Oh Shoot.

So I'm sitting at a desk typing in "pacenurse01" for my login, excited to get some work done. The producer's conveniently made the computer lab our green room while they shoot next door in the mock doctor's office. All I need for my short bit is the pressed lab coat hanging on the wall, so I got plenty of time, which I put to good use catching up on some e-mail correspondence & formspring questions I wasn't able to get to during the week.

And just like that...it hits me. Right in the pit of my stomach. I attribute the ache to many things which seem viable enough: sleep deprivation; the Dunkin' Donuts coffee I had this morning accompanied by hash browns and strands of hair; those perennial pre-performance nerves on overdrive from being on a legitimate set for the first time; heck, maybe it's residual buzz from the Lea Salonga cabaret performance I watched last night, which threw me back to so many years of adolescent fanaticism. Nope, none of these seem to pinpoint the tiny, cold, mild paralysis that started in the gut and now throbs through my entire circulatory system. And then I get it. This isn't a physical ailment -- at least it wasn't at first -- this is emotional. For the first time, after six months of living on the other side of the country...I'm homesick.

Okay, you were probably expecting to hear all about the thrills of being on set of a music video. I confess the experience was valuable, but it doesn't necessitate detail, really. I know the title is somewhat deceiving -- but come on, you gotta admit the play on words is pretty good, plus I didn't want to ruin the dramatic effect. I just couldn't resist.

I'm not sure why today of all days it shows up, but Tito Alex* was right, it gets you when you least expect it. I mean, even entertaining a beloved Californian by the name of Amy Phu this weekend didn't do the trick initially. It's funny, that I've done all these before - written home, video chatted, entertained visitors, etc - and it never hit me. I suppose when you top it off with the iPod shuffle I organized for Melody, currently slow jamming some nostalgia in my ear via the criminally underrated Tamia (I know you feel me on that Melron), it's really just all too much. I take out the earphones because thoughts of how I miss that pretty girl from San Diego aren't going to help transform me into Orderly #1.

So yes...I don't say this often, but I miss you. That goes for you too, California. I'll see you soon, Lord-willing.

*"Tito" meaning uncle in Tagalog (Filipino)

Where I Work.

I work fast food. That's a loaded confession, chock full of different emotions ranging from sheepishness, knowing others my age are already far in their careers, to dignity, feeling like I'm earning what will later be an interesting backstory. More specifically, I'm a cashier at Crisp, an American falafel restaurant in the heart of Midtown right next to Bryant Park. Ah, Bryant Park, an accessory, if not centerpiece, to so many of my early New York stories. There are a couple reasons why I've grown to cherish this job. Among these reasons is neither the minimum wage nor the minimal hours, yet still I love working here.

First, don't let the fast food stigma fool you, this is a fairly classy establishment. Falafel, if you didn't know, is originally an Egyptian convention made mostly from chickpeas, mashed then fried into a crispy ball. Hence, the name Crisp. We serve it Israeli-style in pita with hummus and cubed salad, but our executive chef also co-created a menu of original variations including "the Africa," served with sweet potatoes and a spicy peanut sauce, to "the Parisian," with goat cheese and roasted red peppers. I eat this stuff every day.

Second, I eat this stuff every day. Meaning I don't spend money on lunch (which, in the city, gets very pricey), I get a good balance of the food groups ('cept no meat, all vegetarian), and I eat things I hadn't ever eaten before. After five months, I nowhere near sick of it.

Third, is how it's grown me in humility. Anyone in customer service knows that customers can be among the hardest people to deal with. The ways to exploit the upper hand of being a customer are innumerable. Cashiers are at the brunt of it all, and what's considered fast food in other areas to New Yorkers isn't all that fast, that much they make clear. Our impressive menu draws quite the crowd during the only shift they allot me: the dreaded "lunch rush" (did I mention we're in the city?). If only I'd written down all the odd transactions I've had, I'd have written my first play by now. So yeah, it's great for work as an actor too.

The other day we changed up our menu. We completely removed one section of our menu, the Hummus Salad Bowls, replacing them with a "Create Your Own Hummus Bowl" option. With new freedoms also came certain restrictions and price changes. There had been few customers who were, as one put it, "not convinced" this was better and spared no shame or propriety in lamenting the loss of their beloved salad bowls. But what can one do but lift the eyebrows and say sorry? My co-worker Ian (yes, it gets confusing) said he just didn't understand why people were so bummed out by the change, mentioning he thought they'd enjoy the newfound customizability. With a sympathetic sigh I decided to share with him what had been my observations during these demanding months in Manhattan regarding the people here.

New York City, simply put, is individualism on overdrive. That is, the American way is to get "what I want, when I want," and there are few, if any, places in the country where that is more readily applied than New York City (in another post I'll go into more detail my thoughts about this). It's that mantra that built the fast food industry itself, so all things considered the fact that one of our customers would be so disgruntled by even the pettiest of personal inconveniences is not surprising.

A lady last week walked in with an already irritated look, grabbed some babaganouch (eggplant-based dip, very tasty) off the take-out shelf and said she wanted this in her pita. I told her we didn't offer that as an option (and we offer a lot of options) but if she bought the take-out size we'd gladly scoop some into her pita. Well, I didn't really tell her all of that, because she cut me off before I could finish, something she continued to do throughout the conversation asking more absurd questions. How anyone can be so discontent when they're offered so many options (I mean, seriously, we offer a lot of options) can only be reasoned as "it's not what I want." Makes you reflect on the nature of the heart, doesn't it?
I've been learning a lot about patience, and the nature of it in relation to humility. Again, something I want to touch on more later, but was it not for these values I might be more shy to admit my day job. So yes, I'm a cashier. Actually, the head cashier. A responsibility I'm happy to take on for the opportunity it allows me to mature.