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I've done my time in the food industry. Lemme see...
Age 16: McDonalds. My very first job. I was so very earnest. I tried so hard. I actually burst into tears the first time a customer yelled at me; you cannot imagine how I loathed myself for being a pussy little weener when that happened. I was horribly allergic to something in either my uniform or the establishment -- I burst out in a rash my second day, and it got worse every day thereafter, until I looked and felt like I had chicken pox. I lasted two weeks. My dad was so disappointed. He thought I should've stuck it out. But he was having a bad year and there was no pleasing him, so I didn't argue, I just quit. Went and got a job heaving couches around for Pier 1 at a dollar more an hour and we were both happy.
Age 18: Dishwasher in the college cafeteria. LOVED IT. Of course I was ass-deep in gross discarded food my whole shift. Of course I was soaked from head to toe within ten minutes of arriving. Of course it was hard, hot, noisy work. But the sprayer, man! That sprayer could carve my name in the friggin wall if I turned it up high. It was a machine gun firehose mass accelerator of boiling hot soapy doom! And the giant dishwasher with the conveyor belt! I loved that job!
Age 19: Waited tables in a Chinese restaurant. Knew from the start I was in trouble. Only anglo in the place. Only one who didn't speak Cantonese. Scary shrill stereotype owner-lady gave the the stink-eye from day one. Kitchen staff deliberately buggered up my orders, 'explaining' in rapid-fire Chinese and then laughing. As if I can't tell Kung Pao from Moo Shu by freaking looking at it, you pricks. Lasted maybe a month? Called in an hour late one day because a power outage knocked out my alarm clock; got fired over the phone. Would've said good riddance except for the part where I ended up homeless. Oh, and the clientele was all students; if I got any tips at all it was a good day.
Age 19, some dumpster-diving months later: Sandwich line at Davanni's. Now that job, I liked. Started out in Minnetonka; intimidated at first by all the grumpy pregnant women. Every single employee of rank, shift managers on up, was at least seven months pregnant. When there's one lady whose back is killing her and who has to go to the bathroom every three seconds, you cut her slack. But when every one of the people you could go to for resolving a question or problem is in likewise state, how do you get anything done? A wise coworker told me: "Wait it out. They all drop litters at once, next thing you know they're all glowing with motherhood and throwing raises around." Well, I didn't get a raise, but I did find them very sweet and pleasant people once that weight was off their bladders.
I liked being a sandwich cook. The pizza line was a fussy place to be, and whenever I worked there I was tense and I screwed up a lot. But sandwiches was a mellow country. Sandwich line also did prep. Boy did I love prep. They kept giving me the lecture about the slicer because I looked too happy, they thought I didn't take it seriously. "I have a bandsaw, a drill press, a table saw, and a lathe in my basement," I told one anxious trainer. "Look, ten fingers!" The other cooks started foisting their prep work off on me, since I liked it so much. I didn't mind. Nothing happier than Jesse on the slicer. Zzt! Zzt!
And they let me wash dishes too. You heard me right. I say let. They allowed. They granted me the honor of washing dishes. Why was this an honor? BOILING WATER GUN!!! DISHWASHER WITH CONVEYOR BELT!!!! CLANG! CLANG! WHOOSH!!
The pay was nothing to sing about. The hours were ass. But the only time I ever had to look at a customer's face was when I bussed tables or subbed for a cashier, and that was temporary, so it was okay. I didn't meet many jerks anyway. This is Minnesota. Land of chilly passive-aggressive Scandinavians. I LIKE chilly Scandinavians. They don't yell or throw stuff or try to con you. Worst I got at the register were ditherers, and they were always magnificently apologetic.
I worked at a few other locations. Uptown Minneapolis was the best for a long time. I shared sandwich line with a cross-dressing flamer of epic fabulousness. He and I had a riot throwing pickles at the ceiling when it was slow. You throw it right, it sticks there for three, four hours, then suddenly comes down *plop* when you've forgotten all about it. I promise we cleaned it all up as soon as they fell. Reals.
Unfortunately, after I'd been there long enough to start seeing the other workers as real friends and the restaurant as a second home, I got a Bad Manager. This woman was determined to squeeze some PRODUCTIVITY out of the staff. Never mind that the store was raking in money already. Never mind that we had like no complaints ever, never mind that we all knew the product like the insides of our eyelids and could put out an order in the absolute minimum time, no delays, no errors, nearly 100% of the time. No, she wanted us to LOOK BUSY. You got that right. This woman, I dunno where they dug her up from, but she was obviously tense and insecure and had never really worked the business. I think they got her out of some management-school crackerjack box.
See, here's the thing. You work a kitchen, you need to pace yourself. You're on your feet 8 hours if you're lucky. 12 or 16 if someone called in or they scheduled a double. You've got a hot oven blasting in your face, your hands are scoured raw from being washed 50 times a day (you think I'm exaggerating that number? I assure you, my dears, I am not!), by the end of the first hour there's garlic butter behind your ears. In order to make the food your priority, everything else has to back off a little. When you get a lull, you take a breather. Sit down on the crate in the corner and massage your calves for a minute. Chat with your neighbor while you take your time wiping down your space. Stroll to the cooler and fill up your little ingredient bins while asking the pizza guys next to the cooler how their day's been. Bus a couple tables and chat with the regulars. Then when the next burst of busy comes on, you're ready to give it your all.
This fool of a manager actually had the cojones to tell us to stop "socializing" on our line. She felt that conversing while we made sandwiches was slowing us down. She told us this from the other room. She never actually watched us work while we talked. Our mouths were going a mile a minute, sure, but our hands were like lightning. She didn't care. What she was actually saying was, "Nobody respects me, nobody pays attention to me, why isn't anyone listening to me? NOTICE ME!" You know that doesn't work. We mocked her. We fell into a deathly silence whenever she came by. The sandwich line slowed to a crawl. Everything did, really.
Then I had the audacity to catch bronchitis. I had no insurance; I told myself it was a cold and kept pushing myself until I ended up bedridden. She let me have ONE sick day. The next day, she told me if I didn't come in I didn't have a job. I walked to work in a Minnesota January, hacking up acrid yellow loogies on the sidewalk the whole way. I worked about an hour and a half, and she sent me home. Back through the arid lung-cracking cold. This scenario repeated until I finally croaked at her, "[manager] honey, I can't get out of bed to go to the bathroom. I need help to piss. You want me at work, come pick me up." She told me there was no need to be unprofessional about it, and to take as long as I needed. I could hear that warning tone in her voice that made it clear 'as long as you need' actually meant 'two days, and I want a note from your mommy and the Pope to prove you're not faking.' I got antibiotics from the free clinic and dragged my ass in before I was quite ready, but at least my cough was dry and I wasn't contagious.
I found she'd cut me to ten hours a week.
"I can't schedule you if you're not reliable," she told me with a light of triumph in her eyes.
Eventually, Seebs got me a job as junior programmer where he was senior programmer; I got paid two bucks an hour more than Davanni's paid me, my hours were beautifully predictable, and all I had to do was sit in a nice warm office and double check his code and write up bug reports. I gave Miss Business School negative 15 minutes notice. That is to say, I showed up 15 minutes after my shift was supposed to start and told her, "Good luck finding a sub, honey; I got a nine to five."
"You're not working your shift today?" she said hollowly, a stunned look passing over her that made me almost feel sorry for her. The ship was sinking under her and she knew it. But hell, she probably shouldn't have been drilling holes in the hull, huh? "You couldn't give us a decent amount of notice?"
"You couldn't give me a decent amount of hours," I shrugged. "Make the sandwiches yourself. Remember not to socialize on the line." And I walked out grinning like the fucking Grinch.
When I went in there for lunch a couple months later, they had a new manager. I talked with my buddy, asking him if his friend ever came through with those Chanel dresses. She did, they look fabulous on him, and I should've stuck it out; the new manager's a dream. Plays to people's strengths, knows where to step in and where to stay out, has the whole place running smooth like butter. I was glad to hear it, I told him, but my new gig's better.
"They pay more," he said doubtfully.
"Plus, you know. Junior programmer."
"Does sound good."
"Also sex in the freight elevator."
"WHAAAT?"
But that's another story.