I wish I could say that I have had considerable work experience. Some people, when asked about their place of work, are embarrassed to say that they have to flip burgers at Bojangles or mow lawns on 55th Street to earn their "pizza money" while in college. I wouldn't be. I'd step ahead, hike my chin up, roll down my eyes, straighten my posture, put a grin on my face, and proudly declare so everybody could hear: "I love my job cleaning up in McDonald's" or "I enjoy making chocolate fudge for Piggly Wiggly." I wish I could say that, and I wouldn't feel a bit uncomfortable or humiliated.
But I've never had a real job. Although I've been trying to get a position at a couple of places, I haven't been lucky enough to make it. Most places avoid hiring inexperienced workers to keep away from inevitable loss and damage that comes along with training workers like me. In my opinion, it is completely unfair because in order to get any job experience, you have to first get a job. I call it a vicious circle of inexperience.
However, I can say I have had interesting experiences trying to get a job. Once, I was put on probation at a Japanese restaurant. The owner of the restaurant, a good friend of my parents, let me work at his place of Oriental gourmet on New Year's Eve. My parents obviously never talk a lot about me outside of our house. They probably never mentioned that I am not allowed to cook at home after I almost burnt the house down simply trying to heat up the vegetable soup. Unfortunately for my parents, I had forgotten to turn off the stove, letting the soup boil until all the water evaporated, and the pan caught on fire. Fortunately for me, I have never had to approach the stove again. They say I am a kitchen monster. Also, they definitely never pointed out my incredible ability to drop everything that happens to be in my unwieldy hands, which is especially displeasing when it comes to my mother's favorite chinaware or an astoundingly fragile and expensive flower vase from Guatemala. They call me gauche, which in my case literally means that I was born with two left hands. In addition, they evidently never did mention the mild form of Attention Deficit Disorder they think I have because I tend to forget or mix up in some way absolutely everything that comes to my attention. They say that what comes in my right ear, goes out of the left (I tried to prove that it wasn't possible after I had taken a biology course. I even poured some water in my right ear to see whether it would come out on the opposite side, but it wouldn't come out at all. I had to jump on my right foot and shake my head for a half an hour to get it out, so don't even try to repeat my so-called experiment. Besides, they still would make that absurd statement every time I'd forget something.) Finally, they certainly never pointed out that no one can read my handwriting, even myself. That just proves the astonishing similarity between my hand and a chicken foot. They say that what comes out on paper naturally reflects what's going on in my head.
The owner of the restaurant, a very kind and always smiling man, Tsuoshi Iwatake (we call him Iwa for short), either had never heard about my exclusive clumsiness or was very desperate for workers because what kind of a loser would want to work on New Year's Eve. Apparently, he thought somebody would, so he asked me. As for me, I was happy to help him out, and I was very excited and worried at the same time about my first day of work. I was determined to do my best not to fall flat on my face and to try to keep the job into the New Year. It would be a great start, and I didn't want to screw it up.
It was explained that my duty was to answer the phone, write down the orders, take them to the kitchen and read them aloud, make out the bills, and check out the customers. I was shown how to operate the cash register, how to close it, and how to count the money at the end of the day. In addition, I could help out by making a salad, taking the drinks to the customers, and putting the crackers on the tables (needless to say, I was trying to avoid that at all costs.) Unsurprisingly for me, most of the information I accumulated during the brief training I had, was either lost in the midst of the occipital and the temporal lobes of my brain, or possibly came out of my left ear (I even started to believe that what my parents said about me was true.) My brain didn't fail me; it just worked as well or as badly as usual.
When the restaurant opened for lunch, I dreaded the first phone call. It was a lady who wanted some kind of the Japanese cuisine masterpiece which name I couldn't make out (I am not very familiar with Japanese words, and she probably wasn't either.) I asked her to repeat it three times, finally found something in the menu that looked like it was what she wanted, and wrote it down. As you would have thought, it wasn't the right item. Not only did Iwa have to cook the cursed dish for the surprised and impatient woman when she got to the restaurant, but he also didn't know what to do with the previous one or with the unfortunate worker, which I was at the moment. I thought he'd make me eat it and pay for it; but to my surprise, he just let me keep working. I wish he hadn't (and he probably does too).
When I proudly handed the first bill I made to the man that was ready to check out, he looked at the bill; then he looked at me; then he looked at the attractive woman he just had lunch with; then he looked at the bill again; and inquired: "Sixty-five dollars and forty-five cents?" (In actuality, Iwa's restaurant is considered to be one of those places where you can have lunch when you don't have a lot of money.) I gasped for air and noticed how rigidly white the ceiling was above my head. I didn't faint just because I don't ever faint (no matter how hard I try). And I am not an escapist; so I said, "Yes, sir." However, I realized that whoever taught me how to use a calculator did a lousy job. Apparently, he didn't want to belittle himself in the eyes of the woman he was with, so he paid. But he put the receipt in his wallet "so he wouldn't forget what it was for." Obviously, he was planning to talk to Iwa about it some time later. (I have never had a chance to find it out because I have never seen Iwa again since that day).
It is needless to count how many times I messed up on people's orders, spilt their drinks, or put the wrong dressing on their salads that day. When the shift ended, I was so tired and miserable that Iwa closed up the cash register for me, fired a short "Senk'u," and called the next day to tell my parents that my help was no longer needed. It wasn't necessary; for nothing in the world would I go back to work at Iwa's restaurant again.
That was my only, and hopefully, the worst work experience by far. As a freshman in college, I tend to think that by the time I graduate, I'll acquire many different abilities that will help me to get a worthwhile job. College is supposed to "get me straight," that is to teach me patience, responsibility, and critical thinking skills. I know that I will make a good worker in the future. I just have to convince an employer.
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