Exile on Maine

At the end of each shift, I add up all my credit card tips on a calculator that prints my day’s earnings onto a little slip of paper.  Most of the numbers are small:  a lot of 5’s, a few 10’s, and the occasional 20.  Each day I look forward to doing the math namely due to a large (but shrinking) number that always looms over my head:  $28,000 in student loans that I want desperately out of my life before I turn thirty, when I’ll really need some financial breathing room.  Paying off such a substantial burden with pocket-change tips seems tantamount to melting a glacier with a book of matches, but this is meant to be a long and steady race.  I don’t know much about the stock market, nor do I have the mind for property investment.  The only financial strength of which I am confident is the ability to save money.  If this lifestyle has taught me one lesson it is how to live frugally yet fully.  As of now, I know no better strategy than to ...

Every time I go to work I try to make as much money as possible.  Generally, I can accomplish this by moving faster and adopting a more pleasant demeanor in front of guests (i.e. smiling, offering vacationary advice, and saying thank you for actions that are generally expected, like telling me what you want to eat), but my money-making means are more complicated than this and require a thorough analysis.  Those who earn wages or salaries accrue funds at a fixed rate, but a server’s earnings fluctuate with numerous variables.  Working for tips is risky, as the outcomes can waiver between uplifting one day and frustrating the next.  Strangers are responsible for your financial well-being.     Diverse samplings of the local and faraway populations come into the restaurant, and every guest has his predetermined philosophy regarding the tip.  Sympathetic people automatically tip 20%, no matter the quality of service, because they either have wait...

Every morning before work there is a five-minute interval that cannot be filled with anything.  I have finished my meal, and I’m dressed in my uniform.  There isn’t enough time to start reading the next chapter of my book.  I could start up a conversation that would have to be cut short.  I don’t dread going to work.  There’s no courage to muster, no disinclination to smother.  I don’t imagine how the day will unravel.  I try not to aimlessly scroll through my phone while I wait because there is rarely anything to be gained by this habit.  I’d much rather think about nothing.  I stare blankly, catatonically through everyone in front of me until the strain in my hamstring recedes.  My fatigue dissipates as the morning caffeine takes effect.  Those 300 seconds become pliable like stretchy Playdoh and I forget my contractual obligation to labor manually.  Through effort or lack thereof, I am searching for bliss, a flow state...