Why Apply For A Job If You’re Not Going To, You Know, Do It?

, , , , , | Working | August 11, 2020

My coworker is one of those employees who makes a great show of working really hard but always finds reasons to get out of doing what she’s told to do. If a manager tells her to help out doing task A, she apologizes profusely but says she’s scrambling to do task B and wants to know if she could just ignore task A entirely. Usually, the answer is no. Then, she loiters over Task B, only to “forget” where she was supposed to go next.

I put a bug in the manager’s ear about the things she has done and he agrees to keep an eye on her. Today, she is setting the tables in a side room as it opens for customers. When he finds out that she is too busy setting the tables to help her coworker out of the weeds, he tells me and [Coworker] both that one table is solely [Coworker]’s tonight. It seats five people. She is to do nothing else but make this one table happy. Nothing else. No other duties. Period.

Anyone else would cotton on that this is a trap waiting to be sprung and clue in that their job is close to a deadly, invisible line. Not my coworker.

I send the tabletop of five people in and mark them into her section. Fifteen minutes in, I am gobsmacked to see one of the five, a gentleman, come ambling out of the room to ask if a waitress could be sent in, as they haven’t even ordered their drinks yet and have already decided on their meal.

My coworker is back in the side room, across the restaurant from her table, her back to the room in general, setting the rest of the empty tables. She hasn’t even introduced herself to her one table.

I tell her in a sickly sweet voice that, as she was told, she only needed to set her own table and not an entire side wing, and that she needs to get her butt over there and take their order.

[Coworker] huffs and takes their drink order and dinner order and then leaves. I return to the hostess stand and wave over the manager for a quick conference.

The customer makes his appearance again half an hour later. They got their drinks but are wondering when the food should be out. He is remarkably calm and merely a little annoyed but not furious.

I grab the radio and ask about the wait time for food. I get the response, “About five to ten minutes.”

Okay, our chefs are on their game, so why are we at the thirty-minute mark? I go hunting again. 

My coworker is rolling silverware! She says she “forgot” that she had a table — ONE! TABLE! —  and couldn’t one of the other waitresses take care of it, since she was busy?

I send the manager over to put the fear of God into her and she goes sprinting to the window.

I grab the extra plates and walk with them to the room to begin delivering food when something strange comes to my attention: the plates are cool. The food is not steaming. [Coworker] is handing out the plates stiffly, miffed at having been forced to abandon her luxurious busboy duties to serve her one table.

The man who has sought us out a couple of times takes a bite, looks [Coworker] dead in the eyes, and says, “This food is cold.”

“That’s not possible, sir,” my coworker responds. “This food came straight from the window.”

The man says, annoyed, “Do you want to touch it and find out? I’m telling you this food is cold!”

I can already tell by the temperature of the plate, but since I’m going to throw the food away anyway, I subtly stick my thumb into the spaghetti near the edge. The spaghetti is rubbery where it’s still wet, it’s getting stiff and dry where there is no sauce, and it’s room temperature.

“And I’m telling you—” [Coworker] starts, but I interrupt.

“I’m so sorry, sir! We’ll get you some fresh plates right away.”

I hustle my coworker away and wave the manager over. I explain what’s going on and he tests the plates himself while glaring at [Coworker], who is suddenly finding her shoelaces very fascinating.

Long story short, [Coworker] was sent home and told not to bother coming back to work, ever. The meal was comped — a wise decision to limit the damage to only one table and thus only one tab gets comped due to her incompetence — and I personally smoothed ruffled feathers at the table by taking over the duties of the delinquent [Coworker] until someone could be called in.

On the plus side, they tipped me well for my stellar performance. On a more humble note, I’m fairly sure that while I did a good job, the bar was set pretty darn low for comparison.

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This Is The Story All About How My Phone Got Flipped…

, , , , | Related | August 10, 2020

My dad moved out of the US after my parents’ divorce when I was young. He is not a fan of technology and does not have a cell phone, so I can’t call him via an app like WhatsApp or Facebook. I buy calling cards because they are cheaper than my cellphone’s long-distance plan.

A friend of mine, who also calls family long-distance, recommends an app that’s like a calling card on your phone that you preload money on. I decide to try it out and call Dad one day. 

Dad: “Hello?”

Me: “Hi, Dad. How are you?”

Dad: “[My Name]?! Is that you? I can’t hear you. Speak up!”

Me: *Louder* “Dad? How about now?”

Dad: “Honey, you sound far away. Your cell must have bad service. Walk around a bit.”

Me: *Doing as he suggests* “I’m in the backyard, Dad. Can you hear me?”

Dad: *Getting frustrated* “You sound really far away. Try calling again later. “

We say goodbye and hang up. I reach out to the app’s tech support and put in a ticket. I mention it to my friend who says she’s never had any issues. Tech support gets back to me that the issue should be resolved and to try the call again. I do and my stepmother answers.

Me: “Hi, [Stepmom].”

Stepmom: “Oh, hi, [My Name]! How are you?”

Me: “Can you hear me okay? Dad couldn’t hear me when I called a few days ago.”

Stepmom: “Yes, I can hear you.”

We chat a few minutes before Dad gets on the phone. 

Dad: “[My Name]?”

Me: “Hi, Dad.”

Dad: “You still sound far away.”

Me: “I don’t know what’s wrong. [Stepmom] heard me fine.”

Dad: *To my stepmother* “How come I can’t hear her but you can?”

My stepmother takes the phone, we exchange a few words, and she hands the phone back to Dad. This repeats again, as Dad still can’t hear me. Then, I hear my stepmother burst out laughing and, after some rustling, Dad comes back on.

Dad: “[My Name]?”

Me: “Yes?”

Dad: *Excited* “I can hear you now!”

Me: *Relieved* “Finally! What was wrong?”

Dad: *Long pause* “So, we used to have a phone with a cord and it broke, so [Stepmom] went and got a cordless phone.”

Me: “Uh-huh.”

Dad: “And you know I don’t know how these fancy things work…”

I know where this is going.

Me: “So, what was wrong?”

Dad: *Sheepishly* “I had the phone upside down.”

I laughed so hard when he said that, even he joined in at the absurdity of the situation.

I lost my dad two weeks after this conversation, so to have such a happy memory of him in one of our last few conversations is something I will forever treasure.

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It Means “Good For Your Glutes,” Right?

, , , , | Working | August 9, 2020

I am a celiac and this sort of thing happens more times than it should. A group of us are ordering food from a local restaurant. I call ahead to see if something can be made gluten-free. Some restaurants can do this upon request.

Me: “Good afternoon. I was wondering if your serving of chips can be made as a gluten-free option?”

Employee: “Gluten-free? You mean like vegetarian?”

Me: “Oh, no worries. Bye.”

I hung up. It does worry me that someone working in a restaurant does not know what gluten-free means.

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Red Alert!

, , , | Right | August 8, 2020

A customer enters the store and asks me for the pricing on an auto part.

Me: “All right, what year, make, and model is the vehicle you are working on?”

Customer: “Oh, I won’t be doing the work; I’ll have a friend of mine who knows cars do that.”

Me: “All right, so what year, make, and model car do you need the part for?”

Customer: *Blank stare* “It’s red.”

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, , , , | Right | August 8, 2020

I work in a tie store. Store policy dictates that we ask for ID with every card transaction since our machine won’t take debit. Right before high school dances, we have a lot of teenage boys that come in to buy their ties.

Me: “That will be $12.80.”

The teenager hands me his card.

Me: “Can I see your ID, please?”

Teen: *Blank look* “You have to be a certain age to buy a tie?”

Me: “No… I have to check your ID against your card.”

Teen: “Oh.”

He handed me his ID, still looking confused. I have definitely decided that the younger generation is getting stupider.

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