In this past week, I interviewed Ronald Ritter, a crane operator who sits 200 feet in the sky while moving heavy construction materials from one point to another.
My first immediate thought was, “I would never, ever, ever want to do that job.” It wasn’t just about the height of his cab from the ground (although that was certainly a big factor). It was also the fact that he had to be on site for about 6:30am, climb up 10 sections of tower before he even started work, and had no easy access to a toilet. Of course, he loves every moment of being up there, and understandably boasts about the incredible views he has from that vantage point. I’m sorry, but there would be no view exceptional enough to make me change places with him.
It got me thinking about other jobs I’d really rather not do, if it’s all the same to you.
Being a server at a restaurant is pretty back-breaking work. My dear friend Carol did that job for many a year in Toronto, Canada, and much like a rugby player now entering middle age, she feels that her aches, pains, problems with her shoulder, twinges in her back, and general random numbness in her legs are all a result of the choices she made in her youth. Carrying heavy trays of food back and forth from kitchens to tables, sometimes over a double shift, would make anyone’s ankles bemoan their lot in life.
I marvel when I see servers on the beach, walking across deep sand in the sun, conveying drinks and bento boxes to happy tourists, for hours at a time. Why would any of them get a gym membership? I’d be dead after the first 15 minutes, collapsed on the sand like a stranded mammal, hoping to be dragged to safety.
I actually did try hospitality work in my early 20s. I wasn’t meant to be a server (cue Monty Python’s ‘Lumberjack’ skit) – I was just supposed to be a hostess – but a lack of staff and sheer necessity catapulted me into the role. I learned very quickly that opening wine bottles with a sommelier corkscrew required a skill I didn’t possess. As I would be looked upon as a heathen if I presented a winged butterfly or bunny ears lever model, I often tried to open the wine in the back, away from prying eyes, so the customers wouldn’t see me savage the cork of one bottle and subsequently reach for another. I at least knew enough not to come out with the opened pinot noir, two wine glasses, and two coffee filters with which to catch the shards of broken cork as I poured.
Mercifully, most clients didn’t care, but there was one couple that regularly dined with us and would always bring their own wine. For those evenings, I would often turn to the only other server in the place, who was very experienced. Unfortunately, one night she was off sick, so I had to handle everything on my own. There were only a few bookings, so I thought I’d be fine, but then The Couple showed up with their bottle. Help.
I knew I couldn’t spirit it away and return with it magically opened, so I whipped out the sommelier corkscrew, and with much flourish, attempted to engage it in front of them. Five minutes later, the husband, sensing he was witnessing a conflict with no end in sight, gently took the bottle and implement away from me, and expertly opened it in seconds. “Thanks,” I whispered, trying to get back in professional mode by pouring for them and then heading to the kitchen to get their appetisers, which had been waiting patiently: Mussels in a white wine sauce.
I carried the tray to their table, and as I stood beside them, decided to reach for their napkins to put on their laps. At the same time, I tipped the tray, and sent a goodly portion of white wine sauce cascading into the wife’s glass of wine.
Unbelievably, I have not been hired by The Ritz-Carlton.
I wonder if people realise the skill and dedication it takes to be a professional server. You have to memorise the menu, remember a dizzying array of orders, and who ordered what on each table. You’re on your feet for hours at a time, carrying heavy loads, and you sometimes have to deal with unruly or unpleasant customers with courtesy and patience. Honestly, it could be considered basic training for a large number of professions.
I’ve also accepted, over the years, that I could never have been a teacher. My mother has been an educator her whole life, and even after she had long retired, was still tutoring and helping children with their maths classes. No matter where I go on the island, I’ll bump into someone she taught and they all invariably ask me to please pass on their best to her and that she was so fantastic to have as a teacher. I admire her so much for it, as I just don’t feel I could have given that level of commitment that she did. Often at nighttime, after she’d made dinner and we were doing our homework, she’d be marking papers or working on lessons for the coming week. She was also probably more excited about getting her students’ exam results than they were, eager to see how they had done and always hoping for the best for them.
In my day (which is the kind of thing an older person says), we’d pass notes or talk in class, but now teachers have kids with mobile phones to deal with. It’s not an easy job – in fact, it’s more of a calling. Although I know it was never the career for me, I really appreciate those who are dedicated to seeing their students succeed.
Finally, I don’t think I could have ever been a pirate. In the beginning, the outfits and the idea of bottomless rum really appealed. I mean, who doesn’t love a good pair of boots? Then there’s the cloaks and the ruffles, big belts and swashbuckling and the like. Plus, the dramatic person within me loved the idea of being able to bandy about words and phrases like “Shiver me timbers”, “Avast ye!” and calling someone “Son of a biscuit-eater” (whatever that means – sounds like an insult, but why are biscuits getting a bad rap?). Only problem is that I’m a bit of a landlubber at heart. I don’t mean I don’t like the sea – I’m as happy as the next person to be on a catamaran watching the sunset, or heading out on a speedboat to Stingray City.
My difficulties begin below deck. Whenever I went out on the Jolly Roger, the Valhalla or one of the myriad ‘pirate ship’ booze cruises that used to run here, a visit to the head downstairs would instantly bring on the nausea. Maybe it’s because there was no airflow or air-conditioning down there, or maybe my sea legs just hadn’t engaged. Whatever it was, I knew I couldn’t last for long before needing to get back up on deck. Therefore, it would have been a very miserable time, sailing from island to island to maraud or whatever was on the schedule that week. I probably would eventually have been made to walk the plank, of which I would also have not been a fan, as again, I don’t like heights.
The films make a pirate’s life seem so exotic, but have we ever thought about the lack of showers? And those cloaks had to be unforgiving garb in the Caribbean heat.
These are just a few examples of jobs I’ve decided I could never do, but there are many more. Surgery is out of the question – I can’t even watch an operating theatre scene in ‘The Resident’. Archaeology went out with the bathwater as well, when I saw how extricating one dinosaur bone can take weeks with only an eyeshadow brush allowed as a tool. Two hours in, I’d be reaching for a crowbar.
I think I’ve found my calling in life – being an entertainer and journalist. Writer’s block can be a right pain sometimes, but it beats vomiting all over a pirate galleon as the captain and crew ready the plank.
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