On Quitting

So I quit my job. Yeah, I’m a loser, I’m a failure, I’m a hothead, I’ll never amount to anything, I know. I know.

Here’s what happened.

Monday nights I work alone. The guy who works the morning usually hangs around to help out if I need it, but he isn’t scheduled to stay. He’s just the kind of guy who likes to hang around work even when he’s not working. But when I get to work today, someone else is working instead. His shift ends, mine begins, I’m alone.

Well, not quite alone. Since we started delivering about a month ago, there’s always a delivery driver around to do odd jobs. We hardly ever get calls for deliveries, so the drivers spends their shifts washing dishes and folding pizza boxes. For some reason though, maybe because they were never fully trained by anyone or don’t have totally defined jobs, the drivers can’t do anything 100 percent correctly. They always end up messing up a bit and leaving a trail for other people to clean up later.

Things start getting busier. I ask the driver to pour a few waters for me. I run around doing other things, look back–still pouring. Complete a few tasks, look back–still pouring. How could pouring waters take that long?! After he drops off the waters, the phone rings for a to-go order and he answers. He’s having some difficulties, but I have too much to deal with to help him out.

At this point, pretty much every table is full. I have one table that’s particularly demanding–milkshake after milkshake (that’s the toughest thing I have to do since I make them myself), waving their hands and snapping their fingers to get my attention when I’m taking care of other tables, etc. They have an $80 tab for the three of them and I know they’re not going to tip, I just know it, and I want to add on the automatic gratuity we use for larger parties but I also don’t want to do it and risk getting in trouble so I do nothing. I do what I’m supposed to do. Finally they leave and I open the checkbook left on the table and, like I thought, no money inside. Worse, they left me a note: the word “tip” with arrows drawn pointing to all the food they left on their table. Your disgusting, picked-over food that you left on the table is my “tip”? I get it. Ha ha.

I walk back across the restaurant in a daze. Try to help a woman waiting in the front…whoops! It’s the woman picking up the to-go order the driver messed up! Cool! She wants to pay for her $20.94 pizza with a $20 Groupon. Cool! The Groupon reader isn’t working, as usual, even though my bosses always assure me that it is. Cool! The pizza wasn’t made correctly and she isn’t happy, but also doesn’t want to wait for a new one to be made. Cool!

She asks for my name and leaves; I go to the back to cry and call my boss. I try to explain what’s going on; he asks me why I have an attitude problem, says he’ll train people better in the future, and hangs up.

I walk back out to the front, where the guy who worked this morning, who has been drinking at the bar this whole time, is waiting to talk to me. He asks if I’m ok, I say no, I cry, we hug. I tell him about my “tip” and he says…the n-word.

Yes, that table was black. I think they’re jerks. I think they’re assholes. But I don’t think they’re the n-word! You can’t use a racial slur just because you don’t like a particular black person! That’s not okay!

But, as is the theme of tonight, I have too much fucking shit to deal with to really deal with anything. And anyway, what would I say? “That’s not okay, man.” I’m not a cool older chick in an after-school special; I’m your fucking coworker. I’m busy. I’m upset. You were the only person to come over and listen and give me a hug. And then you said the n-word.

So I finish my shift, leave my boss a note with my 2 weeks notice, and I’m outta there. One less job; same amount of bills.



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About Emily Suggests

Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother.

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