This is the beginning of my yale essay and I want to get some feedback before I continue, I hate it and I want to know if its even worth keeping. BTW the essay is going to be about how I worked at my father's family owned restaurant since 2004.
Wakening as my brief nap abruptly comes to an end, I reach blurry eyed for the item making that earsplitting ringing sound. "Callaloo Café'", I wearily answer. "How may I help you?" The voice on the other end responds, "I would like to place an order for pick up." "I'll have a Large Jerk Chicken with Rice & Beans and Cabbage; I'll be there in 15 minutes." "Would you like anything else", I ask while covering the mouth piece to yawn. "No, that'll be all, see you soon." Rushing through the green halved door that is soon to fall off of its hinges, I place the order on the kitchen table. "Mommy, there's an order for pick up." After giving her the order I hurry back to my seat in hopes of continuing my nap for at least five minutes without any disturbances.
Just as I began to doze off, a man walks in. As he slowly makes his way to the counter, I stand up to greet him. "Hi, I called for pick up" "It's almost ready", I answer dismissing the fact that he just placed the order. "But, I'll take pay for it now." I made my way to the cash register ready to ring up the order. "Hold on, I want to get a soda", says the man while making his way to the soda box. He picks up a D&G Kola Champagne one of Jamaica's finest soft drinks. "Ok", I answer while proceeding to ring the order: 1 @ $9.95 Jerk chicken, 1 @ $1.25 Kola, Subtotal. After eight years of practice I no longer needed to look as I rang up orders. Like playing the piano, my muscles learned to conform to the movement. "Your total is $11.98 with tax", I said while taking the Styrofoam container from my mother. Resting the container on the counter, the customer hands me a ten and two singles, I walk over to the register and punch in 12.00 cash. The register flings open and my fingers scrimmage for two pennies. After handing the customer his change I reach for a bag that reads: Thank You & Have a Nice Day. I place the container, a fork, a straw, and some napkins in the bag afterwards handing it to the customer. "Have a nice day!" "You Too." The customer leaves the store and I retire back to my chair in another attempt of a snooze. I being to doze off while Bob Marley's; Buffalo Soldier drowns out in the background.
Since the fourth grade, I have worked at my father's restaurant as a cashier/waitress. It was his dream to have a Jamaican restaurant. The problem was my father did not have enough money to hire workers; he barely had enough to rent the building. So, at eight years old, I began working for my father for no profit. Right after school I would trot down to 1401 Maple Ave. have a snack and make my way around the counter to cater to the needs of the customers. As any kid would think, the job was not fun: inventory, stocking the soda box, midnight cleaning, sleep deprivation.(daddy didn't allow me to do my homework while I was watching the front so at midnight after I walked my dog, cleaned the house, and took a shower I would do my homework.) And there were rarely any breaks.(my father didn't like to close the restaurant; we were open everyday from 7:00 - 10:00(weekdays) or 7:00 - 12:00(weekends) all year round. Even when his mother died in 2005 he scheduled the funeral service early in the morning so it would be over early enough to open the restaurant.) But in reality (and I would never tell him this) by working at his restaurant from age 8-16 I learned skills that I may one day need in the future: how to handle the rude customer, how to make a tropical smoothie, and how to survive sleepless nights.
Wakening as my brief nap abruptly comes to an end, I reach blurry eyed for the item making that earsplitting ringing sound. "Callaloo Café'", I wearily answer. "How may I help you?" The voice on the other end responds, "I would like to place an order for pick up." "I'll have a Large Jerk Chicken with Rice & Beans and Cabbage; I'll be there in 15 minutes." "Would you like anything else", I ask while covering the mouth piece to yawn. "No, that'll be all, see you soon." Rushing through the green halved door that is soon to fall off of its hinges, I place the order on the kitchen table. "Mommy, there's an order for pick up." After giving her the order I hurry back to my seat in hopes of continuing my nap for at least five minutes without any disturbances.
Just as I began to doze off, a man walks in. As he slowly makes his way to the counter, I stand up to greet him. "Hi, I called for pick up" "It's almost ready", I answer dismissing the fact that he just placed the order. "But, I'll take pay for it now." I made my way to the cash register ready to ring up the order. "Hold on, I want to get a soda", says the man while making his way to the soda box. He picks up a D&G Kola Champagne one of Jamaica's finest soft drinks. "Ok", I answer while proceeding to ring the order: 1 @ $9.95 Jerk chicken, 1 @ $1.25 Kola, Subtotal. After eight years of practice I no longer needed to look as I rang up orders. Like playing the piano, my muscles learned to conform to the movement. "Your total is $11.98 with tax", I said while taking the Styrofoam container from my mother. Resting the container on the counter, the customer hands me a ten and two singles, I walk over to the register and punch in 12.00 cash. The register flings open and my fingers scrimmage for two pennies. After handing the customer his change I reach for a bag that reads: Thank You & Have a Nice Day. I place the container, a fork, a straw, and some napkins in the bag afterwards handing it to the customer. "Have a nice day!" "You Too." The customer leaves the store and I retire back to my chair in another attempt of a snooze. I being to doze off while Bob Marley's; Buffalo Soldier drowns out in the background.
Since the fourth grade, I have worked at my father's restaurant as a cashier/waitress. It was his dream to have a Jamaican restaurant. The problem was my father did not have enough money to hire workers; he barely had enough to rent the building. So, at eight years old, I began working for my father for no profit. Right after school I would trot down to 1401 Maple Ave. have a snack and make my way around the counter to cater to the needs of the customers. As any kid would think, the job was not fun: inventory, stocking the soda box, midnight cleaning, sleep deprivation.(daddy didn't allow me to do my homework while I was watching the front so at midnight after I walked my dog, cleaned the house, and took a shower I would do my homework.) And there were rarely any breaks.(my father didn't like to close the restaurant; we were open everyday from 7:00 - 10:00(weekdays) or 7:00 - 12:00(weekends) all year round. Even when his mother died in 2005 he scheduled the funeral service early in the morning so it would be over early enough to open the restaurant.) But in reality (and I would never tell him this) by working at his restaurant from age 8-16 I learned skills that I may one day need in the future: how to handle the rude customer, how to make a tropical smoothie, and how to survive sleepless nights.
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