"Jesus!" I thought, and by even picturing what my commute would be for a job that didn't give a rat's ass about me. After four years at Columbia, I was more than accustomed to utilizing the public transportation, and also the scene of many bits I've transcribed onto this blog. Hundreds of hours have been spent on those trains and city buses - many characters, but not one as such as tedious, pointless, and emotionally aggravating as my one-month position of a busser of a privileged restaurant near the lake front. The nameless restaurant will be called The Joke for this piece, sense it seems very fitting, at least for me.
To make a short story even shorter, here's the narrative brass tacks for the sake of venting and time management. Through a friend, I was brought on the first day to bus tables during the summertime of 2019. I trained for a few days as both a runner and a busser, paid and everything, and then it was time to get the actual payroll a-comin'. For some supernatural/insane reasoning beyond my control, the hours were being piled in for the already existing employees while I was rewarded with one-day shifts. For these shifts, I would be cut by 10, done by 11, on the train by 11:30, and home between 1 and 2 in the morning. I wasn't given breaks, instructions on how to get meals, and was neglected by the servers like some new kid walking into school and all the other brats are questioning his presence. Mocked by other bussers, talked down below a social class radar I would assume from the managers (with the horrendous and ill-tempered General Manager never acknowledging me - only with directions and demands). They were nice when the shift would begin, and when I was cut. In one month, they told me I can look for another part-time job since business is slowing down, and very nicely to be exact. After that brief talk, they never gave me another shift. They kept sending me employee emails, but I didn't dare glance if my name wasn't on the schedule.
Also the head chef is definitely an Angelica from the Rugrats cartoons: whiny, bitchy, and just why does she keep yelling at her fellow cooks? Are all head chefs this foul and unnecessary? There was almost no respect and complete favoritism. At the previous restaurant, it was mostly respect and love among the crew. And I'm aware that not all restaurants are the same, but you don't have to make things more stressful than they already are. I'll name her Thorny Cunt, because despite being a cute brunette with attractive tattoos and an oftentimes steady personality, she was also a real thorny cunt.
Recently, in the cold, I traveled to the woods with Rosie, a companion of mine who was down to watch me torch my uniform and toss it into the river. The obvious vices were in hand, along with a mini portable speaker to say, "Bon voyage, you rat bastards!" to the beat and heart of various tunes. It didn't last long, only to be disappointed when the wind would interfere with my cheap pyrotechnics.
We both went home and I contemplated on my actions and the justification for them. They were almost pointless, just like my employment at The Joke. I imagined myself one day stumbling in there and going straight for the bar. Bartender asks what I want, I tell him/her/it that I want the best beer here and an order of fries, I've heard they're very tasty here! Walks away, puts in order, and I'll be in the mode of what I can do to cause mayhem there. I can say the beer tastes like asswater with soap, and I smash it against the ground and exclaim, "Are you trying to poison me, you drunken slime?!" I can comment on the fries being undercooked and start pretending to feel grossed out of my mind, telling the other customers they're being tested like animals and the chefs are high on heroin in the back - there's drips of lazy slick in the food, men in suits! I could go streaking to the back and search for that assjunkie busboy who mocked my cleaning skills, the moronic son of a gun. OR...I can step onto the deck with two water bottles in hand, screeching that, "I'm the king of the world! AHHHH!"
But these are merely figments of pure fiction only I can dream and write about. Wishful thinking? Perhaps? Joy of thinking of doing? Absolutely. One day I will visit The Joke, talk about my employment, and get super hammered because it's like pulling broken teeth when discussing small matters with these folks. But a final cheers to a damned job is the fitting end, at least for these humans. I like my imagination more than my reality sometimes, and I suppose that's the lesson I can take away from this. Obviously search for a better job and work on my mental muck as well, but what more can I ponder on something that brings both questions and frowns to my day?
