
"You aren't busing the tables fast enough." My brother was explaining that my job was in jeopardy. I was fifteen years old and had secured my first non-lawn mowing job: busing tables at a local pizza place.
The work instructions were clear: Walk to the dining room regularly (or when prompted), find the cluttered table without customers and get to work. The gray bus tub was to be distanced from customers - if possible they shouldn't see inside it. NEVER place it on the table; always on the chair. The tables were to be cleared quickly and quietly. Stack the plates and cups, place the silverware on the side, put trash and food in the corner of the tub. Wipe the table and chairs clean and get back to the kitchen where Kenny, the dishwasher would take over.
How could I fail? What could I do more quickly? Better. "Jon says you need to pick it up or he can't keep you," my brother explained, referring to the restaurant owner. I was at the bottom of the totem pole - busboys were "dirtballs" according to all the other employees. Master busing and you moved to the grill or pizza table where you could make food. Get that down and you could work the ovens, cut pizzas, assemble orders for the wait staff. Get the kitchen down and you might wait tables where you could earn tips and interact with customers. After that, the sky was the limit. You could fit into the schedule any day of the week. You were multi-talented and the world was your oyster. . .but I couldn't bus the tables quickly enough.
So I practiced. I took pointers from my brother: "Get all the plates first, then the cups and then the silverware. Use both hands. Secure the bus pan with your knees." I perfected my art. I busted my ass to get better so that I could make subs and steak sandwiches. . .fry fish, onion rings and mushrooms. . .make all the pizzas, cut them, serve them. . .manage the kitchen.
I never once thought the owner had it in for me. I never trashed him to the other employees. I appreciated my brother's willingness to help. I watched how others bused the tables. I engaged the owner to understand how he wanted things completed. I wanted to advance. I wanted more. I never once thought that I was owed a certain number of hours during the week. The system was brutally predictable: Do well and don't complain and you found yourself working all the hours you could handle; take lots of breaks, loaf or complain and there was plenty of free time. In the end, I could perform every function in the place.
We hear about people starting in the mail room and working their way up, one job at a time. I wonder if it is becoming a thing of the past with required degrees and head hunters and specialists. It shouldn't. The message to employees should one of advancement; for employers of promoting within if at all possible. The line worker who moves into management surely holds real value for a company. The mail clerk who works through positions gives an important perspective. I hope that there is always room for advancement.