Subject: Quitting Bob's on All Saint's Day
Date: Sat, 25 Oct 1997 01:28:15 GMT
From: email@example.com (MegaLiz)
Organization: MotPU: Where Binary Moodswings are ALWAYS on the Menu
Newsgroups: alt.foot.fat-free, alt.slack
[disclaimer: self-indulgent babble warning. Names have been changed, I
THINK, although I don't remember any of them anyway.]
During one of the heaviest learning years, I quit Bob's. I learned a
couple of things: never walk back with your tray empty and be nice to
Back in what I not-so-lovingly refer to as "The Marshall Crenshaw
Days," I thought that imitation was the better part of valor. It was
probably the time I was most vulnerable to the pink peril and most
likely to fake orgasms for stupid reasons. I suppose there isn't ANY
good reason to fake an orgasm: but I digress. The sticky POINT is that
every time I did something for these wrongest of reasons, I paid.
I felt that somehow I HAD to be a waitress, you see, because nearly
all my friends were waiters, waitresses or students and I couldn't be
a student for a little while. They claimed that it was a great job
with excellent money--nevermind that I was thoroughly unsuited to it.
THEY seemed to be getting paid to have a good time. One guy even
carried on at length about his "philosophy" of food service. He had a
hugely fulfilling surge of joy whenever someone turned to find him at
their elbow with the necessary pot of fresh coffee or their favorite
umbrella drink BEFORE they ordered it. What I didn't understand was
that this had NOTHING to do with waiting tables: he just liked to fuck
with people's heads. I didn't have to be a WAITRESS to do THAT.
A brand-new Bob's Big Boy was opening in Noplace, so I forced myself
to attend a chaotic group interview. I was told that I had a job if I
wanted it. I was told that training would start the next week. What
they didn't say was that my "training" would be following a harried,
fast-talking waiter named Rod through a breathless tour of the
kitchen. (Gross!) Then I was to work with him as a TEAM for the first
couple of shifts. (Go team GO!) Also, a hideous brown apron was given
to me with the caution that should I quit, I would have to return it
before I could get my last paycheck. How they could be so possessive
of polyester is a great mystery of corporate logic.
This spanking Bob's was just like any Big Boy, but bigger, and it
boasted real, live plants and an underview of the beach route highway.
If you stood on a chair, you could also see the parking lot of the
state's eastern Mall Mecca. It had a 24-hour breakfast bar and salad
bar swimming on a brand new, smelly, pinkish carpet. The staff were
borrowed from other restaurants in the chain. I seemed to be the only
trainee, and I never saw another one of the girls from the interview
again. They knew something I didn't.
Well, really, I didn't know ANYTHING, because I was so bombarded with
alien information that I managed to retain very little of it. Desserts
were tough. When one of my first customers ordered that brownie
sandwich thingy, I panicked. I couldn't find the brownies, I dropped
the ice cream, and then I couldn't figure out how to work the fudge
squirter. I NEVER found the pies, and I used to worry about what I
would do if someone finally ordered a slice. Maybe I would just say
that we were out of pie. I annoyed all my well fed, church going
customers, I annoyed my Rod and the staff.
An immediate and intense crush on Rod was inevitable, even though he
generally treated me like a dumbass. I was perfectly ready to accept
that I was a dumbass and let him tell me so over and over if only he'd
bat those twinkly eyes at ME while he said it. He was BEAUTIFUL and he
was an asshole. That's all I needed to know.
After the first night, I drove myself home with the windows down to
get rid of the unshakable smell of "home cooking." I was STARVING
because my buddies had also lied to me about the free food. There was
no free food and I didn't make any tips, so I'd been subsisting on the
fudge I'd squirted all over my apron when I'd had the first dessert
The second night I was accused of stealing tips. Tammy, the manager,
took me aside and asked me about the money she'd just seen me pocket.
I explained that I put Rod's tips in my left pocket and mine in my
right when I bussed the tables. Rod hadn't complained but the other
girls had become alarmed on his behalf and ran crowing and bleating to
Tammy. I called him over and gave him six bucks. "We don't touch other
people's money, Honey," explained Tammy in a sing-songy voice.
Nobody had warned me of that, and nobody told me I was already fucked.
Even if I memorized the menu, everyone would hate me from then on,
calling me "Honey" behind clenched teeth. I couldn't manage to feel
ashamed of myself for not even thinking of stealing, but I did begin
to realize I was surrounded by people who didn't think about ANYTHING
the way I did. That, and I was "serving" people who wanted to believe
that I was a 4:00 p.m. breakfast tray with legs.
Anyway, night three was much better. I was getting the hang of it and
was starting to remember what people ordered. In my jubilant
efficiency, I dropped an entire rack of drinking glasses during the
dinner rush. I got a round of applause and was no longer "Honey" but
"Crash." Tammy didn't notice my broken glass ballet, I thought,
because she was in the kitchen shrieking, "EGGS! More fucking eggs!"
The fourth night was Halloween. I wore a fetching purple punkish
costume that looked really bad with brown shoes and a brown apron. I
wanted Rod to appreciate my boosted cleavage, but when I got to work
he was working up a hickey on a big nasty-looking blond in a crumpled
witch outfit. His girl was back on duty and they played grabass the
rest of the night. I hated her, but as they gossiped and slobbered and
slammed plates through the evening I had to admit they were disgusting
but clearly made for each other. Somehow I managed to work while I
struggled for breath under my strapped up boobs. I got more tips,
though, just like they say.
The following day, I came in early to get the schedule. My name was
listed as "on call" for the coming two weeks. I complained bitterly to
Tammy, after all, I'd applied as a full-time waitress. She said that I
wasn't full-time material: I sucked. Oh, and by the way, she said, I
was going to have to serve half the dining room by myself because Rod
and his girlfriend hadn't shown up for work. I imagined that they had
finally hickied each other into oblivion.
Once I punched in, the place was filling up fast. After whirling
through the order-taking on three tables of friendly old gals who
patted my arm understandingly (even though they'd leave me a quarter
each, I figured), I approached an obvious ex-marine and his bride of
many, many years. He'd been waving at me for a while, and I apologized
and explained as quickly as I could. "I don't care what your problems
are! I just want my damned pie, you idiot," he said. If his crew-cut
could have wobbled, it would have.
I smiled sweetly and walked away and kept walking, out the door and
into my car. I pictured Tammy trying to find the pies, "PIES! Where's
the fucking pies!"
When I got home I had a GOOD cup of coffee and swore I'd never touch
I kept the apron for a couple of years and would pet it reluctantly
whenever I thought I envied someone else's job. It wasn't really worth
the $40 that Bob's owed me, but I liked to think it was.
* "Okay! Okay! I'll NEVAH EVAH do it AGAIN!" - The Spunky
alt.foot.fat-free: where you can collect all six Moment Toes