Feliz Nuevo Ano

I woke up yesterday, New Year's Eve, feeling terribly depressed.

I felt tired from working at Toro the evening before, with so little time to recuperate from our hellish trip back from California/Colorado. I felt exhausted by the thought of having to work there again that night, New Year's Eve. And I felt cranky that when you work in the service industry, holidays are not special days--they are work days, with certain holidays (like New Year's Eve, Valentine's Day, and Mother's Day) representing the exact opposite of the special, relaxing experience the perfect holiday night should be. Inevitably marred by overbooked restaurant seatings, complicated tasting menus that confuse the most streamlined kitchen crews, and overdressed guests with inflated expectations, it's a miracle that restaurant industry professionals survive these nights each year

But mostly I felt deeply discouraged that, after almost ten years in the service industry, I am still totally married to it. My writing and public relations careers have progressed, to be sure: I been promoted one and a half times in my PR job, have acquired a literary agent for my writing career, and am reaching a modicum of professional success that any other 28-year-old would likely find extremely satisfying. Yet still, after all of this time, it is the waitressing money I depend upon to make ends meet each month.

It's not Toro's fault. I love everything about working at Toro: the people I work with, the delicious food, the easy money. That job is a waitress's dream. It's not even the restaurant industry's fault. Ultimately, having to work two jobs, well, that's what I get for choosing an artistic, half-dead industry for my career. Theoretically, I don't regret that choice for a second. When it comes to working holidays, however, I have to wonder: would a career in a boring-yet-lucrative industry have been so bad?

All day long, I pouted about having to work on New Year's Eve. I lingered about the house as late as I could that afternoon, curling my hair to cover up my mood with a "festive" 'do, watching snippets of the Law & Order: Criminal Intent marathon, fussing endlessly with my eye make-up. I didn't leave for work until the last possible minute--so late I had to take a cab to Toro to make it there by 4 p.m. A cold gust of wind whipped my freshly curled New Year's Eve locks into my face, rendering me blind as the taxi pulled up to the curb to collect me.

"1704 Washington Street," I told the cab driver, then sank into the backseat to resume pouting.

"So, are you ready for the New Year?" the cabbie asked in proper, accented English.

"No, I'm really not," I replied. "I'm heading to work at my waitress job now, and I'm not really sure what to expect. New Year's Eve is always kinda crazy."

"Yes, yes, this is true," the cabbie laughed. "Lots of people out and about. But I bet the money is good, yes?"

"Yeah, I guess. I've just been working New Year's Eve for so many years now. I hardly think it's worth it any more. So many people, so much pressure, and it's so stressful."

"Yes," the cab-driver chimed in, "it's difficult. So busy and people are so crazy!"

"Yeah! And in my experience, you usually end up over-staffed and not really making much more money than you would on a busy Saturday. I'm just over it, I guess. I hate working holidays."

Neither of us said anything for a moment. I descended another step in my path to self-pity.

"I know," the cab driver said, his voice heavy. "I came to this country five years ago. Originally I am from Brazil. And the very first time I worked New Year's Eve here, I cried."

"Really?" I said.

"Yes, yes, it's true. I pulled right over to the side of the road and just cried. Because in Brazil, I never worked on New Year's Eve. Never! I always spent the night with my family, my friends, celebrating. But when I came here, the New Year just didn't feel much of a holiday. So I worked. No family here, not many friends. Might as well work."

"Yeah," I said, my voice soft in my throat. "Might as well work." I tried to imagine what it would be like to drive a taxi back and forth across the city all night, in a cold, snowy foreign country, without a single friend or family member to see on New Year's Eve. People are so rude to taxi drivers, way ruder than they are to waitresses, and especially when they're drunk, which people always are on New Year's Eve. Suddenly I was jarred out of feeling bad for myself, and directly into feeling bad for this poor Brazilian cab driver.

"Anyway, that's life, you know?" the cab driver said. "Everybody has to work. You have to make money, and to make money, you have to work."

"It's true," I said. "That's life."

A moment later, there we were, at Toro. "Thanks so much," I said, "And thanks for chatting with me. I wish you the best and I hope you have a Happy New Year."

"Thank you!" he said. "Good luck tonight! And I hope you have a Happy New Year, too!"

"I will," I said, thinking of the awesome friends I work with, awaiting me inside, my wonderful boyfriend, awaiting me at home, my beautiful, comfortable, truly home-y Boston home. "I definitely will."

And I did.

taxi driver

Dear Boston,
Great Armageddon impression. Can we have some decent weather back?
Love,
your friend,
a Soaked & Tired Blonde Waitress trying desperately to hail a cab after a total bummer of a Sunday night shift

This was all I could think as I slipped and slid over a veritable death-trap of sidewalk, directly into a 6-inch deep puddle in the middle of the road. This city is soaked people, and its streets over-runneth like a super-saturated sponge. When I called to book a taxi to bring me to work at Toro 7 hours earlier, the dispatch at City Cab quoted me a 2-1/2 hour wait. The dispatches at Town Taxi and Boston Cab didn't even pick up. I am so screwed, I think, as a Silver Line bus splashes past, spraying a 4 foot-tall wall of chunky, icy water in all directions.

Then, a miracle. A taxi appears, way, way down Washington Street, on the other side of Mass Ave. I begin to wave furiously, screaming "Taxi! Taxi" into the deaf frigid air. Please let it be empty, please let it be empty. Somehow, the driver sees me, and flashes his brights at me from so far away: he is coming to take me home!

The cab pulls up near where I stand in the middle of Washington Street, only he passes me by about 4 feet. He holds up an index finger in the window as he glides by, as though to say, "Hang on a sec,"while his cab slows to a stop. What the...? I think, Is he dropping someone off first? Then I realize, he's expertly maneuvering the cab so as to avoid splashing the aforementioned puddle every which way. Such attention to detail, I think, and run to grab the passenger door handle fast as my massive boots will carry me.

"How are you this evening?" the driver asks. The Taxi Driver has a long-ish, bushy white beard that makes him looks like Santa. I consider telling him this, but don't.

"Okay," I sigh. "It sucks out tonight! Boy, you must have been busy today!" I tell him my address and we are off.

"We were kind of busy..." he responds. "Weather made it kinda hard to get around." Then his phone rings, and our small talk dies, which is fine with me. I zone out and stare out the window, thinking about the holidays and packing and our big trip to California tomorrow, for which I still have not packed. The Grateful Dead hums in the background. Bits of the Taxi Driver's conversation drift into my consciousness.

"Hey..." he says into the phone, "What are you up to? About to turn in?" His voice is gentle and private. I imagine he's talking to his wife, and try to guess what she looks like. Maybe like Mrs. Claus? I appraise his profile and decide not. I bet she is a short, wiry brunette, with a simple, pretty face and a strong jaw.

"Oh...Oh no," he says. "Well, that's too bad...Well, I guess we'll have to get a new one then...You're right, we can't afford it, just like we can't afford the mortgage, either..." he laughs, but it's not a very funny laugh. "Okay, well, just put it on your debit card...put it on the Citizen's Bank credit card, that's all we can do...I know, it's going to cost like $240 in interest by the time we're doing paying for it, but we need a new one. What else can we do?" His sigh is heavy. "Alright, love you. Talk to you later."

We are almost at my street, at the corner of Berkley and Tremont. "Now, where did you want to get out here? On the corner?"

"Actually, if you don't mind going left here, I'll get out right after the light," I say.

"Okay," he says, turning wide and slow on the icy pavement. "Right here? I can turn down Warren if you want..." He says.

"No, no worries. I'll just hope out at the corner. It's a one way at the top and you'd just have to turn around."

"Oh. Okay," he says, a little surprised by my decision to make his job a little easier. "It's $4.35," he says, but I am already passing a $5 and five $1's through the open Plexiglass window.

"Thank you so much," I say, gathering my things and pushing the door open. "Have a great night!"

"I'll try," he says. "I just found out I need to work another shift to pay for a broken computer, but what can you do" he shrugs and laughs, but it's not a very funny laugh. "Oh well." I hear him shuffling the bills as I place a ginger boot on the icy pavement. "Be careful, it might be icy," he says.

"Thanks, I will. Happy Holidays!" I slam the door behind me before he can say anything about the 100% tip I just gave him.

I'm not really sure why I just did that, and it's certainly not like I can afford it. But I hope the broke Taxi Driver takes it for what it is--an arbitrarily big tip as a token of gratitude, simply because he seemed like he needed someone to say thank you for once. And also, because he saved a blonde in need from chunky icy puddle and Armageddon-like weather. If you were outside at all yesterday, you know-- that was priceless.