#underemployed

Dining Room Attendant

I woke up this morning still hoping there had been some mistake. That maybe I had dreamed the whole thing. That maybe, overnight, I’d get an email from a real job—one that would save me from what I was about to do.

But reality doesn’t work like that.

I arrived ten minutes early, as instructed, wearing what I thought was an appropriate outfit—only to be met with my first lesson in corporate conformity.

Before I could even clock in, my manager, a guy named Jake, who is a twink who looks 19 looked me up and down and immediately shook his head. “Shirt’s too loose, and your pants aren’t regulation.”

I had assumed that any black pants would do. But no. Mine weren’t “approved” because they weren’t the stiff, scratchy, polyester kind that make your legs feel like they’re wrapped in a garbage bag. He tossed me a folded uniform package and pointed to the bathroom.

Inside, I unwrapped my new identity. Another grease-scented polo with the Burger King logo. Thin crusty Black pants, . A visor—because nothing says authority like a flimsy piece of plastic strapped to your forehead. And, of course, the non-slip shoes. I put it all on and looked at myself in the gross mirror.

I had never felt smaller in my life. But I guess my life now is small and insignificant. Just Tyler the Trainee at Burger King.

Jake took me to the front of the store and gestured toward the tables. “Your job is to keep this clean. Wipe down the tables, sweep, mop, empty the trash. Make sure it looks presentable.” “

If you see a mess, clean it up. If you don’t see a mess, find one."

It sounded easy enough. But the moment I started, I realized something: nobody respects the guy cleaning tables. Customers don’t move out of the way. They keep eating as you awkwardly reach around them to wipe down surfaces. Some don’t even acknowledge you exist.

I spent the next two hours wiping down tables while customers barely acknowledged my existence. So many managed to leave their trays for me to clean up, others shoved their trash into the bin that I’d have to empty later.

The worst was when I caught the glance of someone my age. Someone who had landed a real job. Someone who had been smarter, luckier, or just better at playing the game.

I could see it in their face—the silent recognition, the internal judgment.

He must’ve screwed up somewhere.

They never said it. But they didn’t have to.

I wanted to tell them, to tell them that this wasn’t me. That I was supposed to be in a city organizing movements, not scrubbing tables in a smelly uniform. That I had a degree. That I wasn’t some high school dropout stuck here forever.

But what good would that do?

Jake had me clock out at 9pm after they closed the dining room. I worked 6 hours today.

I guess i made $84 dollars today.

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📄 Job Search Struggles

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