Such is the case with my life at the moment. I've been fortunate enough to find a full-time position in the working world. But if anything, it has only made me crave my dreams ten times more. I've heard of people being fired for things they wrote about their jobs on the internet. But, after careful deliberation, I have decided to stop being a pussy and just write.
I am a glorified waiter. A concierge, host, server, chef, of sorts who caters to my company's client's every want and desire. From the expected to the ridiculous, I deal with it. All the while, I keep a smile on my face while being forced to swallow the same shit that makes most people go postal. Let me begin.
I applied for this position over three months ago and was pleasantly surprised that I was offered the job. I had to turn it down, however, since another job seemed to be on the horizon and I was making more on unemployment than what the job would actually pay me. Three months later, I re-applied to the same job and with more money on the table and longer hours, I took the position.
There was really no time to "settle in." My boss, Harold, an over-weight, effeminate Phil Collins look-alike sat me down alongside his assistant, Jesse, a gorgeous girl who you just want to grab by the shoulders and tell her that she's too good for this shit and that she needs to get the fuck out of this dead-end job while she still can. They told me to jump in and pretty much learn by watching. It's a pretty straight-forward position: provide snack trays for clients, offer beverages, make caffeinated drinks, order food and place it on a plate in a pleasing manner, decide on a menu for Friday lunches, grow fruits and vegetables, slaughter cattle, write a cook-book, re-write a cook book, provide clients with massages, entertain them with the musical stylings of Rodgers and Hammerstein and of course, get them a new snack basket.
For anyone who has read Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk, my job is kind of like that of Tender Branson. Not simply one job, but a 1,000 irritating odd jobs. And those 1,000 odd jobs are taken seriously...very seriously.
The other day, Harold pulled me outside to discuss a problem with the dishes. Yes, I wash dishes AND dry them! Well, apparently some of the spoons were a little too streaky. He said, and I quote, "Not just you, but everyone has been having problems with cleaning dishes. So this is what I'm going to do. The next time it happens, I'm going to have to give you a strike. The time after that, you get a formal warning. If it happens again, you can find a new job washing dishes."
I was speechless. Outside, I was stoic. Inside, I was hysterically laughing. A threat to be fired based on dish-washing performance is like saying if I fuck up mowing the lawn twice, I get one of fingers severed.
Within the first week, I was pulled aside two other times. Once, because two of the editors were unhappy with how I approached the job. The first guy didn't like my, "sense of humor". In fact, my boss Harold thought it would be a good idea to refer to my "improv" background as being the reason for my "sense of humor." I was actually more offended and angered by that comment than anything else. A lifelong loser who lives in a windowless apartment in Crown Heights has no place belittling a passion of mine. Sorry to get so self-righteous but if I had nothing to lose, EMS would still be using the jaws of life to remove my shoe from his vag.
Apparently I was over-enthusiastic and engaged the clients too much. To that I say, SUCK MY FUCKING DICK YOU FAT PIECE OF SHIT! I didn't know who to get more angry at, my boss for even making a big deal out of it, or the douche-bag, Ron, who attempted to get me in trouble. I mean, it's shocking to be scolded for "over-enthusiasm". The other editor who had a problem with me, Teddy, didn't like the way I reacted to an open Pepsi can being placed right next to thousands of dollars of equipment. It's my job, no matter how trivial, to make sure people don't put expensive equipment in danger. I was frustrated that someone could be so callous. So Teddy tells on me. Because that's what you do when a co-worker shows concern for expensive equipment potentially being ruined. Fuck you, Teddy. Suck my balls.
I was also pulled aside because Douche-Bag Ron didn't like that I asked his clients if they would like dinner. Dinner is normally on the house for clients unless otherwise noted. I was never informed of the protocol based on providing dinner for clients. But thanks, DBR, for making me look bad again. You're a dick. I hope you die in a fire.
The stories continue and I will be sure to update you all sooner than later. Well, it's 1:30. Time to go to hell...I mean work. I mean hell.
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