Memoirs of a disgruntled busboy

I took a leisurely stroll to the mail box a few days ago, and what did I find? I found a coupon. Coupon? Yes, a coupon with a large photo of an audacious angler named Duckett, with his machine in one hand, and his prize in the other. How glorious, triumphant, and dare I say mythological on some level.
It's that time of year, the genesis of another summer. The 6 week circus (T.D.M.F.) has started, and everyone and there mother has absconded from there banal existence out east for greener pastures, "where the turf meets the surf". The ponies will soon follow, and the climax of summer debauchery will commence. Who cares any way... right? Just stay away, or embrace the gluttony with a mouthful of fried whatever and a face spattered ala Pollack, with powdered sugar. What you don't know, is that this is no ordinary coupon. Yes, it's a run of the mill restaurant snare, spend 50$ and get 10$ off, but there is added significance for me. It is an ad for the Fish Market.
In case you weren't aware of this, I spent nearly 2 years of my life bussing tables at this "fine" dining establishment. If you've spent any significant stretch of time working in a restaurant, you will undoubtedly appreciate the anxiety that this seemingly harmless solicitation might induce. While the extra money I made was often euphoric, the withdrawal from the nightly restaurant circus was unfailingly exhausting and caustic. After a night of both physically and mentally depleting labor, I would be forced to beleaguer my gratuity from a disgruntled server staff, and emerge from the Fish Market smelling like a mélange of wet garbage and B.O. that was spawned from an expired can of Bumble Bee "chicken of the sea". Stepping into a moonlit night with a wad full of ones in my wet malodorous pockets, it was hard not to feel like a five dollar crack whore standing under a red neon beacon, waiting for the next wave of "johns" drawn into this black hole, perpetuating the viscous cycle and fueling my opiate-like addiction. Just one more night... then I'll quit. That was my mantra. What an F-ing nightmare.
It has now been years since I donned the navy blue apron, dark blue jeans, completely white shoes, and the Eddie Baueresque fish monogrammed polo. I will say that The Fish Market is a quality eatery. The food is good. I will go back occasionally... and reluctantly, to eat. Most of my battle wounds have healed. Every summer these coupons get circulated, and I am compelled to dredge up the memories that have scarred me like a bad tattoo. The moral of this story is to appreciate those that serve you, and especially those that serve you well. A little love goes a long way. And finally, money only assuages one's dignity for so long.