[ tip your server :: you're hired! ]

Part I of IV. All names have been changed for privacy.

As of late, two or three of my best friends and I have escaped the usual study routine in our dorm rooms, journeying a hundred feet or so to the hidden treasure that is the back lobby of Kelley Hall.

Often we take our computers (I haul my Dell while they bring their grab-and-go Apple laptops) and the books we need for the research papers and essays we're writing. The three or four of us claim a table near an outlet, plugging in only for power; there's no Internet access here. The only persistent thought is the task at hand; otherwise, we're carefree, taking breaks for coffee or conversations about faith and life after college that last for hours.

We're dreamers. Into the early morning, we talk earnestly about our desire to be a real part of people's lives, leaving the "American Dream" behind to chase after God's plans, even if it means moving thousands of miles away or living in a modest apartment or small home our entire lives. This is all very exciting to us, to be honest.

When we talk, I tend to forget the months that have passed; namely, the summer months spent at home in northern Ohio serving tables at a large chain restaurant specializing in home-cookin'.

For dozens of my coworkers, living sustainably wasn't something to be attained after realizing that the world had nothing much to offer. It was reality. In fact, it was a reality to be firmly grasped on a daily, if not moment-by-moment basis. Sustainability was the chief aim, not a decision made through late-night dialogue and careful introspection.

I had experience in food service, having worked at a locally-owned Italian restaurant throughout my junior year of high school, waiting on families whose daughters I played middle school volleyball with and whose sons starred on our champion football team. Families seemed to understand if their pizza took a few minutes longer than usual if the football game had just ended or if we were understaffed for the evening. They would call me by name, asking me about my plans for college or where my graduation party was going to be held. Small-town America, defined.

Serving for a corporately-owned restaurant, though, was fairly new to me. I had known for awhile that I wanted to serve tables for the summer, but I'm not sure if I knew what I was getting myself into. Waiting tables seemed glorified to me; I even manufactured a formula for how much in tip money I could make on a weekly basis, taking into account the number of tables I would have at one point in time and, of course, the fifteen to twenty-percent tips that guests would surely leave on the table.

I was hired as a server within a half-hour or so of filling out an application during an open house at the restaurant, interviewing with both an associate manager and the "G.M.," or one commonly-held slang term for the general manager of the restaurant. Matt*, the associate manager, asked me scripted questions: "Tell us about one poor experience you had with a coworker and how you defeated circumstances and were able to rise to the top." Jeff, the G.M., was concerned about the length of my serving stint: a college summer, almost three months exactly. He asked me why I wanted to work for the company, to which I replied with probably a fairly sugar-glazed answer. I wanted the job; I desired the security of knowing that I had obtained a full-time job only a few days after arriving home from campus. And it worked.

Training was two-fold: first, the group of newly-hired employees met each morning the following week with Shellie, our employee services coordinator. She made the early-morning training as pleasant as she could, enticing us with sampler platters of customers' favorite home-cooked dishes and with fountain drinks (which would be off-limits in only a few days; company policy). Shellie has one of those charming personalities that invites young and old in, drawing them into her life with anecdotes that make her life as a middle-class American look like gold. Shellie is the heart of that restaurant. Even the half-dozen or so managers will admit that.

Secondly, the new hires were required to shadow an experienced server for a week or so, tagging along and acting as the runner for refills of fresh-brewed sweet tea and extra maple syrup. I liked this time; I could ask Lydia, my trainer, about her life without having to worry too much about ticket times or the crispness of bacon. I'd tag along during night shifts after her gardening, cleaning-filled days; she had been planning for her father's surprise eightieth birthday party for months. I asked her about the food she'd be preparing; she was concerned about the price of deli meat, and of gas and plasticware. An extra hundred dollars or so is not easy to come by, even as a waitress who has faithfully served a restaurant since its opening.

Training was that in-between time that gives you a quick, outside glimpse into circumstances that are a bit blurred, slightly tainted. It was an adjustment, to be sure, but still was that comfortable time when you aren't fully 'let loose' into independence and responsibility.

Frankly, I had no idea that being released into serving on my own would be the beginning of a three-month stint not only just for sustainability, but for some serious, needed life lessons.