Goodbye TJ Elliott's

            For the most part, I think everyone has their story about “the job from Hell.” From what I’ve heard so far, these horror stories tend to fall under either the restaurant or the retail category. For about two years I worked an Italian restaurant called TJ Elliott’s, which also sold Lido’s pizza (for some reason, the pizza at Lido’s always tasted a little better though they used the exact same recipe). From my experience, the restaurant business is one of the worst jobs you can work, not only because of the disrespect you receive from customers daily, but more importantly, the lack of respect provided by your coworkers, especially your superiors. It was very clear that despite working there for two years, I could be fired and replaced quickly. I am not going to complain about this job, I am simply going to relay the facts.

            When I started working at TJ’s at 16, I was paid about $7.75 an hour and worked a shift from 4:30pm until close (about a 6-hour shift). This was under the minimum wage for the county at the time. When I confronted my manager about it, she told me that it was legal for them to do so because of something called a “student wage,” which essentially allowed them to pay me as much as seemed fit within reason. They also paid in cash. This had something to do with the fact that the restaurant might not have enough money in the bank to pay for the food for the next day if all the employees cashed their checks at once.

Toward the beginning, I was put on the schedule solely as the bus boy and I was trained by the hostess at the time. She trained me to do all my work, as well as hers. After a couple of months, my boss, Mary, started to put me on the schedule as the host/bus boy. I got paid the same amount of money for double the work. Bus boys were never tipped out by the waitresses, though on many nights our job was far more difficult than theirs. They often made $200 in a night while I would make $60 for doing the same amount of work.

Mary only ever scheduled me for the weekend shifts. Once a month, without Mary telling me, I would be put on the schedule to work a band night. This meant that I did about 3 times what I usually did, while making the same amount of money. The crowd drawn to these events were usually men and women in their 40s-60s who seemed to be trying to relive their partying days. They were obnoxious, drunk, and sometimes very inappropriate in the way they talked to me. It usually ended around 1:30am. That is, assuming one of the women standing right next to me didn’t scream “encore.” After the second time she did this I stood up and yelled at her, “No, I want to go home!”

At the end of the night I was starving. The restaurant would not feed its own employees. We got a 50% discount, which was still more expensive than running to the Burger King across the street, which I often did and got yelled at for. After band nights, I would drive myself to a McDonald’s at around 2am and have my own little pity party.

My only saving grace was the young woman who I will for the rest of my life refer to as “my waitress.” Her name was Chelsea Perrus and she was my rock. She was Mary’s 22-year-old granddaughter who had worked there since she was 16. She was beautiful, funny, and just the right amount of intrusive to keep my night interesting. I think the first thing she asked me was, “Have you lost your virginity yet?” immediately followed by “When do you turn 18?” Some nights when she was bored and wanted a partner, we would tag team each other’s job. I would help her serve and take drink orders, and she would help people at the door if I was busy doing something else. I miss Chelsea and hope she is having a fantastic Valentine’s day with her loving boyfriend.

The worst part about this job was not the work. It was not feeling appreciated or valued for what you were doing the entire night for everyone else. TJ Elliott’s went out of business a few years after I left, a month after my younger brother quit. He and I now like to eat at the Lido’s which has absorbed the property to make ourselves feel better about all the time we wasted at that dead-end job.