Backwards

“That’s it – unless you are going to shape up, we’re going to let you go. I don’t want any of that attitude in my store today,” John said, glaring at me from the cushy chair he spent most of his working day in. I can’t remember a time when he actually came downstairs from his office to help out. Whatever mysterious “work” he had on his plate was done with the comfort of a desk and a chair – I’m sure his back never ached from serving disgruntled customers for hours on end. I looked at my feet and bit my tongue hard enough to expose nerves, but did not let out the choice words kept on hand for situations like this.1

“Okay, Boss. Sure,” I replied instead as he dismissed me. “Jerk,” I mumbled on my way out. I’ve never been great about mumbling, unfortunately, and this error revealed itself as I heard a stack of papers land with a thwap on his desk.2

“Did I miss something?” he called out. “I was unaware that I was creating an environment where name-calling is okay. I’m extremely disappointed in your performance today, Juda. In fact, I think we it would benefit us both if you went ahead and clocked out for the day. You can get your last paycheck next week,” he said with finality. I had done it, I realized with a clench in my gut. Damn.3

Theresa appeared next to me and waited for me to acknowledge her. I considered pretending I did not notice her, and waiting to see how long the game could go on, but decided against it. “What?” I asked after a pause.4

“John wants to see you upstairs. Pronto,” she said, and swiftly maneuvered herself around the corner and out of sight. I wondered where her tears were, now. Ah, well – it’s the moment of truth. My first talking-to from John, because of my first legitimate run-in with a customer. Yes, I had had complaints in the past, but they had been over minor mistakes, easily glossed over with the Boss. This one was a keeper, though; I assumed I had been rude to this guy in the midst of my disaster-provoked state of mind, and it was coming back to bite me now. I stood up slowly and walked up the stairs.5

The clock overhead read 4:30 – time to face the music. I reluctantly stepped out the door to the front counter, dreading the crowds I imagined that would soon be swarming around my register. Maybe that’s exaggerating a little, but the customers did not let me down. I sighed and went to work on the line of eight people which began to form in front of me. Theresa was right, they weren’t getting any smiles out of me, and I sure as hell wasn’t getting any delightful comment cards today. The minutes were ticking by too slowly, and it seemed that new disasters were inventing themselves to provoke me. I was more than ready for my break when the time came – a little boy had spilled his drink everywhere, several people were unhappy with their meals, and one customer was complaining about a hair in their salad. As I finished up with my last order before the sweet fifteen minutes of freedom, I saw Theresa at the end of the counter engaged in a conversation. Not just a chat, it seemed – the customer was heated, complete with finger-pointing and a red face.6

I shrugged and moved back into the welcoming shelter from the masses of people known as the kitchen, ready to start my break. As I munched my way through a sandwich and some chips, I observed with interest John walking up front after an agitated Theresa, her explaining the situation as they went. I thought I heard my name dropped by one of them; I let it slide over my head. My sandwich was much more engaging than any complaint some customer wanted to make against me. I finished my first cup of water, and John stormed back through the door and up the stairs, this time with Theresa trailing behind.7

“What is wrong with you today?” Theresa asked suspiciously. “Where’s the bright, smiling girl all of our customers write cheesy comment-cards about?” I grabbed a cup from the nearby stack and slammed it on the counter.8

“Don’t.” I answered curtly, and filled it with water. Our boss, John, didn’t let us get free drinks anymore, which was a real pain in the ass. I had gone along with it just like all of the other benefits he had cut back on, but I was not above complaining bitterly whenever the chance arose. “I wonder what he’ll do next?” I asked. “Maybe he’ll tell us to start bringing our own gloves for food prep.”9

“Don’t say that too loud, Ms. Sarcasm. He might accidentally hear and think you’ve hit a gold mine of ideas,” she replied. “Give him a break, though. You know he’s just trying to uphold the ‘Golden Rules’ of the company, or whatever.”10

“I wish you wouldn’t defend him like that, Theresa. You’re both getting so full of shit that I can’t move an inch around here. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get that manager position soon. I won’t stand in your way,” I said before I had taken the time to think. Her brow furrowed and I thought I saw moisture in her eye as she turned sharply away. Ouch, maybe that was a little harsh, I realized. Ah, well, she has a bad habit of crying on the clock, anyway. If John knew, he would probably ask her to clock out if she was going to do that instead of working – it would save him money.11

The first time I came to work with the thunder clouds on my face, she seemed shocked. Rather than taking on the store with over zealous energy, I slogged through it. Although I was still responding when people spoke directly to me, I was not making anywhere near my natural effort. I was not going to deal with any shit today.12