Jobs # 5 (Uno's - Chicago)

I somehow managed to make it through high school, despite my grades being terrible by the end of my Junior year. I’d failed Chemistry and had to take Summer school. I made it through that and decided it would be best to focus on school until I figured out my life. So came two years of not working. I graduated from high school in 2002 and started college at UMKC the same year without any idea what I was doing. I felt like the train was moving really fast, and I didn’t know where I wanted to jump off.

I ended up following my girlfriend at the time and a few friends to Chicago in the fall of ‘03. Some of my best friends had already been up there for a year at least, so I had hope it would be my next big step. I could write a whole series about my four years in Chicago, and probably will, but for now, suffice it to say that I was young, terrified, and hopeful I’d figure it out.

My father, who has always tried and failed to understand me, insisted that I get a job as soon as I arrived in Chicago. I guess my student loans weren’t enough to cover all the living expenses at the time. As a regular at the Pizzeria Uno’s on The Plaza, he’d gained clout and actually got me a job at their original location at 29 E. Ohio Street in Chicago. The only catch was that I had to be a host instead of a busser or server.

I wasn’t thrilled about having to take two buses to work. I was nineteen and entirely out of my element. I’m also a very introverted person in general, so the thought of having to greet and accommodate several tourist strangers all day scared the hell out of me. I was going to school for writing, though, so I told myself I knew what I was doing.

I remember Rod, the general manager, greeting me as if I were a piece of trash he had to sweep up. He seemed mystified to have me in his presence, even though all of his other hosts were the same age with roughly the same experience. I started hosting. Besides the characters I remember, all I can say about this job is that it was not for me.

There was a man who came in every Saturday at 9AM and drank beer at the bar for my entire shift. I left at 4 PM. He did not. I remember he wore a Newsboy cap, had gin blossoms, and demanded to watch soccer all day, regardless of what was happening. He might have been my favorite.

The cooks in the back would curse at me in Spanish, even though I had nothing to do with their operation at all. I would come back to order a shift meal, and they would unleash a barrage of obscenities at me, even if we were slow. I learned a lot about this later as well.

There were friendly folks as well. I met another host named Spencer who was from Las Vegas. He was a very kind nerd who told me about the film "Instrument," which featured one of my favorite bands, Fugazi, that I had not heard of at the time. He and a few others made me feel more comfortable.

I saw a young couple, not clearly intoxicated in any way, come in, order appetizers, and suddenly both vomit uncontrollably on their table at the same time. They had to be rushed out.

Hosting was relatively painless at first, but once the outside waiting room filled up and people started taking their time in this small restaurant, it became very frustrating. People waiting were quoted times, and those times were not met. Consistently. This was all our fault.

I worked there for about nine months, maintaining decent grades at school despite my circumstances. Things would get a lot harder, though. One day, Rod called me into the office and said things “weren’t working out.” It was the first time I’d been fired, and I still remember the relief that coursed through my veins.

I took the two buses back to our very cramped apartment and breathed. I had no idea what was ahead of me, but I knew I was happy that this chapter was over.