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My job keeps me busy to no end sometimes, but I figured it was about time I post an amalgam of the happenings at my job.
Here's a few things to know before I plunge you all into the madness that are my experiences. The grill I work for is small, independently owned and inside a bowling alley. However, their sound system is configured to announce a thirty-minute warning and closing announcement (keep this in mind for later). I should also like to mention that I'm the person that pulls the place together if I'm walking in on a war zone, because I cannot help anyone, nor can I start cooking till I've got things more presentable and set to go for god knows how many rounds.
The Race Card
On a saturday several months ago I enter the ensuing chaos, my CW is toward the end of a chaotic rush. Immediately I get to cleaning so I can help get an order or two out.
Two young girls walk up to the counter, standing there for maybe about twenty seconds. Enter Miss BitchyMcRootyTooty from the fucking ghetto down the street.
SC: These girls have been standing here for a while.
CW: I'm sorry, I didn't see them.
SC: *Turns to me* Well I saw you over there messing with something.
- If cleaning is what you call messing around, I don't want to know what "fun" is.
And without skipping a beat.
SC: Well, that's kinda racist!
Me: *raises arms* Whoa, I just got here trying to get this place in order.
The rest is a blur, but thankfully I haven't seen her again. I suppose at this point in my life, if someone were to call me a racist, I might gladly share with them my heated opinion about the human race on the days I have no faith in humanity.
Closed Means Closed
This is a common occurrence no matter how many times "common" sense should kick in and indicate that my grill is shut down.
Someone at the front desk was messing around with the sound system, so I had to make both the thirty-minute and closing announcements; We've got our own plug into the sound system, so announcing orders and the like aren't a problem. Not to mention I apparently have a "radio announcer's" voice, so if you can't pay attention to me, you might as well be brain-dead.
Closing time hits and I clearly repeat twice, that we're closed. Six people walk up to our counter . . . Try and figure that one out. Thankfully I rotated myself to cleaning up the back that night, which meant there was less of a safety issue for those on the other side of our counter.
Flash forward to another night; The closing announcement sounds off.
I've begun cleaning when some idiot walks up.
SC: Can I get something real quick?
Me: (Hmmm . . The hell away from my counter, swift kick in the ass, a boot to the head perhaps.) My CW had come to the front for some various reason.
CW: Oh sorry we're closed.
SC: Isn't there something I could get quickly?
CW: Sure I'll take care of you.
At this point I look at my CW and plainly tell him in front of SC that it is his responsibility and I've washed my hands of it.
-Apparently with the closing sign I created, people still come up to the counter.
SC: Oh you're closed?
Me: Yes, we closed about five minutes ago.
SC: Don't you have any leftovers I could have.
Me: Sorry, we make everything to order and I never keep anything that isn't fresh.
Reasonable I suppose, but this has happened on two other occasions. However, all of our food is fresh and I refuse to sell something I wouldn't eat.
-We now make it a point to step outside for a collective smoke-break after closing. The following transpired between the bartender and a customer, but I'm guessing she may have actually taken notice of our being closed.
SC: So I can't get any fucking food?!
BT: No I'm afraid they ran out of all their "fucking" food, they have regular food, but they're closed.
SC: *slightly surprised* Oh.
And that's why I like our bartender.
Well it's not much, but I figured I'd leave these little gems. That and I'm still reeling from last night's thankless chaos.
-Until next time.
Here's a few things to know before I plunge you all into the madness that are my experiences. The grill I work for is small, independently owned and inside a bowling alley. However, their sound system is configured to announce a thirty-minute warning and closing announcement (keep this in mind for later). I should also like to mention that I'm the person that pulls the place together if I'm walking in on a war zone, because I cannot help anyone, nor can I start cooking till I've got things more presentable and set to go for god knows how many rounds.
The Race Card
On a saturday several months ago I enter the ensuing chaos, my CW is toward the end of a chaotic rush. Immediately I get to cleaning so I can help get an order or two out.
Two young girls walk up to the counter, standing there for maybe about twenty seconds. Enter Miss BitchyMcRootyTooty from the fucking ghetto down the street.
SC: These girls have been standing here for a while.
CW: I'm sorry, I didn't see them.
SC: *Turns to me* Well I saw you over there messing with something.
- If cleaning is what you call messing around, I don't want to know what "fun" is.
And without skipping a beat.
SC: Well, that's kinda racist!
Me: *raises arms* Whoa, I just got here trying to get this place in order.
The rest is a blur, but thankfully I haven't seen her again. I suppose at this point in my life, if someone were to call me a racist, I might gladly share with them my heated opinion about the human race on the days I have no faith in humanity.
Closed Means Closed
This is a common occurrence no matter how many times "common" sense should kick in and indicate that my grill is shut down.
Someone at the front desk was messing around with the sound system, so I had to make both the thirty-minute and closing announcements; We've got our own plug into the sound system, so announcing orders and the like aren't a problem. Not to mention I apparently have a "radio announcer's" voice, so if you can't pay attention to me, you might as well be brain-dead.
Closing time hits and I clearly repeat twice, that we're closed. Six people walk up to our counter . . . Try and figure that one out. Thankfully I rotated myself to cleaning up the back that night, which meant there was less of a safety issue for those on the other side of our counter.
Flash forward to another night; The closing announcement sounds off.
I've begun cleaning when some idiot walks up.
SC: Can I get something real quick?
Me: (Hmmm . . The hell away from my counter, swift kick in the ass, a boot to the head perhaps.) My CW had come to the front for some various reason.
CW: Oh sorry we're closed.
SC: Isn't there something I could get quickly?
CW: Sure I'll take care of you.
At this point I look at my CW and plainly tell him in front of SC that it is his responsibility and I've washed my hands of it.
-Apparently with the closing sign I created, people still come up to the counter.
SC: Oh you're closed?
Me: Yes, we closed about five minutes ago.
SC: Don't you have any leftovers I could have.
Me: Sorry, we make everything to order and I never keep anything that isn't fresh.
Reasonable I suppose, but this has happened on two other occasions. However, all of our food is fresh and I refuse to sell something I wouldn't eat.
-We now make it a point to step outside for a collective smoke-break after closing. The following transpired between the bartender and a customer, but I'm guessing she may have actually taken notice of our being closed.
SC: So I can't get any fucking food?!
BT: No I'm afraid they ran out of all their "fucking" food, they have regular food, but they're closed.
SC: *slightly surprised* Oh.
And that's why I like our bartender.
Well it's not much, but I figured I'd leave these little gems. That and I'm still reeling from last night's thankless chaos.
-Until next time.
to 
! We're a friendly bunch, and someone should be along with cookies, bacon, and boozeahol (tho we may have to card you for that! 
)
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