Coworker: “Hey, [Boss], [Famous Singer] is my favorite, and she’s got a concert in town in six months. I’m booking that night off.”

Boss: “Hmm, well that’s a Saturday night, so I can’t make any promises.”

Coworker: “I understand. Just keep in mind that if you can’t give me the day off, I’m going to be sick that day.”

Boss: “That’s not very professional.”

Coworker: “All I do is fry the fries for minimum wage, and you can’t make sure someone else can do that one Saturday night six months from now, and I’m the unprofessional one?”

Boss: “I’ll… see what I can do.”

[Boss] ended up granting the time off to [Coworker], but made it seem like they were doing them a HUGE favor in doing so. [Boss] laid it on so thick for so long that [Coworker] ended up quitting before the concert anyway. 

[Boss] seemed genuinely surprised this happened, and I had to keep reminding him that we’re minimum-wage teenagers who don’t want to be here (and will quit with the slightest push) but you’re here acting like we’re all dedicated lawyers in a high-end firm all fighting to make partner.

Related:
Minimum Wage, Minimum Effort, Part 9
Minimum Wage, Minimum Effort, Part 8
Minimum Wage, Minimum Effort, Part 7
Minimum Wage, Minimum Effort, Part 6
Minimum Wage, Minimum Effort, Part 5

This story takes place at the end of my eighth and final year at a home improvement store with an affinity for the color orange. I am about to leave not only my job, but the state for greener pastures (and a better paycheck), and I’m on my last few weeks.

During the last few years, the quality of life at my store was going downhill past the rate of terminal velocity, with bad management, zero advancement opportunities, insane demands, half-skeleton crews, and horrible self-checkout lanes that make literally every aspect of the job worse. I resolved to spend my final days doing everything in my power to drive my superiors to either alcoholism or mental breakdowns, including but not limited to:

• Randomly changing accents during transactions.
• Forgetting how to speak any known language.
• Very liberal interpretations of the dress code.
• Using a mobility cart to go through the local drive-through fast food.
• Suggesting DIY flamethrowers and military ordinance as pest control. 

One day, I am relegated to the checkout near the lumber section in the hopes of minimizing my capacity for shenanigans. While looking up the prices to hire a Mariachi Band to follow around my supervisors and play whenever they try to talk, I notice two young boys who have acquired dowel rods and are engaged in swordplay while their parents are otherwise occupied. This being decidedly unsafe, I decide to intervene in my own special way.

Me: *Heading over to the boys, waving my arms.* “WHOA, WHOA, WHOA! STOP! STOP!”

The boys look at me, a bit miffed, and I call over several of the lumber workers, all of whom have long since lost the ability to give a metric tenth of a f***.

Me: “We got a duel in aisle thirty-four. You want in on this?”

Worker #1: “Five on [kid in black shirt].”

Worker #2: “Ten on [kid in red shirt].”

Worker #3: “I’ll sit this one out.”

I queued up the Star Wars “Duel of the Fates” theme on my phone, put it to max volume, and nodded to the two kids.

Me: “Proceed.” 

They obligingly resume their sword fight, not maliciously, mind- until a supervisor comes and breaks it up. Regrettably, there was no clear victory and thus no payout, but it made for a nice diversion.

I’m now in a much better position job-wise, which is good, because I don’t think I’m going to have much luck returning to that company.

The manager walks in around midday at the fast-food place where I’ve been working for six months.

Me: “Hey, [Manager]—”

Manager: “—Not now, I’m busy.”

Me: “You’re always busy. I need to—”

Manager: “—is it urgent?”

Me: “Yes.”

Manager: “If you’re just gonna moan about hours or sick pay again, then it’s not urgent, and I’m tired of hearing it. Get back to work.”

Me: “Well, that’s the thing. You told me I’d be full-time when I started, but I’ve been on twenty hours a week this whole time. You told me I’d get a contract position with a raise within a month, and still nothing. You also said I’d get sick pay, but nope. So… I quit.”

Manager: “…Fine. Hand in your two weeks later today.”

Me: “No, no, no. I quit, as in right now. I’m talking to you now solely to tell you that I am walking out now.”

Manager: “You can’t do that! You have to give two weeks’ notice!”

Me: “In the absence of a contract, two weeks is a courtesy. You’ve lost your right to that courtesy. To be fair, I don’t even owe you this conversation.”

Manager: “You can’t just walk out! That’s… that’s… not right!”

Me: “Find me a piece of paper or a rule that says otherwise. Find it for me right now.”

Manager: “…”

Me: “Thought so. Have fun with the after-school rush. Send my last paycheck in the mail, and if you don’t, I can show you a piece of paper that says that’s one thing that you HAVE to do.”

I take off my apron and work shirt (I was wearing a white tee under it), and leave it on the table.

Me: “Leaving my uniform here in case you think about deducting any ‘uniform fee’ from my paycheck.”

I got my last paycheck two weeks later, which was thirteen days after I’d started at my full-time and wonderful new job.

I got my first paycheck job at a fast-food burger place in March of the year I graduated high school. As is typical, I started at minimum wage, which was $3.35/hour.

After a year at minimum, I asked one of my managers for a raise. I was closing several nights a week and was being trained for morning shift duties on the weekend. She apologized, but the two local stores had recently been purchased by a new owner. By their rules, we had to work at least three months for them before being considered for a raise.

In July, they had an evaluation of all employees. A manager would observe us on duty and evaluate us on five different topics, with scores of zero, one, or two. Adding up the scores gave us a total of up to ten. 

We talked one-on-one with the managers, who revealed our new hourly rate. One of my more experienced coworkers stormed out of their meeting.

Me: “What’s wrong?”

Coworker: “I got a ten out of ten, and got a whole dime per hour raise!”

I wasn’t too optimistic about my meeting. [Coworker] was an excellent worker and only got $0.10/hour. I went back shortly after and was told, with my score of seven out of ten, that I’d get a $0.05/hour raise, up to a whopping $3.40/hour.

To add insult to injury, when the next week’s schedule was posted, I only had two hours. Just an evening dinner rush. I’d gone from working twenty-five to thirty hours a week to two.

I quit the next week. I got a work-study job at the college for $3.85.

To anyone who dislikes winter, Saskatchewanian spring is a f****** tease. Just when you think things are warming up and getting nice, boom: three more feet of snow, which will then half-melt the next day and become hills of ice that WILL make you regret it if you couldn’t be bothered to shovel while it was snowing.

It’s my first spring at this workplace. [Coworker] was off yesterday, during which we got one of those ugly snows. Today, he’s yet to come in when his shift starts, so [Manager] had me call him.

Coworker: “Yo.”

Me: “Hey, [Coworker], where are you? Your shift started like five minutes ago?”

Coworker: “I am snowed the f*** in, man. There is a pile of snow in front of my house that is making it impossible to open my door. My neighbor said they’d help shovel me out, but that won’t be happening until THEY get back from work.”

Me: “Yikes. Sorry to hear—”

Manager: *Ripping the phone out of my hand.* “You need to be here at work in the next hour.”

Coworker: “[Manager], is that you? I just said, I can’t—”

Manager: “Being snowed in is not an excuse. Get in here.”

Coworker: “I told [My Name], I CAN’T. My door is unable to open. I couldn’t even leave the house to take a p*** without breaking my door.”

Manager: “Well, then you’d better break that f****** door and get in here, or you’re fired.”

Silence. I am left staring at [Manager] in disgust.

Coworker: “…You know what? Go ahead. Fire me.”

Manager: “Excuse me?”

Click.

Manager: “…Did that little s*** just?”

I quickly found myself some work to do… and handed in my two weeks’ notice at the end of the day. I will not remain employed by anyone who thinks an attitude like that is anything resembling acceptable.