For about two years, in the late 90’s, I worked at a restaurant in Hollywood that shall remain nameless. It was less a restaurant and more a “chicken shack”, as we called it not so much affectionately, and at night it turned into *the* place to be if you were a young, hot movie or TV star, hip Scientologist, or poor drunk unemployed actor. I served cocktails to Kristie Alley, Tina Fey, Jenna Elfman, Edward Norton, Fiona Apple. I brought free french fries to Jonathan Silverman more than once because I kinda felt sorry for him that his most memorable role was in “Weekend at Bernie’s”. I made almost as much money as I make now, except all in cash, working four five-hour shifts a week.
I had a wretched crush on the bartender, who was a decade my senior but strong and adorable. (When I finally confessed my crush, on my last day of work, he basically smiled ruefully and patted my head.) I was also systematically ostracized by almost every person who worked there. The owner used to joke- incessantly- that I must be on Prozac, because who in god’s name is happy most of the time? The people who worked there, my colleages, my partners in crime, would loudly make post-work plans and pointedly not invite me. One time, a certain waiter and waitress were discussing renting a movie after work, when they realized neither of them would get off in time to make it to the rental place before it closed. (There were always three of us working the floor, and I was the one who was to be “cut” first that eve, which meant both of them worked late.) The waitress, knowing I got off early, actually looked at me, said, “Hey, would you rent a movie for me and (fill in name) to watch?!” and walked away chortling at the funny like clown joke she had just made.
Everyone there were “actors” who just hadn’t quite made it yet. This waitress in particular had been working at the chicken shack for eight years, and let’s just say the bloom of her youth, according to Hollywood standards, had left her some time ago. Alcohol, cigarettes, late nights, and an angry, cruel, bitter heart had aged her well past ingenue status. I was somehow still firmly in that category, and she loathed me for it. She also hated that I was an accomplished singer, since she fancied herself talented, even though- and I’m just saying this as fact- the girl couldn’t sing in tune. One time, I was singing a little Alanis Morisette to myself, and the waitress happened to walk by, and she looked at me and sneered, “ugh, that just sounds so… *perfect*”, indicating that if I was a *real* singer, it would have been, I dunno, more raw, more interesting.
I once made one decent friend there, a guy whose first night on the job was with me and one of my coworkers who was far more decent to me. We hit it off, and started spending time together outside of work. He was a mess, but he was a friend. And, then, I took two weeks off to travel to Italy, and by the time I’d gotten back, the waitress had turned his eye away from me- and indeed, was the cohort who guffawed when the waitress asked me to rent movies for them.
It was a sad, dark time, for so many reasons, but the really, truly disturbing part of all of this is I took it. I never once defended myself from the attacks, never once told one of them to fuck right off, never came back with equally ugly retorts. I may as well have laid down on the cold, sticky, ketchup-covered cement floor and allowed them to take turns kicking me. I dreaded every moment of being there, when I was there, when I was off at the beach, when I was anywhere. It was an infectious, poisonous place, where I gulped the Kool-Aid by the bucketful without ever once raising an eyebrow.
I know I’d never let that happen now, and indeed, I’ve become someone wholly unafraid of positive confrontation. But it saddens me that for two years, I spent my days mostly alone, my evenings selling my soul for a paycheck, and my nights, without exception, entirely alone. It was also my skinniest two years, which I accomplished by obsessive cardio exercise and utterly starving myself. Really, I was starving myself in numerous ways, and it just makes me sad that I was willing to do any of it. It’s stunning how poorly those people treated me; but even more stunning was my willingness to embrace the abuse.