Thursday, August 23, 2007
Bounce Nigga Bounce
"I'm only gonna say this once. Look at the catalog, order some shoes, and we'll deduct the cost from your paycheck."
That was the venerable GM of the wing joint, imploring us employees to purchase non-skid shoes. Fuck non-skid shoes, that's what I said. (mentally, to myself) I only buy shoes when my current pair look like fucked out gerbils.
On Monday night my silent bluster was revealed as ignorance.
I slipped and fell right next to a wet floor sign as I led customers to a table. I fell backwards, of course. I'm a fast walker, so my hungry parade was not near enough behind to rescue me mid-fall. Likely they would have, had the opportunity existed. Doubtless. I hit the tiles ass first, head second. Only my head bounced. The world wobbled.
Simultaneously horrified and concerned, the oldest of the three women bleated, "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY?"
"Oh Jesus Mary and Joseph I think I broke my ass!" Then I made some horrible pained noisegroan.
I hauled myself up spring quick, swayed slightly, and plastered my high wattage half sane customer service face back on.
"I don't know about you folks, but I feel like chicken tonight!"
Confused, their heads tilted, like undomesticated animals sensing danger.
"Yes, I'm fine, thank you. Quite fine. Nothing like a rap on the old noggin to sharpen the senses. Yeah? Keen. I'm fantastic. I'll be fine. Let's get you three tabled."
I blinked rapidly, smiled, bulged out my eyes like they were trying to escape their sockets, spun around, and strode off to our mutual destination.
They followed, whispering and clucking.
Tuesday I was fine. Wednesday, however, the massive bruising bloomed. I felt like the Jolly Green Giant had used my entire self as a butt plug. And he clenched a lot.
This is only the most recent humiliation I've suffered while waiting tables.
I enjoy each and every one. 1:58 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
4 Comments :: - post comment
Incompetence & Flagellation
I got fired.
I'm an honest kid, mostly. So here it is: I was doing a bad job. They weren't asking much from me, simply that I order some crap and package it up for technicians. The ugly truth is that I'm lazier than elderly bowels, and frequently waited for the last minute to pull the shit together. This resulted in wasted money in various ways too boring to elaborate upon. Let's just say I deserved it and move on.
I reacted just as any worthless, self-indulgent, addictive fuckpuddle would: I went on a bender. I slugged beer like a divorced man, stuffed my nose with powder like it was a musket rifle, and burned enough weed to give the entire DEA a Twinkie addiction.
After two weeks of this, I remembered food. I resuscitated myself with four trays of napolean flan, two loaves of dark rye, one pound of muenster, and three pounds of pastrami. Over two days. On the third, I shat a freight train. On the fourth, I rested. In diapers.
Then I started another bender that hasn't truly ended yet, although by now it's flitting away like a sluggish butterfly. (bad analogy, but I'm keeping it, fuck you)
I have prospects for gainful employment looming, but I intend to procrastinate. I'm receiving unemployment benefits. (I convinced my former employer not to contest my claim, and they still love me on a personal level, so that was an easy finagle.)
I kept a tight grip on my night job as a waiter at the buffalo joint, though I usually arrived appearing raped and pillaged. One Saturday morning I showed up, my hair askew, raccoon luggage beneath my eyes, stinking of Anchor Steam.
The GM was holding a pre-shift meeting when I staggered in, bewildered, disheveled, and damn ugly.
"Steve, you okay?"
"Mm? Oh yeah, o'course I am. Bright eyed and bushy-tailed."
"You look like hell. Sleep much?"
(keep in mind I have an assembled audience of the entire working staff)
"Well, no. See, last night I was feeling kind of lonely, so I figured, you know, I'd find some company, shoot the shit, pour my heart out and get a few things off my chest. Catharsis was my order of the night. But nobody answered my calls."
"Well, nobody answered, so I went to Best Buy to look for a movie, or a game, or some such distracting nonsense. I was browsing when I saw something called The Baby Simulator. It's an awful product prospective parents put on their PCs to prepare them for parenthood."
"I'm not getting you, Steve. Is this going somewhere?"
"You install it and let it run all night, right? And see, this thing will randomly start crying and wake your silly ass up. There's buttons like burp, feed milk, feed Gerber's, rock baby, sing lullaby, and a couple more I can't think of right now. You pick one and click it repeatedly for ten minutes and hope like hell you picked the right button. If you're lucky, you get to go back to sleep for another half hour. What it needed was an 'I don't fucking know' button."
(people are sniggering and giving each other raised eyebrows)
I continued: "It's supposed to be just like have having an infant in a crib. It was a vile and horrible experience. I don't recommend children for anyone. Fuck propagation of the species, quite frankly. If my baby wasn't fake I would've strangled the little virtual fucker."
(Now they're all outright laughing at me. Even the GM. I'm his longstanding unique comedy snowflake, or he'd have cut me off by this time.)
"So yeah, I'm exhausted and exasperated and downright miserable. I need a new hobby. So far, I've got two ideas on my list. The first is drinking heavily. That works. Trust me, I know. The other is microwaving things that aren't supposed to microwaved, and I'm starting with my goddamn computer hard drive. Then I'm going to drink until I render myself imbecilic. How are you?"
"Are you fucking with me, Steve?"
"Yeah. That was all complete bullshit. I was drinking heavily last night. Got a mint?" 5:15 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
13 Comments :: - post comment