Adventures in the Service Industry, Part Two

It was the end of day four, and I still hadn't made it past appetizers. Around 10:00 p.m., about the time I was dying to escape the restaurant training I had been in since 5:00 p.m., my manger, Lou, decided we were all in need of a pep talk.

"Now, I tell you, I don't know what's happened to this group," he said. "We started out 40 strong, and since then, you guys have been dropping like flies. People show up one day, don't come back the next. What is it? Is it an issue of commitment? Is it the tests?"

He then referenced the poster boards he kept to the right of his podium (because every restaurant manager requires a podium) where he kept multiple poster boards with our daily test scores written next to our names. (Want to know when I began cheating? The first day I saw that Joe, who spent his free time setting his jeans on fire with a lighter, had scored a 100 compared to my 97. No one -- not even pregnant smoker Jeannie -- scored less than a 95, and I figured cheating was the standard.) 

"I thought I selected a committed group, dedicated people," Lou went on. "Could someone tell me what's going on? Because I know it isn't me. So what the heck is it?"

This little lecture went on for 30 minutes. I can tell you because I checked my watch every minute on the dot. I had friends to meet after training. And five hours was more than enough for me. Five and a half hours was turning my barely contained annoyance into pure rage. It's not like there was a real opportunity for me to stand and say, "Hey Lou, I'm pretty sure the problem actually is you. You drive people away. You're controlling, annoying and clearly far too fixed on the notion that we're on a real island instead of being on the backside of a strip mall."

"Y'all can go tonight," Lou said, at last, "but I want you to think about each and every thing I've said."

That last command would have been far easier if I had been listening. I nearly ran out of our training space to grab beers and complain to some friends. (I should probably mention that I had also been told that day that the khakis I spent what little money I had left on weren't "regulation." I read "regulation" as "pleats." The idea of spending more money on khakis with pleats wasn't helping my mood.)

The next day was our break day. Eight days of training meant four days on, a day of rest, and four more days on.

I absolutely loved my day off. I slept in. I had a big breakfast. I didn't worry about tugs at my elbow or any greetings involving "island." The only problem was the nagging voice in the back of my head reminding me that I had to go back.

Morning dawned on my first day back to training, and I really thought I would make it to the restaurant. Even in the late afternoon, I thought I would make it. I was a grown-up with responsibilities, after all. So, you can imagine how surprised I was when my body seemed to go into a state of near-inertia around 4:00. By 4:45, I was nearly catatonic. I could not move, I could not grab my car keys, and I certainly couldn't get in the car and direct it towards the restaurant. Even at 5:30, I thought I might still arrive at work and come up with a brilliant excuse for my tardiness on the way over. In reality, I just never showed up. (I promise that I am rarely this irresponsible. Between khaki rules and offering Jamaica me crazies, I had clearly been pushed to the edge.)

The next morning, my cell phone rang. "Hello," I said.

"Is this Laurel? I need to speak with her."

Realizing it was Lou, I hung up.

He called back. By now, I recognized the number on the caller id and just didn't answer. He called again.

Finally, I went into my sister's room. (I was living at home after my recent move.) My sisters and I sound exactly alike on the phone. It's why my father answers each call from his daughters with "Hello Angel" until speech patterns and mannerisms give away the identity of the daughter in question. Apart from my family, for most of my life, this voice thing has been a problem. (I once spoke to my sister's boyfriend on the phone for 10 minutes thinking it was my boyfriend. When we both realized our mistake, we agreed to never speak of it again.) But, I finally saw how this identical voice issue could work to my benefit.

""Hey," I said, "do you think you could do me a little favor?"

"What's the favor?"

"Quit my job for me?" (Whereas I can easily be guilted into anything -- like cleaning stranger's apartments, giving people rides to and from the airport before dawn and washing your dog -- my sister is far more assertive. She doesn't really take crap from anyone, and I had no doubt she'd be far better equipped to make Lou go away once and for all.)

"What's in it for me?" she said.

"A six pack of your favorite beer?" My only bargaining chip: I was of age, and she was not. Go ahead and judge me.

"Give me the phone."

My 18-year-old sister then called my manager to quit my job for me. Here's what I heard: "Hi ... yeah ... I couldn't make it ... I didn't want to be there ... I won't be back ... I have another opportunity and it's far more lucrative ... you too." Click.

"What did he say?" I said. "Was it OK?"

"It's done," she said, "and he wishes you well in your new endeavors."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

"Awesome."

"Glad you're happy," she said. "Do you think you can hit the package store before five? I've got plans this evening."

It might be one of my more cowardly acts, but it was also pretty painless. Sadly, I have to admit that the easy way out has than name for a reason. And once in a blue moon, I do take it. (Feel free to continue judging me.)