like waiting tables at a family restaurant. It should be required training for all military personnel. Coffee shops serve the whole gamut of humanity, early evening brings old couples and young families, while late night the place becomes the last stop for after hours workers, dates, and partiers looking to sober up. Single men sat at the counter, ordering the same meal night after night, engaging in what little conversations they could with the patient smiling girl paid to be on the other side. One regular used to stutter and work up the courage to finally blurt out “wwwwwhaaat’s good tonite?” and after I proffered a few ideas, settled on his usual ‘medium tip with blue cheese on the salad’. He never ordered anything else, but always asked his question, working up something close to a conversation. Another counter regular was the spitting image of the horror film star, Vincent Price. He was always smiling and chatty and went to the Sav-on drugstore after his dinner and got a nickel ice cream cone - he loved the idea that you could still get an ice cream cone for a nickel. Wouldn’t it be funny if it really was Vincent Price, getting his dinner at Bob’s Big Boy and having a nickel ice cream cone afterwards, how weird would that be? The busboys were all from Mexico and whether they had legitimate paperwork or not was a grey area that no one bothered to discuss. Most, if not all of them were married and lived frugally, sending the bulk of their money back home. Our group (about 6 or so) lived in a ramshackle house just behind the restaurant. Jesus was gaunt and serious, all business. Felipe, in his 60s, was a cheery tiny man. I remember him constantly laughing and talking rapidly in Spanish (which I spoke not a word) his eyes lit up and hands waved describing the plot of his favorite movie, Godzilla. Santiago was young and handsome, an industrious worker who spent his free time and money going to the Forum in LA hoping to be a boxer. He was always sighing in my presence and exclaiming ‘Corazon!’ until finally I gave in and stopped by their home after closing for a visit. They were all very hard working; warm, decent guys and I had absolutely no qualms about being at their house after hours. I did have uneasiness about working at the restaurant and going home at nights to a nice house up on the hill with a swimming pool while many of my co-workers lived in make-ends-meet conditions. That is the dilemma of an entry level job for someone with little experience in anything other than babysitting and doing homework. Later, while in graduate school, I extended my job repertoire by becoming a motel maid. A 
wonderfully relaxing and mindless job - a vacation compared to waitressing, but then it paid way less. I almost feel sorry for those who have never had a nickel and dime job at some point in their lives, it is an experience which pays with a reality check whose value cannot be measured in dollars. On the rare occasions that I eat out, I leave my tip, visualizing the staff in the back room smoking, drinking sodas, complaining about rude customers and evil supervisors, strategizing how to placate aggressive cooks who sabotaged their orders for amusement, telling jokes, making their plans for the future. After doing my time at Bob’s Big Boy, this battle-scarred savvy waitress is ready to tackle whatever comes to sit at her table.
