A Tale of Servitude

They sit around indifferently in overpriced leather chairs, in a room wearing the guise of opulence. There are tables laced with white linens, arranged in neat rows and topped with crystal wine glasses and fine silverware. They laugh and drink and revel in the exhibition of wealth. They are the richest men and women in Wilmington and beyond—and I bring them their bread. I’ve been in Hell’s kitchen: I work in a Country Club Restaurant.

When I first took the job at the Country Club of Landfall, I somehow felt like I was getting away with something. Cut bread, refill water, carry a few trays, and all for nine dollars an hour: it sounded like a job gifted to me from the gods, and I couldn’t foresee any downsides other than the typical stress that comes along with any employment. But then again, I’m no psychic. I quickly realized that the clientele I’d be serving comprised the wealthiest people I’ve ever known, not to mention some of the most bizarre.

For anyone who doesn't know, historically, Country Clubs were getaways for white men to enjoy a round of golf, indulge in a few beverages and escape the nagging of their wives. Nowadays, their doors aren't quite so restricted, but they still retain the same fundamental values they always have, that mainly being exclusivity. Let’s just say that one needs to have obtained a certain social status before they attempt to join, as well as accumulated a mass fortune.

But just because these people are wealthy beyond my wildest dreams doesn't mean that they have any better grasp on reality than anyone else. If anything, I think all that money has left them mentally scarred with something akin to radiation exposure. Some are jovial old men and women, who just want to live out their golden years with a smile on their face and a drink in hand. But most are dusty old cretins, locked in a mental age when all people weren't treated equally and clearly miss those days fondly. I've spent the last four months overhearing so much racist, chauvinistic dinner conversation that I've had to form a whole new definition of bigotry.

And then there are the outlandish requests, all of which I must comply with utmost sincerity. Since the club is entirely supported by the member fees, basically every person who enters those doors can get me fired. My job description includes doing whatever they want. I've danced with old ladies at banquets, watched a woman eye up a lobster and decide that it weighed two ounces less than the menu claimed and even lit cigars for members too intoxicated to do it themselves. And don’t get me started on how many times I’ve been accused (falsely) of spitting in a member’s water.

So you have $65,000 lying around? Don’t do anything stupid with it. Join a club that’ll ensure a lifetime of good company. Those willing to retain their souls need not apply.