I left work at 1 a.m. the other night after working my first job busing tables in one of those out-of-way, kept on the down-low, high-priced restaurants. You know the place. Where pretentious poser-liberal, post-yuppies frequent. You know the types. In the nineties they wore their hair in ponytails to look like they were still with it, but it made them look so out of it especially the bald ones. They act like they care about emerging nations by vacationing in Thailand, but when they go there they let loose the pedophile tendencies by boning under-aged Thai hookers and coming home with an STD so strong that no amount of penicillin can cure it. And now they have to get a divorce or spend the rest of their razor-blade pissing existence explaining to their burnt out wives why they can’t get it up (at least the ethical ones do). And their wives send their kids to sleep-away camp, so they can get their melons pumped and stalk the clubs like cougar-hookers trying to pounce on a John. So yeah … I left my first job ever.
I got this job through my “father” (I say father because he was never a dad before or after the marriage and they were never really married to begin with). He helped me get it through one of my “uncles” (I say uncles because they always came and visited my mom to spend the night. In her bed. With her in it. Anyways, this one uncle knows this guy who’s the manager at this restaurant.
This manager is one of those uptight-I hate my job-but-I’m stuck here-because-I’m so inept-I can’t doing anything else-types. He also seems like he has the guilt of the entire white race resting on his shoulders, and he acts apologetic towards everyone when you know deep down inside he hates your guts and is one failsafe step away from going thermo-nuclear on everyone. This guy is so jacked on his own self-loathing that no amount of electro-shock therapy could bring him down. As a matter of fact, this psychotic-nuke-about-to-explode would fry the electrodes and cause a power grid to meltdown in two seconds flat.
Within minutes, I could tell I was going to hate this neurotic nut job more than I hate myself and my crappy parents and the whole damn inhumane human race. He showed me around the restaurant like it was some ancient Greek ruins. He talked to me in a condescending manner, “this is how we stack the plates in the bus bin. Re-mem-ber, the larger plates first,” like I was some Lithuanian retard who just stepped off the boat.
He then sent me to bus my first table. All the time, I felt his beady little eyes on me like a weasel eyeing a henhouse full of eggs and no dog or chicken in sight. I picked up the empty plates and stacked them like he taught me. I then placed the glasses and silverware. On the way to the kitchen he stopped me, inspected the bin and said, “Ve-ry good,” and smiled like people do when they visit a relative who is dying of cancer and say things like, “You’re looking better than yesterday, dear.”
As the night progressed, I grew tired. Who knew picking up dirty dishes could be so tiring. Not being used this type of work, I worked a little slower. Also, I figured out that if I worked slower I would make more money because I was getting paid by the hour. For example, during my first hour I cleared six tables. At six dollars an hour, I figured the restaurant and I broke even. Any more, I’d lose money. Any less, I’d make money. So as the night progressed, I de-gressed.
Of course my attempt to make more by doing less did not go unnoticed by the manager. I could tell he was pissed. At first he would just stare at me in disbelief; if the place was being robbed by armed gunmen he would not have taken his gaze off of me for one second. Then he started pacing around the place and making WTF gestures with his hands. After that, he put on an apron and started bussing tables himself all-the-while giving me dirty looks. Not once did this guy have the stones to come over and tell me that I was slacking and to get it in gear. By the time the restaurant closed, I was sure this guy was going to blow a gasket or something. As I left, he paid me in cash and said, “I’ll call you.”
Like I’m gonna wait.