Subject: Quitting Bob's on All Saint's Day

Date: Sat, 25 Oct 1997 01:28:15 GMT

From: (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

"DipIt" again.


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