I had just graduated from my Master's program in December and had a few months before I could complete the application process for Ph.D. programs and begin classes. So as usual, I hit the temp agencies and went to work.
The agencies by now had realized that I was a "velcro temp," the temp that stays no matter how stupid or disagreeable the environment, supervision or task. So when the previous temp in Gillette's stationery division left during a coffee break, I was sent in the next day. The task was to reconcile a 13.9 million dollar account with a major distributor. It seems that they had gone to a "pay by receipt" system where they paid for what they actually got. Gillette continued with the standard "invoice" system, which is that they paid what Gillette told them to, regardless of what was sent. What could be the problem?
So I walk in to meet my new supervisor, Shmendrik Shlump. Mr. Shlump's office (the only enclosed one in his department) smelled of onions allowed to molder in a men's locker room. It sort of matched Mr. Shlump himself, a short, stocky man with an inappropriately 70s-porn mustache. He wore polyester dress shirts with no undershirt and the stains under his arms looked permanent. The back wall of his office was papered in management books, accounting books, manuals and reports that had that pristine gleam of the utterly unread. The desk was filled with small scraps of paper pretending to occupy sorting baskets.
Mr. Shlump starts to explain the problem, promptly gets confused, and calls in his second-in-command on the accounting floor to explain. Over six months of invoices needed to matched up, item by item with the checks sent by the distributor listing the received items. The invoices were then cleared off of the system. Of course the distributor was working with inaccurate unit prices, unit number and stock numbers. Gillette didn't seem to have any manuals or reports on how the distributor's system worked. You also couldn't clear any invoice off the system (allegedly) that had more than a $25 error.
The process was simple. Gillette had a state-of-the-art optical storage system that was going to make the entire accounting office a paperless machine. However, the system hadn't been designed for the sheer number of documents going through an accounting department. The vendor had gone out of business and was being sued for the source code. Since the optical system would go down fairly regularly right before lunch, we planned accordingly. We printed everything we possibly needed right away in the morning, often duplicating what had been printed the day before and submitted in a report which you could also print off of the system. I was to go check by check, invoice by invoice until everything had been reconciled. Of course the accounting system was a digital dinosaur that practically took punch cards. I asked Mr. Shlump if there was a manual about the clients pay-by-receipt system. There wasn't. I was definitely going to be around for a while.
The casting at Gillette was absolutely hysterical. Most of the department was female. A large proportion were middle-aged. Many were Buddhist. Most smoked like chimneys. All had dry senses of humor honed by years at Gillette. Believe it or not, they were actually not catty. The distaste for Mr. Shlump had a nice unifying influence on the department. Most of us would regularly stomp down to "The Smoke Cube," a room designated for smokers that was so smoky you didn't even need to light a cigarette.
A fairly frequent occurrence was the appearance of the animal rights activists. They hated Gillette. Gillette still tested on animals in the 90s. They put on a great show. The accounting offices overlooked the main entrance, an entrance that all employees avoided. Once or twice a week, we would line up like kids at the aquarium to watch. People dressed as ancillary Easter bunnies and Snow White's backup wildlife cleaning crew would throw buckets of red paint on each other and enact elaborate death scenes. I particularly liked the white chalk outlines they added later. They were a nice touch.
I'd go chant with the Buddhist women. One cast my birth chart for me (she was a Buddhist and an astrologist). One gave me Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand so I could have the right context for the company. I became a hit with some of the black women in the department when they realized I could neck roll with the best of them. "Where did you learn that?"
Rolling my neck I would say, "I learned it from you!"
So I make progress (now the account's only 10 million off) but it wasn't fast enough. Mr. Shlump was getting pressure from the slightly higher middle management. Daily he would ask for progress reports, usually by sitting on the corner of my desk like a compatriot--until you noticed he was continuously "readjusting" himself. "You've got to move faster!"
Except there wasn't really any way to move faster. You had to enter in the SKU numbers and payments one-by-one and check them off on another system equally as antiquated as the first one. He finally told me that I needed to start "washing" the account more by entering multiple $25 errors until the check cleared. A ten dollar check could then be reconciled with a thousand dollar invoice by entering the phantom $25 wash 38 times.
"Are you sure the auditors won't throw a fit?"
"Just do it."
Mr. Shlump also started coming by for other types of information. "What should I serve guests who eat kosher?"
"Let me guess, Mr. Shlump. Your family was Reformed."
"How did you know?"
"Lucky guess. I'll make a list."
Am I Jewish? No. But I did live in New York state for years. Which is about as relevant as saying that I stayed in a Holiday Inn Express the night before. However, you do seem to pick up the kosher laws by osmosis.
After four months, two all-night training sessions for Mr. Shlump so he could vaguely explain what was going on to both distributors and his bosses and a lot of readjustments, the account was caught up. He asked if I was interested in perhaps working on that account permanently. Scanning his office wall, I finally noticed a binder labeled "PBR system manual."
"What's that Mr. Shlump?"
"That?"
"Yeah, the binder that's labeled as the manual for the distributor's PBR system."
"Where?"
"Next to the book on unleashing your inner middle management."
"Oh, that's the manual for the distributor's PBR system."
"You mean the one I asked for the first day that I got here?"
"I didn't know we had it." It had dust on it.
"I'll think about your offer."
I called my agency five minutes later and said I had given my pound of flesh and it was time to get me out of Gillette. Through the grapevine months later I found out that the auditors were not pleased with the thousands of washes in the system and Mr. Shlump had been demoted.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The Secretary Diaries: We don’t care, we’re the phone company
During the first few summers of graduate school, before I started teaching summer classes, I thought I would join the big wide world out there in business. So I decided I would go out and do temporary administrative and clerical work. Temping is a strange world. You’re there, but you’re not real. They’re not that invested in you, so you get to see what they’re really like. Not that secretaries don’t know—they probably know more about the company than the CEO. I’ve told my former students over and over, “Never piss off a secretary—they hold your life in their hands.” When I entered the adventure I figured I would get a great snapshot of what business was like. As usual, the road to hell is paved with great intentions.
There’s a ranking among temps with the agencies. There are the fly-by-nights that you call last minute just to have a body in the seat. There are the job searchers who are looking for a permanent position. There are people (like me at the time) just taking assignments to make some money for a few months.
The very first assignment I took was with a telephone equipment vendor in Boston in the mid 90’s. They had just decided to gut their secretarial pool in the sales department. Rather than one secretary/babysitter for each four salespeople and their group leader, there would now be just two secretaries for the entire department. All the previous secretaries were moved into customer service. Each salesperson was given a computer that they had absolutely no idea how to use, hoping they’d become more independent. My father was in sales, I knew the personality type. I knew that his companies had been downsizing the secretarial pool as well. This didn’t seem that unusual to me.
I was put into place and told that the other secretary would be there shortly. The other secretary was a complete mystery to me. He/she/it was either invisible or just not present for the majority of the time I was there. Occasionally a ghost would flit by for a few days, only to be replaced by golden silence. There exists what I call The Temporary Vortex. Temporary Vortex positions are positions that the agency keeps trying to fill but has no luck because of the atmosphere. Temps disappear into the vortex during their first break, or lunch, or after the first day, never to return again.
So there I am, happily typing away, creating spreadsheets, putting together elaborate presentations, putting Neosporin on paper cuts and kissing away boo-boos. Did I get coffee? Sure I did. Did I pick up dry cleaning? No problem. Would I do any of that off the clock? Nope. No pay, no play.
These salespeople were always in an emergency—some client had “snuck” up on them and required materials last minute. The fact that they had scheduled that client themselves two weeks before was irrelevant. Within the first week I put a sign up on my cubicle that read “Lack of Planning on Your Part Does Not Constitute an Emergency on Mine.” Most of the salespeople (and even the overall company office manager) got a kick out of it. But then there was Ted.
I felt bad for Ted, I really did. He had that disheveled salesman look with thinning hair and a look of perpetual confusion on his face. He really wasn’t ready for the computer age. Everything was an emergency for Ted. It got to the point where I told the office manager that I was limiting him to two emergencies a week. So here he comes down the aisle with a sheaf of what could be called notes.
“Eric! You’ve have to help me! I need these in three hours!”
Not turning around, I asked “Are you invoking one of your two weekly emergencies?”
“Please?”
I turn around and take a look at the preliterate linear A that passes as Ted’s handwriting. It doesn’t look too bad this time so I say “Sure! I’ll have it done in just a few.”
I start typing, except I don’t feel the schlemiel field fading behind me. In the monitor’s reflection I can see Ted behind me, shifting from foot to foot.
“Ted?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have to go to the bathroom? My little cousin bounces like that when he has to go to the bathroom. Do you have to go to the bathroom, Ted?”
“No.”
“Did you think that jumping up and down behind me accelerates my typing speed?”
“No.”
“Then go back to your desk and be a good boy. I’ll bring it to you when it’s done.”
He walks off with his head down. I hear a snicker. Ted’s group leader comes out of his office and over to my cubicle. He whispers, “That’s the best I’ve ever seen someone handle Ted’s panic, are you sure you don’t want the job permanently?”
“No, but thank you for the vote of confidence.”
I lasted there the entire summer, had to train three different replacements before two would stick in the positions. They were actually some of the most fun people I had ever worked with.
There’s a ranking among temps with the agencies. There are the fly-by-nights that you call last minute just to have a body in the seat. There are the job searchers who are looking for a permanent position. There are people (like me at the time) just taking assignments to make some money for a few months.
The very first assignment I took was with a telephone equipment vendor in Boston in the mid 90’s. They had just decided to gut their secretarial pool in the sales department. Rather than one secretary/babysitter for each four salespeople and their group leader, there would now be just two secretaries for the entire department. All the previous secretaries were moved into customer service. Each salesperson was given a computer that they had absolutely no idea how to use, hoping they’d become more independent. My father was in sales, I knew the personality type. I knew that his companies had been downsizing the secretarial pool as well. This didn’t seem that unusual to me.
I was put into place and told that the other secretary would be there shortly. The other secretary was a complete mystery to me. He/she/it was either invisible or just not present for the majority of the time I was there. Occasionally a ghost would flit by for a few days, only to be replaced by golden silence. There exists what I call The Temporary Vortex. Temporary Vortex positions are positions that the agency keeps trying to fill but has no luck because of the atmosphere. Temps disappear into the vortex during their first break, or lunch, or after the first day, never to return again.
So there I am, happily typing away, creating spreadsheets, putting together elaborate presentations, putting Neosporin on paper cuts and kissing away boo-boos. Did I get coffee? Sure I did. Did I pick up dry cleaning? No problem. Would I do any of that off the clock? Nope. No pay, no play.
These salespeople were always in an emergency—some client had “snuck” up on them and required materials last minute. The fact that they had scheduled that client themselves two weeks before was irrelevant. Within the first week I put a sign up on my cubicle that read “Lack of Planning on Your Part Does Not Constitute an Emergency on Mine.” Most of the salespeople (and even the overall company office manager) got a kick out of it. But then there was Ted.
I felt bad for Ted, I really did. He had that disheveled salesman look with thinning hair and a look of perpetual confusion on his face. He really wasn’t ready for the computer age. Everything was an emergency for Ted. It got to the point where I told the office manager that I was limiting him to two emergencies a week. So here he comes down the aisle with a sheaf of what could be called notes.
“Eric! You’ve have to help me! I need these in three hours!”
Not turning around, I asked “Are you invoking one of your two weekly emergencies?”
“Please?”
I turn around and take a look at the preliterate linear A that passes as Ted’s handwriting. It doesn’t look too bad this time so I say “Sure! I’ll have it done in just a few.”
I start typing, except I don’t feel the schlemiel field fading behind me. In the monitor’s reflection I can see Ted behind me, shifting from foot to foot.
“Ted?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have to go to the bathroom? My little cousin bounces like that when he has to go to the bathroom. Do you have to go to the bathroom, Ted?”
“No.”
“Did you think that jumping up and down behind me accelerates my typing speed?”
“No.”
“Then go back to your desk and be a good boy. I’ll bring it to you when it’s done.”
He walks off with his head down. I hear a snicker. Ted’s group leader comes out of his office and over to my cubicle. He whispers, “That’s the best I’ve ever seen someone handle Ted’s panic, are you sure you don’t want the job permanently?”
“No, but thank you for the vote of confidence.”
I lasted there the entire summer, had to train three different replacements before two would stick in the positions. They were actually some of the most fun people I had ever worked with.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Too Fat for Fabulous
So I'm watching MTV's latest teenage outreach show. It's called "If you only knew me." Under the watch of "cool" counselors (you know, the ones that know "the lingo," and can "rock the look," like some sort of psychologically trained Peter Pans) tell you about boxes, expectations and encourage a student body to really know each other and have a safe space for all. Besides reminding me of the movie Heathers (one of my favorites) it gives a chance to remember how misunderstood we all were.
This isn't about that. It's about a single comment said by some Robert Pattinson mini-clone (he even has the hair)."In fifth grade," he says sobbing, "a girl called me fat." It's driven his body image ever since. He's sitting across from a "fat kid," and next to his perky, perfect girlfriend who feels she doesn't get another parental approval.
Yeah, I am violating the safe space. Once when you in fifth grade? How ever did you survive? God, imagine what the fat kid in front of him -- who has probably been called fat every single day of his life thought. Inside, he's probably curled into a fetal position chewing on his ankles because he's on some weird diet.
Today I put together a whole bunch of random things I've seen lately (not unusual for those of you who know me) and realized, "Oh my God! I'm fat!" No, actually I realized that society is fixated and at war with itself about weight.
I read today that most men's clothes (particularly pants) are sized large. For instance, a 36-inch waist is actually 37 inches in a store like H&M. In Old Navy, it's actually 41-inches, which explains why I love Old Navy so much. It's the other side of the looking glass from the wedding dress, which is usually sized 4 sizes smaller. A perfectly normal woman at a size 12 becomes a tent-sized 18-20 when she tries on a wedding dress. The fact that white is really unforgiving just adds to the insult. Men get to pretend they're thinner. Women are made to feel that they're fatter. We could talk about the inherent misogyny of this. But we won't. It's about fat.
We have so many shows about fat loss. Sweaty, starved, dehydrated contestants win money for being the thinnest at the end. They can Bob and Jillian their way thin, dance their way thin, go to a celebrity boot camp, lose weight with morbidly obese teenagers, surgically remove their stomachs and of course, follow the various diet and exercise regimens sold by the participants. We can lose weight and have our pounds count towards free food for the impoverished in the United States. The fact that a great many of these people can't sustain their weight loss after the program couldn't possibly be relevant.
Do we even really need to talk about the infomercials and ads?
But it's about lifestyle change, they say. We need to feed them better food in the schools so we need the First Lady (who I really do like, honestly) to push childhood nutrition. It's an epidemic and needs be calculated for the cost to economy in terms of health-insurance claims and lost productivity. People die because they're fat. They also die because people aren't immortal.
When I was a kid and fat wasn't an epidemic, just a aberration that needed to be stamped out immediately, things were different. School teachers were encouraged to write down what I ate on field trips. It was proposed that I take my lunch and eat in the nurses' office to help me feel less isolated. Yes, you did read that correctly. I always got a "B" in gym because fat kids can't be allowed to get an "A," it would be a tragedy of Biblical proportions. Kids teased me, drew pictures of my bloated, fish-belly white body in a swimsuit, chose me last for sports teams and were generally mean. Last time I checked, kids were always monsters. Paging Lord of the Flies, paging Lord of the Flies. Please report to our collective consciousness. Oh, it's probably been banned. The best one for me was in ninth grade when a girl said to me, "Eric, if you lost weight you have so many more friends."
I replied, "Yes, and then they'd all be as shallow and stupid as you."
Ooops. Did I say that?
On the heels of all this mania about weight loss has come a push back, or is it a fat back? Yum. Fat back. We get to watch people wander around in fat suits realizing they're being ignored (I love those experiments). The participants, suitably chastened, promise to buy a cake and smile at the next 10 fat people they see before they start ignoring them again. There are now shows where we get to appreciate fat people for the wonderful individuals they are. People reincarnated in fat bodies, large collections of larger people in family settings, friend settings, high school, college and ever expanding venues.
So we have two sides of the coin, one happier, fatter and better fed and one bitter, thin and starving. Or is it the other way around? Never-you-mind. We're at war with ourselves over the most significant issue of our time -- fat. Really? Do you think that fat is really the most significant issue facing our society? Frankly the whole discussion is a red herring. A wonderful, beautifully sauced with two great sides for $10.99 herring.
I love the way we can be distracted.
We have a political system that works intermittently, an economy that's depressing in the most positive possible view and a circus of political oddities traipsing across the public stage like a parade of suited morons. We have fights over who can marry, who can serve, who can stay, who can work and who can build what religious structure where. We have an aging population that's sucking up all the resources of Social Security and Medicare that we can't pay for because -- ooops -- these same aging people stole from the SS Kitty for decades.
Under all these weighty issues, is being thin or fat really that important? Shall we discuss it over a snack?
This isn't about that. It's about a single comment said by some Robert Pattinson mini-clone (he even has the hair)."In fifth grade," he says sobbing, "a girl called me fat." It's driven his body image ever since. He's sitting across from a "fat kid," and next to his perky, perfect girlfriend who feels she doesn't get another parental approval.
Yeah, I am violating the safe space. Once when you in fifth grade? How ever did you survive? God, imagine what the fat kid in front of him -- who has probably been called fat every single day of his life thought. Inside, he's probably curled into a fetal position chewing on his ankles because he's on some weird diet.
Today I put together a whole bunch of random things I've seen lately (not unusual for those of you who know me) and realized, "Oh my God! I'm fat!" No, actually I realized that society is fixated and at war with itself about weight.
I read today that most men's clothes (particularly pants) are sized large. For instance, a 36-inch waist is actually 37 inches in a store like H&M. In Old Navy, it's actually 41-inches, which explains why I love Old Navy so much. It's the other side of the looking glass from the wedding dress, which is usually sized 4 sizes smaller. A perfectly normal woman at a size 12 becomes a tent-sized 18-20 when she tries on a wedding dress. The fact that white is really unforgiving just adds to the insult. Men get to pretend they're thinner. Women are made to feel that they're fatter. We could talk about the inherent misogyny of this. But we won't. It's about fat.
We have so many shows about fat loss. Sweaty, starved, dehydrated contestants win money for being the thinnest at the end. They can Bob and Jillian their way thin, dance their way thin, go to a celebrity boot camp, lose weight with morbidly obese teenagers, surgically remove their stomachs and of course, follow the various diet and exercise regimens sold by the participants. We can lose weight and have our pounds count towards free food for the impoverished in the United States. The fact that a great many of these people can't sustain their weight loss after the program couldn't possibly be relevant.
Do we even really need to talk about the infomercials and ads?
But it's about lifestyle change, they say. We need to feed them better food in the schools so we need the First Lady (who I really do like, honestly) to push childhood nutrition. It's an epidemic and needs be calculated for the cost to economy in terms of health-insurance claims and lost productivity. People die because they're fat. They also die because people aren't immortal.
When I was a kid and fat wasn't an epidemic, just a aberration that needed to be stamped out immediately, things were different. School teachers were encouraged to write down what I ate on field trips. It was proposed that I take my lunch and eat in the nurses' office to help me feel less isolated. Yes, you did read that correctly. I always got a "B" in gym because fat kids can't be allowed to get an "A," it would be a tragedy of Biblical proportions. Kids teased me, drew pictures of my bloated, fish-belly white body in a swimsuit, chose me last for sports teams and were generally mean. Last time I checked, kids were always monsters. Paging Lord of the Flies, paging Lord of the Flies. Please report to our collective consciousness. Oh, it's probably been banned. The best one for me was in ninth grade when a girl said to me, "Eric, if you lost weight you have so many more friends."
I replied, "Yes, and then they'd all be as shallow and stupid as you."
Ooops. Did I say that?
On the heels of all this mania about weight loss has come a push back, or is it a fat back? Yum. Fat back. We get to watch people wander around in fat suits realizing they're being ignored (I love those experiments). The participants, suitably chastened, promise to buy a cake and smile at the next 10 fat people they see before they start ignoring them again. There are now shows where we get to appreciate fat people for the wonderful individuals they are. People reincarnated in fat bodies, large collections of larger people in family settings, friend settings, high school, college and ever expanding venues.
So we have two sides of the coin, one happier, fatter and better fed and one bitter, thin and starving. Or is it the other way around? Never-you-mind. We're at war with ourselves over the most significant issue of our time -- fat. Really? Do you think that fat is really the most significant issue facing our society? Frankly the whole discussion is a red herring. A wonderful, beautifully sauced with two great sides for $10.99 herring.
I love the way we can be distracted.
We have a political system that works intermittently, an economy that's depressing in the most positive possible view and a circus of political oddities traipsing across the public stage like a parade of suited morons. We have fights over who can marry, who can serve, who can stay, who can work and who can build what religious structure where. We have an aging population that's sucking up all the resources of Social Security and Medicare that we can't pay for because -- ooops -- these same aging people stole from the SS Kitty for decades.
Under all these weighty issues, is being thin or fat really that important? Shall we discuss it over a snack?
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Life is a Rollercoaster – and I’m Serving Beer
When I was a teenager, like some arcane rite of passage, it was time to work at the local amusement park. They had food service positions, gaming positions and ride operating positions. I couldn’t be a ride operator, because I still had more teeth than tattoos, no substance abuse problem and no child molestation record. I couldn’t be a “gamer” because I wasn’t pretty and perky. Fat people go into food service as if our weight were some validation for the quality of the food (it wasn’t).
At first, I was put in charge of – yes, the irony is not missed – a fudge shop. It never actually opened so I was randomly shuffled around the various food concessions in the park. I sold ice cream bars, pretzels, funnel cakes, soft serve ice cream, donuts, “Chinese” food, “German” food and cashiered at what I liked to call the “Nursing Home Cafeteria.” The first summer finally saw me settling into a “Mexican Cantina” underneath a water ride. Frankly, the “Cantina” was about as Mexican as Burger King.
Imagine an eight foot cube with a closet attached. Then put a microwave, some warming plates, a vegetable station, a soda machine, two cash registers, two vats of artificial cheese substance, a steel countertop, a screened window that flies were able to fly right through and a sink that had probably come as army surplus from World War I. Add an electric box gamely trying to keep up with two fuses on ten high-draw appliances. No air conditioning – it might cause the cheese sauce to clot.
I first learned how to be a contortionist while at La Cookaracha. One hand would be filling sodas while my foot kept resetting the fuses every time the microwave cycled. I’d use the other hand to reset the microwave and hop on one foot since I never actually would get a bathroom break. Then I’d switch to tossing vegetables and cheese sauce into corn-like containers and use the other hand to ring up customers. The foot would still keep tapping the fuse box just to keep the rhythm going.
I hated La Cookaracha.
The next season I was “old” enough (18) to actually serve beer. Then I graduated to the “big time” where you could work in what passed as bars. Mostly I ended up between two places, a run-down interpretation of an old-western bordello/chorus hall and a grease-soaked ancillary bar to a rib joint. I hated the chorus hall. It was the same, warmed over and spat out renditions of “Oklahoma” performed at least 8 times a day. The performers were jaded, contracted from a separate entertainment company and were shuffled everywhere when someone was sick at another venue. Today’s Chorus Girl could be this afternoon’s Magician’s Assistant.
The Grease Pit Bar was the worst, though. Connected to a rib joint, the grease had soaked into everything. The wooden bar, the mirrors, the chairs, the beer taps, the soda machine and those horrible slush machines that dyed your hands permanently clownish were all suitably protected with a layer of insoluble rib grease. I remember three days specifically at The Grease Pit: the first fire, the dreaded Animatronic Incident and the fire that burned the place to the ground.
The first fire was actually rather entertaining. By year three, month three I had developed a pleasant numbness, likely added by the bottle of Southern Comfort I had in the back drawer. I thought Southern Comfort fit in with the theme and looked better when mixed with the soda. It's funny, when I started I didn't get rude to people until the last day the park was open. The second season I lasted until the last week. The third season I kept my tongue in check until the last month. By season four, I started rude. But this is season three, month three, so there's still some politeness left.
A line of people are waiting (some patiently) for slushies, sodas, beers, wine coolers and bottled drinks. Blindly going through the motions, a customer mentions that she sees smoke coming out from the kitchen. I look to the right and see nothing but smoke where the kitchen should be. “No problem, they’re just serving up a lot of ribs! Next customer please.”
“Sir, do you hear screaming?”
I look to the right to see the cooks dancing with the fire extinguishers and trying to pull the emergency fire retardant system over the grill. “Nothing to worry about,” I say, “They’re just calling out the orders. Next customer please.”
“Sir, the smoke seems to be getting thick, should we leave the dining room?”
I look again to the right and see that the occasional flame is licking at the doorframe. “I’m sure there’s no problem, but I think I should just serve the next three customers.”
After a short hiatus for repairs, I again ended up in the Grease Pit Bar.
I suspect that much of the park equipment was bought at bankruptcy sales for other companies. Otherwise, there is truly no way to explain why Chuck-E-Cheese and his ratty little friends became an animatronic singing nightmare in the Grease Pit Bar.
The Singing Rats went off like a wet firecracker every half hour. They would play some tinny banjo-band music while mimicking epileptic seizures on a small stage. Rarely did anyone pay attention. Often, the band would be turned off so that a mother could use behind the curtain to breast feed. I wonder if those children ended up with a pathological fear of mechanical mice? Could that be why there’s so much violence at Chuck-E-Cheese’s these days?
Only once in the entire time I was at the park did someone actually want to watch the damned thing. A woman came up to the bar and asked, “When does the shoe start?” The sign behind me clearly said “Shows are every half hour.”
“Every half hour,” I answered.
“Are you sure,” she asked.
“Yep.”
She stalks off only to come back 7 minutes after the next show. “When does the show start?”
“There was one about 7 minutes ago, so it should be about another 23 minutes.”
She nods and stiffly walks away. Could I have pressed the button behind the stage that started the show? Yes. Did I? Hell no.
Now she’s a whole 8 minutes late. “There’s no show, is there?”
“Actually, you just missed one.”
“There is no show! You’re lying, lying! You’re a liar!”
“I assure you, ma’am, if you wait another 22 minutes, there will be a show.”
“I want to see the park owner immediately!”
“Are you sure? He’s grumpy when he’s pulled away from his mistress and he’s just going to tell you you’re an idiot who can’t tell time.”
She blinked and walked away.
The day the Great Grease Pit burned down, I wasn’t even at the bar. Shuffled down to the bottom of the hill, I was slinging soft serve ice cream in a pastel-themed nightmare. It was hot, the lines were at least 50 yards long and I gamely fought with soft serve machines that hated the heat. I heard sirens in the background.
“Sir, what’s going on?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure.”
Then I saw a dark, oily plume of smoke swirling up from the top of the hill. “Oh, now I know. It’s the Grease Pit catching fire. Aren’t you glad you wanted ice cream instead?”
I turned to my coworker and asked for a break. I went into the back and laughed hysterically. I laughed even more when I realized later in the day that the whole thing had actually gone up like an oil-soaked wick. I felt some moderate sympathy for employees who had smoke inhalation – until I realized there were trying to “save” (rob) the registers. The plume of smoke was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen while at the park.
At first, I was put in charge of – yes, the irony is not missed – a fudge shop. It never actually opened so I was randomly shuffled around the various food concessions in the park. I sold ice cream bars, pretzels, funnel cakes, soft serve ice cream, donuts, “Chinese” food, “German” food and cashiered at what I liked to call the “Nursing Home Cafeteria.” The first summer finally saw me settling into a “Mexican Cantina” underneath a water ride. Frankly, the “Cantina” was about as Mexican as Burger King.
Imagine an eight foot cube with a closet attached. Then put a microwave, some warming plates, a vegetable station, a soda machine, two cash registers, two vats of artificial cheese substance, a steel countertop, a screened window that flies were able to fly right through and a sink that had probably come as army surplus from World War I. Add an electric box gamely trying to keep up with two fuses on ten high-draw appliances. No air conditioning – it might cause the cheese sauce to clot.
I first learned how to be a contortionist while at La Cookaracha. One hand would be filling sodas while my foot kept resetting the fuses every time the microwave cycled. I’d use the other hand to reset the microwave and hop on one foot since I never actually would get a bathroom break. Then I’d switch to tossing vegetables and cheese sauce into corn-like containers and use the other hand to ring up customers. The foot would still keep tapping the fuse box just to keep the rhythm going.
I hated La Cookaracha.
The next season I was “old” enough (18) to actually serve beer. Then I graduated to the “big time” where you could work in what passed as bars. Mostly I ended up between two places, a run-down interpretation of an old-western bordello/chorus hall and a grease-soaked ancillary bar to a rib joint. I hated the chorus hall. It was the same, warmed over and spat out renditions of “Oklahoma” performed at least 8 times a day. The performers were jaded, contracted from a separate entertainment company and were shuffled everywhere when someone was sick at another venue. Today’s Chorus Girl could be this afternoon’s Magician’s Assistant.
The Grease Pit Bar was the worst, though. Connected to a rib joint, the grease had soaked into everything. The wooden bar, the mirrors, the chairs, the beer taps, the soda machine and those horrible slush machines that dyed your hands permanently clownish were all suitably protected with a layer of insoluble rib grease. I remember three days specifically at The Grease Pit: the first fire, the dreaded Animatronic Incident and the fire that burned the place to the ground.
The first fire was actually rather entertaining. By year three, month three I had developed a pleasant numbness, likely added by the bottle of Southern Comfort I had in the back drawer. I thought Southern Comfort fit in with the theme and looked better when mixed with the soda. It's funny, when I started I didn't get rude to people until the last day the park was open. The second season I lasted until the last week. The third season I kept my tongue in check until the last month. By season four, I started rude. But this is season three, month three, so there's still some politeness left.
A line of people are waiting (some patiently) for slushies, sodas, beers, wine coolers and bottled drinks. Blindly going through the motions, a customer mentions that she sees smoke coming out from the kitchen. I look to the right and see nothing but smoke where the kitchen should be. “No problem, they’re just serving up a lot of ribs! Next customer please.”
“Sir, do you hear screaming?”
I look to the right to see the cooks dancing with the fire extinguishers and trying to pull the emergency fire retardant system over the grill. “Nothing to worry about,” I say, “They’re just calling out the orders. Next customer please.”
“Sir, the smoke seems to be getting thick, should we leave the dining room?”
I look again to the right and see that the occasional flame is licking at the doorframe. “I’m sure there’s no problem, but I think I should just serve the next three customers.”
After a short hiatus for repairs, I again ended up in the Grease Pit Bar.
I suspect that much of the park equipment was bought at bankruptcy sales for other companies. Otherwise, there is truly no way to explain why Chuck-E-Cheese and his ratty little friends became an animatronic singing nightmare in the Grease Pit Bar.
The Singing Rats went off like a wet firecracker every half hour. They would play some tinny banjo-band music while mimicking epileptic seizures on a small stage. Rarely did anyone pay attention. Often, the band would be turned off so that a mother could use behind the curtain to breast feed. I wonder if those children ended up with a pathological fear of mechanical mice? Could that be why there’s so much violence at Chuck-E-Cheese’s these days?
Only once in the entire time I was at the park did someone actually want to watch the damned thing. A woman came up to the bar and asked, “When does the shoe start?” The sign behind me clearly said “Shows are every half hour.”
“Every half hour,” I answered.
“Are you sure,” she asked.
“Yep.”
She stalks off only to come back 7 minutes after the next show. “When does the show start?”
“There was one about 7 minutes ago, so it should be about another 23 minutes.”
She nods and stiffly walks away. Could I have pressed the button behind the stage that started the show? Yes. Did I? Hell no.
Now she’s a whole 8 minutes late. “There’s no show, is there?”
“Actually, you just missed one.”
“There is no show! You’re lying, lying! You’re a liar!”
“I assure you, ma’am, if you wait another 22 minutes, there will be a show.”
“I want to see the park owner immediately!”
“Are you sure? He’s grumpy when he’s pulled away from his mistress and he’s just going to tell you you’re an idiot who can’t tell time.”
She blinked and walked away.
The day the Great Grease Pit burned down, I wasn’t even at the bar. Shuffled down to the bottom of the hill, I was slinging soft serve ice cream in a pastel-themed nightmare. It was hot, the lines were at least 50 yards long and I gamely fought with soft serve machines that hated the heat. I heard sirens in the background.
“Sir, what’s going on?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure.”
Then I saw a dark, oily plume of smoke swirling up from the top of the hill. “Oh, now I know. It’s the Grease Pit catching fire. Aren’t you glad you wanted ice cream instead?”
I turned to my coworker and asked for a break. I went into the back and laughed hysterically. I laughed even more when I realized later in the day that the whole thing had actually gone up like an oil-soaked wick. I felt some moderate sympathy for employees who had smoke inhalation – until I realized there were trying to “save” (rob) the registers. The plume of smoke was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen while at the park.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
How many frogs do I have to kiss, again?
I’m not happily single. On a heterosexual scale, I’m now a “confirmed bachelor.” On the gay scale I’m “dead and moldering.” Anyone who says that they are “happily single” is probably lying through their teeth. I admit sometimes being single is better than the relationship you had. But when the coupled sigh and say “Oh, I wish I were single. Things were so much simpler and I had so much more freedom,” I try not to grit my teeth. It’s like the saying “Money can’t buy happiness, but only the rich can say that.” I want to point out the joys of simple and free.
You’re right. It’s much simpler. You only use one side of the mattress and so can make it last twice as long. Couches break in unevenly so you can just switch the cushions around. Toothpaste lasts forever. You never get the bad part of a bar of soap. Being able to eat leftovers for days and days because cooking for one is nearly impossible is a divine gift of food déjà vu. You learn the Heimlich Maneuver for one. You don’t have to worry about someone else taking in the mail, cleaning the toilet, doing the shopping, washing the dishes or vacuuming. It’s quite a relief, really. I always hated when other people did my housework.
Being single certainly makes the various holidays simpler. There’s no need to buy thoughtful gifts, or remember anniversaries, worry about cold sores on New Year’s Eve or save for “Sweetest Day.” The older you get, the simpler the social scheduling becomes. When you’re younger, there are tons of other “happily single” people to despise Valentine’s Day. When you’re older, you are generally the only “happily single” person sitting at home in a bathrobe eating comfort food. It certainly simplifies social interaction.
And free? The freedom is incredible. The freedom of knowing that if you break your leg in your home, you don’t have to worry about anyone else interfering with your agony. You can be sick and nurse yourself. You’re free to collect as many animals as you’d like to fill the gaping hole in your heart. You’re free to spend your money on all of your bills because you don’t have to worry about the agony of a second income. When you’re invited to everyone else’s wedding, you’re free to ignore the “plus guest” part of the RSVP. You’re free to wrestle with the other “happily single” people for a garter or a bouquet.
Being free to date is just one laugh after another. All the dating sites make it seem so fun and comfortable once you’ve decided to date one of the pathological liars on the site. When your friends set you up with someone you quickly find out that the only thing that you have in common are friends who shouldn’t be allowed to match-make. Going out on a date as you get older is simpler. You’ve skipped past the “no, I only exist on air and happiness,” phase and graduated to actually eating. You get to eye each other nervously and wonder what fatal flaw made them still single. The minefield of how to talk about people you once dated is a fun party game. Too much, you look bitter. Too little, you look like a shut-in. Actually, if you talk just right it’s too honest and they never call.
You get the freedom of creative storytelling when someone asks “Why are you still single?” You can adopt a severe venereal disease for the occasion. Alternately, you can adopt a chronic or fatal disease that keeps you from “burdening” anyone else. You were raised by a pack of single rabid feminist environmentalist ferrets and just recently entered society. You were too focused on your career/education/personal growth. You can say you’re saving yourself for the right one and you’re glad you didn’t just have to settle like your friends did.
You’re right. It’s much simpler. You only use one side of the mattress and so can make it last twice as long. Couches break in unevenly so you can just switch the cushions around. Toothpaste lasts forever. You never get the bad part of a bar of soap. Being able to eat leftovers for days and days because cooking for one is nearly impossible is a divine gift of food déjà vu. You learn the Heimlich Maneuver for one. You don’t have to worry about someone else taking in the mail, cleaning the toilet, doing the shopping, washing the dishes or vacuuming. It’s quite a relief, really. I always hated when other people did my housework.
Being single certainly makes the various holidays simpler. There’s no need to buy thoughtful gifts, or remember anniversaries, worry about cold sores on New Year’s Eve or save for “Sweetest Day.” The older you get, the simpler the social scheduling becomes. When you’re younger, there are tons of other “happily single” people to despise Valentine’s Day. When you’re older, you are generally the only “happily single” person sitting at home in a bathrobe eating comfort food. It certainly simplifies social interaction.
And free? The freedom is incredible. The freedom of knowing that if you break your leg in your home, you don’t have to worry about anyone else interfering with your agony. You can be sick and nurse yourself. You’re free to collect as many animals as you’d like to fill the gaping hole in your heart. You’re free to spend your money on all of your bills because you don’t have to worry about the agony of a second income. When you’re invited to everyone else’s wedding, you’re free to ignore the “plus guest” part of the RSVP. You’re free to wrestle with the other “happily single” people for a garter or a bouquet.
Being free to date is just one laugh after another. All the dating sites make it seem so fun and comfortable once you’ve decided to date one of the pathological liars on the site. When your friends set you up with someone you quickly find out that the only thing that you have in common are friends who shouldn’t be allowed to match-make. Going out on a date as you get older is simpler. You’ve skipped past the “no, I only exist on air and happiness,” phase and graduated to actually eating. You get to eye each other nervously and wonder what fatal flaw made them still single. The minefield of how to talk about people you once dated is a fun party game. Too much, you look bitter. Too little, you look like a shut-in. Actually, if you talk just right it’s too honest and they never call.
You get the freedom of creative storytelling when someone asks “Why are you still single?” You can adopt a severe venereal disease for the occasion. Alternately, you can adopt a chronic or fatal disease that keeps you from “burdening” anyone else. You were raised by a pack of single rabid feminist environmentalist ferrets and just recently entered society. You were too focused on your career/education/personal growth. You can say you’re saving yourself for the right one and you’re glad you didn’t just have to settle like your friends did.
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