I actually enjoyed working on the Hot Dog Truck. Despite the heat, the hot dog water, and the fact that my friends were playing in the park while I was working, I knew I needed to continue to make that heavenly dollar somehow.
Finally... Being old enough to get a job that provided a paycheck where the government would be interested in how much I make, I began working for the ever so popular, Crapplebees. I started off working in the food industry as an S.A. "Essay" (Sever's Assistant) This job was meant to disgust and offend the UNOFFENDABLE. Bussing tables, is by no means glamorous. It is fast paced for a 16 year old girl. It may not be the same for a 49 year old Mexican man, but when you consider the exchange rate on the American Dollar to, at the time, the Peso... I imagine Jesus and Juan had it made. I, on the other hand, did not. Working part time, I would clear off tables for five and change an hour, and be tipped out a percentage of each server's earnings in tips for the evening. The tables were full of plates, and horrendous garbage. Napkins covered in baby drool, and adult dribble. Forks and Knives with sludge and endless shit, and the ramakins... My God... the ramakins. I faked acceptance of all of this, because after seeing the nights that my servers and bartenders actually endured, I repsected my sheisty little job. I felt it was a cake walk, compared. I would later find out in life how true this really was.
I was trained to clear tables and take everything into the back of house, which in regular definition, is just the kitchen. However, it isn't just a kitchen. It is so much more. What I knew then was fear. Fear of the staff, and management... fear of the dangerous objects and diseases surrounding me for 20 hours or more a week. If you know me at all, you know how clumsy I am. I carried knives into this kitchen... KNIVES PEOPLE. The floor is slippery in non-slip shoes. The servers are miserable in the beginning of their shifts, and just fucking RANCID by the peak hours of BUSY. "Don't clean this table Kali, if I get seated one more time it's YOUR ASS!" I did not understand what the big deal was then. Don't you turd servers want to make money?? Again, another lesson I would no doubt learn... and learn fully, later on in life.
I met a boy at my job there. I can honestly say that was a very cherished thing regarding the food industry as a whole. At 16, almost turning 17, with the sights of freedom not far in the future, this job could have had it's perks. Eye Candy is an understatement. Between your average staff, and customer status, it is an open world of different breeds of beauty. Depending on where you work, I suppose. Nine times out of ten, the bartending staff is fetching enough to stare at from the ladies room... right before you are directed to clean the stalls. DO I WORK ON A GOD DAMN FARM??
This one time while cleaning out said stalls, I was fully aware of the absence of toilet paper and soap for about 12 minutes prior. A large woman and her child were near the sink and headed to... YOU GUESSED IT, the HandiStall. Inbreds. When they saw me, I was informed by Jabba that they had been waiting for several minutes and were very displeased with the service at Crapplebees this particular evening. Her son reminded me of Wednesday Adams, but in Blue Jeans. Jabba complained while shuffling Wednesday into the stall, which still had no toilet paper. I asked her politely if she would like me to replace the toilet paper, before utilizing the restroom to its fullest degree. Which she did. Wednesday was probably about 6 or 7 years old, and fully capable of waiting at the table with his older sister, who was also an inbred. He was in that Vietnam Style Stall for the entire time, which I refused to stick around for. A decade later she has completed her sin, and moved out of the bathroom to the carpeted ramp which she also tripped on, while scolding me about forgetting to replace the soap. I take in a serious amount of horrific chemicals because I am a smoker at present time, but no man or woman should be able to produce those smells, let alone expect people to absorb them. Fucking Inbreds.
Still, the money was decent, the people were fun, the food was cheap and greasy, and I was happier than ever. Independence. A sight of something fantastic... A way to make some cash and have a life. A serious demise I was unaware of then, and slightly annoyed with at times, today. I did not know what kind of person that industry is capable of producing. If you hadle it well, it is lucrative and often addicting. If you let it get to you, You could blog about it years later... after you are somewhat over it. Until next time, Damn the Man... SAVE THE EMPIRE.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
I have decided it is time for me to get this all down on paper. (monitor) I apologize ahead of time for the following: The typos, (mainly and and like) the foul language, the run on sentences, the misuse of spacebar, the nausea this might evoke, the misuse of words, the inability to actually attach meanings to things, and MOSTLY, the fact that this is a blog about My Life in the Workforce. That's right... "Waiting" but, too little, too late. (Sorta) And it's entirely true... that In The Beginning, There were Hot Dogs.
I decided at a very young age that money was pretty much the greatest thing in the whole world, next to my NKOTB pillow case/lunchbox/trapperkeeper. I began my hunt for money at the ripe age of thirteen years, embarking on the HOT DOG TRUCK COMMODITY in a special little town. For reasons unknown, the owner instilled his trust and truck in me, to sell hot dogs to the general public of Carteret, New Jersey. I believe in that time, I was making only six dollars less than I am actually making now at the riper age of 28... Either way, that's no reason to jump ahead.
I typically obtained hours during the weekends, since I had a budding RUSH to get to my status of "College Drop Out" via Lincoln Elementary then Bishop Ahr Highschool. **Sidebar: I will not be using real names for many people and places. As you will find out later in this story, some consider this SLANDER which is an illegal offense in many odd and unrelated situations.** Moving on... Weekends at the Hot Dog Truck were a few different things. For one, the days were long, and hot. The minutes felt like hours, and the customers felt like crap. That ceased the minute they started talkin' Dogs though. It's really strange, the feeling the average American gets when eating a piece of cased meat. I like mine with mustard and sour kraut. You can tell what breed of person you're dealing with at the counter of a hot dog stand I imagine, but at thirteen years old I could barely see over the fuckin thing, let alone hold a decent conversation.
I honestly recall having one of those pivitol food industry moments. You know, those moments everyone's had, and everyone embellishes on. A man of seven hundred and fifty six pounds comes to the counter. He's wearing a grey T-shirt, and DARKER GREY sweat stains. It's a Sunday, it's noon, it reeks of the inevitable stench of a deoderantless inbred. The Inbred puts his sweaty mitts on my counter, and orders only what I would describe as a SMORGESHBORGALOTTAGODDAMNFOODFORJUSTONEFATASSHOLE... This list felt a mile long and my home made china fan (accordian folded paper gripped at the bottom) was really loosing its appeal. If you think about it, fanning and hot dog making, simultaniously, could be slightly difficult... since The Inbred ordered almost every topping on the truck. I think I saw him put a mini slim-jim under some chili, over some cheese and next to some onions on top of a dog. The climax of this story comes when I complete the order, and triple bag it. No, I do not want to waste food while Haiti is exploding, and tornado warnings are causing oil spills, and tsunamis are wiping out the entire midwest. My real issue here was genuinely the thought of remaking The Inbred's entire order a second time. 1. Angry Fat Man awaiting food and 2. the sweaty get more sweaty when doing double the work. So here begins my end. Here is where I hadn't realized I had basically lost all faith in humanity. The Inbred orders two Diet Cokes. TWO. I look aroung the park, yearning for another soul to want to be in his vicinity, let alone eat with him, and to my complete disdain for adding to his very obvious issue, The Inbred Sits Alone. Moral of Blog # 1: If you have young impressionable children, DO NOT let them work on a hot dog truck. They will either continue a CAREER in the Food Industry, ultimately leading to at least one not-so-serious suicide attempt, or they will eat themselves to an oblivion, and end up alone. I assume The Inbred started at a bakery. Bakeries will have the SAME EFFECT!!
Job # 2 in Blog # 2. Hope you like it enough to come back. I was experiencing creative difficulty today, and just started writing. I plan to Blog a Job every blog... until I get to my current situation... which is basically the most hilarious of them all... STAY TUNED... and for those of you who read the reason I got fired via MYSPACE from "The Fuck" It will be here as well... eventually.