Single Status Update
I've never been so happy to think that I might be fired from my job.
The new manager (who's been there longer than the last) has been hiring new people off the street. I'm thinking that maybe they'd hire someone to replace the jackass who almost got me fired for stealing, but they couldn't get anything on the cameras.
Because they couldn't get anything on the cameras, they're installing new cameras. And audio equipment to monitor conversations.
I'm sorry, I thought this was Amerika.
I walked in today for night shift, working with someone I had never met. There were two people in the back room of the store whom I'd never met. One of them was shocked, shocked I tell ya, when I said that the cash drawer was eight dollars over. She counted it four more times, taking half an hour. I'd been working there for five months longer than her and didn't count the cash, so it was obviously my fault.
On her way out, I tried to exchange as few words as possible, because this girl was a complete and total bitch.
"You're going to have to assign yourself to drive thru."
"What about counter?"
"Well, she doesn't have a code to clock in yet, so she can't get on a drawer."
So, only one drawer was going throughout the night. Wonderful.
"Oh yeah," this horrible excuse for a human being said, "We need cookies and sandwich bread. You know how to bake right?"
"Yeah, sure." I said, knowing that nothing would be baked because baking items after three o' clock is idiotic, as none will be consumed.
"Oh, and you have to get the drive thru time between 25 seconds and 45 secods because its, like, the worst in the district."
"Really?" I said, "No shit. You should see a doctor about that."
Luckily, she didn't hear the last part, in the same way that I didn't listen to about half the things she said.
I'm paid minimum wage to clean up after the bakers (because they have three hours of work, then five hours of shooting the shit with management, certainly not enough time to clean glaze , frosting, or anything in the kitchen for that matter) and now I'm supposed to BE the baker?
The person who was hired, who I was working with, used to work nights at the chain that Tim Horton's bought out. This is a whole different place to her. So, naturally, the Assistant manager left a note to the last people she worked with saying NOT TO TRAIN HER FOR THE JOB. So, now there is someone who doesn't know how to make 3/4 the drinks, any sandwiches, or mix the fixins for the frozen drink.
Tonight, for some odd reason, business was doubled, and every dumb bastard tourist with an awful grasp of english wanted something familiar. Twice the business, one drawer. This caused some problems when trying to make drive thru time "acceptable."
A woman and two children ordered six bagels, six muffins, four donuts, four donut holes (two in each bag, so the kids don't shit a brick when chocolate glazed is mixed with old fashioned), and a black coffee. I haven't eaten that much shit from the place while working there.
I had a man ask me for "Ameddican Coffee." Not what size, not how it's made, not hot or iced, just "American."
Well, if I wanted to make an American coffee, it would be in a flag decorated 64-oz tub with pure white cream and six million sugars. Fat, white, sugary, good morning America, how are ya?
And I had to train this person, because she gets to work with my thieving friend tommorow who does NOTHING.
This is how people spontaneously combust.
I was pretty glad to be done with my first job.
I was asked by a family friend (who became my boss) to work with him making fiberglass parts, said he'd need me for 3 weeks, maybe 10.
Five months later, I was finally no longer needed. What a relief.
I'm glad I toughed it out; made enough cash to pay for a full course semester at the local community college, and have enough left over to buy whatever supplies I'll need. That, and the self-confidence that comes through putting up with those conditions for so long is a reward in itself.
We worked in a cramped hangar that was being shared by three groups, I think. Us, the fiberglass company; some guys who worked on cars (some nice cars in the parking lot); and some guys who worked on small planes. So you got a hangar with a load of power tools, chemicals and whatnot for the fiberglass work, two planes, and an El Camino all under the same roof. Many a time, you couldn't move three feet without bumping into something. This hangar had no proper a/c - just two industrial fans we'd turn on when it got too hot in the summer, and all they managed to do was blow around the hot air (mixed with all sorts of unhealthy fumes), fiberglass dust and foam.
For those of you who don't know, fiberglass itches. I would go in wearing jeans, a tucked-in t-shirt and a sweatshirt over that until it got too hot to do so (I started in February). The less that got on your skin, the better. But then it'd be in your clothes and car seat, and they'd shimmer like itchy, itchy glitter.
My job was to cut mats of fiberglass into different patterns, and put 'em all together in kits. Those kits would be wrapped around foam, then you'd pump resin through that, let it harden and *BAM* you got yourself a fiberglass part. Light, yet remarkably tough. If you're curious, we were making bridge whalers. Look it up yourself, I never did get my head around a good explanation of what they are.
Often, though, I'd be asked to assist with laying up the kits, pumping resin and other assorted stuff. I never did get good at those tasks, didn't have the experience or knowledge to be able to do it very well on my own... yeah, I hated it. If you asked for my 'position' at World Class Composites, I'd tell you I was a labor grunt/monkey.
Now the worst thing about the job was the guys who were hired/fired in my duration of working there. I was 17-18 while I worked there, and always was the youngest. These guys weren't much older than me. Usually late-late-teens or early twenties.
The first new guy to be hired... I suppose he did his job alright, but he just decided not to show up a couple days, and he was fired.
The second guy wasn't too bad. He stuck around longer than the first one. The most he annoyed me was how he was constantly bugging me to get smokes, porn, and hang out at strip clubs upon my 18th birthday.
However, on one particular occasion, the boss was out of town for a couple days. It would be just me, the new guy, and this codger in the shop (he was cool). Every day that the boss wasn't there, the new guy didn't show up. The owners and I tried to contact him a million times; nothing. This had me on edge, as I'd be the one explaining how jack shit got done to the boss when he got back.
He was fired upon the boss's return, wouldn't ya know it?
The third guy did alright, actually. Then he brought his friend in.
They wrote their time cards as arriving at 9 when they showed up at 9:30, and they just didn't show up one day with no reason... they got promptly fired.
So this bugs me. I considered myself to have been the least-qualified person possible working there, yet I was the most reliable of all of 'em, putting up with that craptacular job. Not a single sick day, and the latest I showed up was, at most, half-an-hour. None of those guys had the deceny to go through that crap with me.
Why do people get themselves worked up over a shit job? These people you work with have the right idea. They pay you shit wages, you do shit work. Doss around, laugh at the management every time you smash something expensive, shit in the coffee machine, be listless and ineffective. Don't give a fuck. Tell customers the same. When your co-workers bug you, tell them to go take a flying fuck at the moon and get back to you when they've finished. Quit, find a better job. Fucking enjoy life and cock slap any bitch who says otherwise. Vandalise the toilets.
Welcome to the corperation. The more you do for your three dollars an hour, the more people will expect you to do. People will take advantage of whatever good nature remains in that blackened, burnt out husk you call a soul.
Take these experiences as, well, experience. Learn from the masters of slacking that you work with. And if you can't beat them, join them.
Heh, I worked for a local Pizza shop in town years back. Some guy from Alaska and a younger girl worked with me most mornings. We'd spend most of the day cooking whatever food we wanted and eating all the frozen cake in the freezer. The owner left a dough to rise on the counter one day, and I baked a pizza out of it for myself and he came in looking around "Where in the hell is my pizza dough". Hell if I know Mike. He left notes for the staff to stop eating his profits, but I don't recall we in the morning crew paying it any creedence.