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| I sit in my place of employment, my tote bag in my lap. In this particular tote bag, rests my freshly washed work shirt. I repeat to myself that I have resigned to quit this particular day. I am sweating more than I'd like, and I sit nervously, fiddling with my thumbs. Around me, job candidates sit eagerly waiting to be interviewed. A pretty blonde flirts with assistant manager Andrew, who is standing at the hostess desk to my right. No one has greeted me since my arrival, and when I give a mild salute to Kathy (a perma-waitress of fourteen years who still gossips and flirts with other employees as though she is in her twenties), she avoids my gaze. "How's it going, Vaughn?", asks Andre the personnel manager, finally, without looking at me. When I reply "Good, and yourself?", he promptly walks away, taking a pretty young server-to-be with him to a far-off table. I continue to sit awkwardly. Today's chilly reception, in coordination with the loss of myshift the day prior, all give me the sense that the result of today's meeting with Rob (General Manager) will be the termination of my employment here at The Old Spaghetti Factory (tm) in beautiful Gastown, Vancouver. This frustrates me, as I had been looking forward to the satisfaction quitting one's job on the spot theoretically gives a person. I remind myself not to judge the situation until I've heard what Rob has to say. I continue to sit awkwardly, and I continue to sweat. Why had I worn a black shirt? "How you doing, Vaughn?" asks Andrew, when the pretty blonde has left. He leans over the hostess desk with a sympathetic expression. Always courteous, always friendly, and now it seems, one of two people in the restaurant willing to actually look me in the eye. "I'm doing alright", I reply, trying to sound casual and standoffish. I worry that I have sounded whiny or put-upon. Andrew nods, looking at me with... wait... What is that? Pity? Oh, fuck. Rob arrives three minutes later, his phone call with whomever over. He waves me over with as much authority as he is able to muster. To attempt to give a direct calculation of that would be a little petty of me. I follow him, my heart beating faster than I would like it to be. In my fantasy of this scenario, I am cool and collected. "Here. I won't be needing THIS anymore", I say, as I casually toss the shirt across the table. "I don't need this sort of job ANYWAY." And with that, I rise, strutting off as Rob's mouth hangs open, his eyes filled with newfound respect for me. My daydream ends when I reach the table that is to be the summit of our meeting. The place-settings are disordered, and this is the first thing I notice. Once a busser, I suppose. Rob sits on one end of the table, and I on another, as people often do when having a seated meeting at a table. "Is it hot in here?" I ask, once again lamenting the heavy black T-shirt. "We need to talk about what happened" remarks Rob, looking as solemn as possible. "From the beginning? You want to talk about it from the beginning?" I ask, my voice shakier than I'd like. I run my fingers over the stitches above my right eye instinctively. I quickly realize I've blown any chance I had of coming out of this looking cool. It had been the Wednesday prior, and until the incident of interest, a reasonably good shift. I had been working at the Old Spaghetti Factory for roughly two and a half months. I mostly hated it. Bussing there consisted of frantically collecting plates, running around with heavy busstubs, and aiding the servers when they had forgotten to refill pops, or bring the complementary ice cream to their impatient tables. The customer base was mostly tourists and Europeans (often the two categories overlapped), who both rewarded and punished both good and bad service by not tipping. I don't imagine I was very well liked, as I didn't like many there very well. This particular Wednesday, though, I was in a cheerful mood. Things were going reasonably well, I hadn't fucked anything up yet, and I (for whatever reason) wasn't disgusted when I dumped the unfinished slop we served into the garbages. About two hours into my shift, I noticed the arrival of Joseph, another busser, which brought me some joy, as it meant I wouldn't be bussing the whole restaurant by myself for the rest of the day. I remembered that I wanted to take a few days off this weekend, and thought I could get Joseph to cover my shift. After all, a month prior, I had done the same for him, on about thirty minutes notice. He told me over the phone that his replacement hadn't shown up yet, though I found out later that night he had simply had a party he wanted to go to. I approached him, said hello, and reminded him of this favour. I asked him to cover my Sunday or Saturday shift? "I don't remember that." He says, nonchalantly. What a joker. "Seriously?" I ask. "Seriously. That didn't happen." I feel myself redden with anger, on the inside. I don't actually physically redden with anger. "You ungrateful little bastard," I remark, in what I thought was a joking tone. Who knows, though. I was pretty annoyed. Over the next few hours, I periodically bitch about this to Kathy, who is also working. She laughs, tossing back her crimped hair. Kathy is the sort that I presume never acquired a real goal in life, and as such now works seven days a week as what the Factory calls, "Head Trainer". This is misleading, however. Her job actually entails training a new server once or twice a month, and the rest of the time serving during the slower hours of the lunch shift. Despite being a bit of a whiner, Kathy was generally fun to be around at work. "I remember that day", she says, corroborating my account. I project faux anger about the whole thing, and continue to wonder who I can get to cover my shift. Later in my shift, I notice Joseph dropping dishes off at our shared sidestand. This is fine. We do share it, after all. What I notice later, however, is that while he is succeeding in bringing dishes there, he is failing to take the busstubs when he has filled them. I ask Kathy about this. "I'm pretty sure it's both of your responsibilities", she says. About an hour later, she tells me that Joseph has confided that he is avoiding moving the full busstubs to "fuck with me". As I pass him with the full busstub, I remark, "If you don't start taking these, I'll kill you". I presume my tone to be joking, but once again, I doubt I'd be a good judge of this. The next few hours pass without incident. Around three P.M., Joseph and I both stand at the busstub, emptying plates of spaghetti into the garbage. "It's better if you put the big plates at the bottom", he notes, in a tone that suggests he suspects me of mental disability. "If you start taking the busstubs when you fill them, I'll start taking your advice on how to fill them," I say, no longer joking. "What?" He asks, sounding incensed. "You heard me," I say, walking away. Our shifts end, and I sit up in the staff room eating a free bowl of minestrone. Employment at the Spaghetti Factory offers many perks, the pinnacle of which being the free soup. On the staff room's spacious couch sits three servers. Drake, Spencer, and another fellow whose name escapes me. I've made little effort to be friendly with many servers here as during my initial days there they made little effort for me. They joke about how much they drink, or girls' vaginas, or whatever. Joseph enters the staff room. "Vaughn man, you need to learn to shut your fuckin' mouth. You're fucking annoying." Suggests he. "Go to hell." I return, not looking up. "What the fuck you just say?" He says, approaching me in a fashion I haven't seen since my time at high school ended. I roll my eyes and shake my head. He comes closer. I continue to eat my soup. "Take off your glasses" . Before I have time to put down my bowl of soup and possibly raise my awareness towards potential violence in my direction, he is kind enough to do so for me, and then proceeds to punch me in the eye. I feel, after the initial blow, not anger, or a survival instinct, but wonder. Blood flows from my eye, pouring onto my glorious white work shirt. Joseph babbles something, but I don't notice. The blood seeping from my eye commands all my attention. I notice some has fallen into my minestrone, and decide not to finish it. One of the higher ups from the Old Spaghetti Factory head office is passing through the staff room and notices. "What happened?" He asks. "He got punched", says one of my dear server friends. "He said he was gonna kill me!" Says Joseph, though I suspect simply as a defence. I swear I had sounded like I was joking. I think... Joseph is taken down to the main office by the kitchen, while I apply paper towel to my wound. "Get him a bandage" says Rob, upon return. "He'll need more than a bandage" says head-office man. I go to the bathroom, and notice a large gouge in my eyebrow. The little fucker was wearing a ring! Teenagers can be so inconsiderate. Mr. Head-Office Man gives me a lecture on alerting managers to work difficulties instead of approaching them head-on, his hand on my shoulder in a manner reminiscent of a softball coach. He informs me they've called me a cab, and they will have to send me out the back, so no one in the restaurant will see me. I am still fascinated by my own blood, and haven't considered this possibility. I head upstairs to change, and someone begins to address me. Wiping the blood out of my eye, I realize it is Joseph. "Vaughn, man, I'm never gonna see yer ugly face again! Why don't we go out back and settle this?" He proposes. "You need to calm the fuck down. You're already split my eyebrow open." I reply. I had hoped to sound manly and nonchalant, but realize I actually sound panicked. "I don't give a shit" He answers. "Joseph man, you gotta calm down. It's the staff room." Says Drake, one of the servers, in a tone more reminiscent of a recollection of what sort of groceries he might like to buy. I look around, and see the other servers simply moving about as though nothing had happened. I'm not surprised. I had responded to their rudeness with rudeness in all my dealings with them, and realized that perhaps they themselves might have liked to have punched me, had circumstances permitted. Spencer hands me a bandage once Joseph has left. "You alright?" He asks, avoiding my bloody gaze. "I'm fine," I say, instead of the "fuck you" I had intended. I am hustled out the back door of the restaurant into a waiting cab. "What happened to your face?" The cab-driver inquires. "Work-place injury," I reply. Upon my arrival at the hospital, I am held up with forms, for which I lacked the sufficient information. The nurse at the desk is surprised at the information she receives for my admittance. "Someone really should have come with you for a head injury", she says. "I love my job" I reply. My mother repeatedly calls me while I wait, in town to pick my sister up from the airports. I avoid her calls, afraid a maternal voice will send me in tears. I resign myself to not cry, as it is universally known that crying is for pussies. I wait to get stitched up, and after an hour's wait a nice Venezuelan nurse sews up my eyebrow. I require six stitches, and the stitches themselves are not especially painful. "Sounds like a great place to work", a sarcastic doctor responds, after hearing of the day's events. "Bring your kids!" I reply. I was informed the Friday following that I was not needed for the weekend, which raised a big red alert . I had already decided I did not want to work in a work environment where I hated and was hated, and knew Joseph, who had been fired, had several other little bussboy friends who would resent me for his firing. I reflected that I suspected my termination to my mom. Having worked for the WCB, she said they wouldn't have much grounds for doing so. I eased a bit. I talk to Andre, my boss, who informs me that we will have to talk about what happened, as these things are never "one sided". I agree with him, as doing so gets me out of working for the weekend. My eye-wound heals steadily over the week-end. I attend the writers fest. All seems well. And then arrived the day of my appointment with Rob the GM to discuss the incident. As I finished recounting my version of the events, Rob suggested that the creation of such a work environment was undesirable. Additionally, he suggested some of the guests had heard the altercation between me and Joseph. I thought of the servers I suspected of suggesting this. I often wonder whether being a server by default steers you on a path towards becoming disingenuous. Often these folks had smiled when greeting me, and I suppose now were asserted I had baited the little bastard into the whole thing. "I know your kind of sarcasm sometimes isn't like other peoples', but I don't know that other people know that." Rob says, working diplomacy as hard as he is able. I nod. "I think it's best that we all part ways. Us, you and Joseph." Adrenaline fills me. He actually is firing me. I had gotten a visceral sense of such, but hadn't thought of ground that could be found for such action. He offers to send me my vacation pay, my cheque, blah blah blah. I nod. "I brought this." I say, and hand him my fresh work shirt. "I kind of figured. I'll bring you the other one once I get the blood out." "Don't worry about the other one" he says, and I shake his hand. I take the exit route that guarantees not to put me in the path of anyone I had worked with. I wonder whether any of my former co-workers will bother to be cordial if and when I encounter them again. I know most will not. The thought doesn't trouble me too much, as I would likely otrun into them unless I decide to start frequenting pick-up clubs as a hobby. An unlikely turn, to be sure. I find myself shaken up in a way I cannot justify. I had intended for all purposes to quit. Getting fired saved me the justification. I didn't want to work there, and I mostly hated everyone I had worked with. Simply the idea that they could fire me for getting punched incenses me in a way I can't explain. I'm sure a lot of people in my time have thought of punching me, and I'm sure I at times do things to motivate this. But to be fired for getting pissed at someone for failing to acknowledge a favour I did them, and dumping their workload on me really seems like a steaming pile of bullshit. But worse still, I really had looked forward to a new-found sense of independence that I would find from quitting my job on the spot. I walk home, sweating in my black shirt. | ||||||
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