Job Searching 102: Easy Come, Easy Go

My cell phone shrilled its faux phone ring and I looked at it. Father Owner was calling and I hit answer. “Hey there! I was just thinking of you. Our minds must be connected through the firmament.” I giggled my little self-conscious giggle.

Father Owner let out a small laugh and simply said, “Yes.” He went on with a wavering voice. “Listen, I have to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a reason I couldn’t give you the schedule last night. Remember when I said Son-in-Law had a guy in mind?”

“Yes.”

“We talked about it. He won’t let this go. He wants to bring his guy in.”

My belly immediately felt chilly. Three days prior, I was hired by Father Owner as a server in his restaurant, Neighborhood Bistro, and was very excited. On and off throughout my sojourn with The Pie Shoppe, I’ve looked for another job. I kept hoping to work two jobs as I settled into my new restaurant and, assuming all went well, I would eventually and happily let The Pie Shoppe go. I had cold called Neighborhood Bistro a couple of times and loved the place. Father Owner and I chatted and got on well. He had held onto my resume, and some 8 months after my first visit he called me in to meet with Son-in-Law, a co-owner. This meeting went well and they hired me on the spot to start training that night. During the interview, we discussed The Pie Shoppe. Since Neighborhood Bistro operated with a set schedule and the Pie Shoppe had a flexible one, we determined it’d be easy for me to work the two together.

Neighborhood Bistro was set in an Old Town section of a well-to-do neighborhood in the suburbs of Los Angeles. The ambiance was light and cheerful. The entire dining room was sheltered under a large tent. Around the side and back was a tall, vine-covered brick wall, lined with flowering potted plants. The tent connected to a small, old house which had been repurposed into a kitchen, office, server aisle, and bathroom. A large front porch served as the entrance and in the very front was an open patio, nestled against the sidewalk, with large umbrellas shielding the tables from the sometimes hot Los Angeles sun. Inside, strings of lights, artisan lanterns, and candles gave a soft, beckoning glow. All the tables were painted brightly with primary colors. The booths and chairs were cushioned in secondary colors. Tall wine glasses and white folded napkins adorned the tabletops. The menu was eclectic and gourmet, changing seasonally. Father Owner and Son-in-Law co-owned the place with his wife, Father Owner’s daughter. Both Son-in-Law and his wife were trained chefs with a resume of fancy, fine dining establishments from around the country. The food was freshly prepared with an artistic touch. The music, a playlist off their iPod, was lively and upbeat. The family-owned Neighborhood Bistro charmed.

In almost every way, I was excited to replace The Pie Shoppe, a chain restaurant set inside a strip mall. Their corporate environment, where the mandates of the system treated the employee like an object to serve a purpose, was wearing on me. The menu of American comfort food standards, created out of the industrial food complex, was of dubious quality. Ingredients came into the restaurant pre-cooked, pre-chopped, pre-mixed, and frozen to be assembled onto plates by short order cooks. The ambiance was sterile, colorless, and cowardly, made to be the least offensive to the greatest number. The canned internet music was so innocuous as to be distracting.

For two days, I trained with two Neighborhood Bistro servers. The first started as busboy and, over 10 years, worked his way to being an assistant manager. The second was Father Owner’s Son, who was leaving the restaurant to go on an extended traveling adventure with his wife and new baby boy. I was to take over his shifts. From what I could discern in two days, the training went very well and the culture of the place seemed easy-going. All the employees had computer codes to comp and void what they needed off of tickets, a process usually limited to the management as a check and balance to prevent employee theft. Father Owner’s Son assured me that I must’ve been hired because I was like one of them and could be trusted. Everyone was very welcoming, including Son-in-Law. The food was beautiful and my early menu sampling was a party in my mouth.

“He wants to bring him in,” I repeated. “You mean, he wants to hire us both? Try the other guy out too?” This would mean less shifts, which I was okay with since I’d be working two jobs for the short-term anyway.

“Well… no… here’s the thing,” he said, with a hesitant, stumbling voice, like he’d rather talk about anything else in the world. “Last month, my daughter and I made some changes to the restaurant that he didn’t agree with. He’s been upset about it ever since. Now that we have some hiring to do, he’s insisting on his way, even though I’m in charge of the dining room and he runs the kitchen. He just wants to feel like he’s listened to, like he’s been validated.”

He paused, but I didn’t speak, so he went on. “Listen, I’m sorry. The guys that trained you, they like you. I like you. Your experience and personality are a really great fit here. And Son-in-Law can see you’re a strong server. He doesn’t have any problems with you. It’s not about you. He just wants his guy. Personally, I don’t like the guy.”

I jumped in. “You don’t like him and Son-in-Law would still force you to work with him in the front of the house? Doesn’t he manage the kitchen and you manage the front?”

“Yes. I know how it sounds. It’s complicated. This is part of a string of decisions where Son-in-Law is feeling picked on and singled out in the family. I offered to hire both of you and split the shifts but he said no. He wants his way only. In this case, because of what went down last month, I have to give in. It’s a family dynamic thing.” His voice never lost its awkward, I-don’t-wanna-be-here tone.

“Oh, I get it. It’s political,” I said.

“No, it’s family dynamics,” he said, as if I should understand the difference. “Son-in-Law doesn’t feel like he has a voice in the restaurant cuz my daughter and I pushed through a change he didn’t like. So he’s putting his foot down on hiring his guy, with no compromises.”

I sat quietly for a bit and this time he stayed silent too. Then I said, “So, you’re letting me go?”

“Yes. I have to. I am so sorry. Of course, we’ll pay you for the two days of training.”

“Okay. But do you realize you put me in a bind? I told The Pie Shoppe that I have a second job now and I only need a limited schedule. Now I have to go back with my hat in hand and say I’ve been fired already–beg for my hours back. Next week, they only gave me one day. That schedule is set. That’s a significant bite outta my income. I can only hope they’ll give me more the following week. Am I supposed to just be a casualty in your family dynamics?”

I heard a sigh on the other end. “Yes, I know. I am so sorry.”

I believed he was sorry. He went on again. “Listen, I’ve got your number in my phone and I still hope to bring you in. I’ll call you if something happens.”

“Yeah, okay, thank you.” I said. I didn’t say what I was thinking. How would I know I’d be hired for real next time? We talked a bit further as I told him my hours worked and my address so he could mail me a check, then we hung up with an uncomfortable goodbye.

When I went to The Pie Shoppe on my next shift, Server Manager asked after my new job. I said, “Well, my second job that dropped in out of nowhere just as quickly disappeared into thin air.” I gave her the rest of the story.

Her face grew solemn and sympathetic. “It’s probably good you found out about this so quickly. You know, it’s interesting–corporate is a beast and family-owned is a beast. In a family-owned restaurant they make their own rules. In corporate…” She paused. “… well, corporate is corporate.”

“Great. No such thing as a beast-free zone in the workplace.” I laughed and went back to my tables.

My dog, Jack, says, "Let them eat steak!"

Dogfucius say, “Man looking to be beast of burden need to be careful what he wish for.”

An Encounter With Death, an excerpt

Featured

“Hello?” she said.

The voice was silken honey. It resonated with soft vibrations, like a wind stirring within or a sweet song. “I felt your call for me.”

A hooded man–no, something more than a man–slowly materialized in her favorite reading chair at the foot of her bed. The La-Z-Boy, which had over many years molded to the shape of her own body, seemed to suit him comfortably. Was this Death?

The costume was unexpected–no complete shroud covering his entire body and head, and he wasn’t carrying a tall scythe. He looked far from grim. A hood barely covered his face, pale and oddly handsome, with plump, moist lips, like ripe pomegranate seeds. Tendrils of unruly pitch-black hair poked out. Albino eyes, mirroring smoldering embers, held her. A black leather cloak showed starkly against luminous white skin and covered his torso, but not his legs. She could see a hint of his bare, hairless chest and strong legs revealed below. Why Death was… dashing. Her bedtime nakedness felt suddenly vulnerable, even more vulnerable than her bound hands and feet.

Yes, she called for Death, wished for him the way fire would wish for wind. For too long, despair and bitterness swirled together like clouds in a gathering storm. She would’ve embraced death as the monstrous skeleton of lore, with his abominable, toothful grin and hollow eyes speaking with dark foreboding. There was art to this image; like any good movie, life sets the mood and tenor of the story as it drifts to its inevitable conclusion.

But here was something entirely unexpectedly seductive. She could yield to this sort of death and easily be spirited away to who-cared-where.

“Call for you? I begged you to come.”

Hot off the online presses: An Encounter With Death. After a series of emotional setbacks, Vanessa, is filled with despair. She decides to take control of her destiny, but like her life, nothing turns out as planned. Wanting to meet her maker, she instead has an encounter with Death. A sexy and magical tale of the power of love to heal. Intended for mature audiences. Available for $.99 at Smashwords and Amazon.

My first ebook, a short story called, An Encounter With Death: After a series of emotional setbacks, Vanessa, is filled with despair. She decides to take control of her destiny, but like her life, nothing turns out as planned. Wanting to meet her maker, she instead has an encounter with Death. A sexy and magical tale of the power of love to heal. Intended for mature audiences. Available for $.99 at Smashwords and Amazon.

This writer will soon be writing in this blog.

I hope you enjoy An Encounter With Death. 🙂

My dog, Jack, says, "Let them eat steak!"

Dogfucius say,  “It’s a sexy, uplifting tail.”

An Encounter With Death

“I published my first ebook!” I said to the world. And the world listened.

Hot off the online presses: An Encounter With Death. After a series of emotional setbacks, Vanessa, is filled with despair. She decides to take control of her destiny, but like her life, nothing turns out as planned. Wanting to meet her maker, she instead has an encounter with Death. A magical tale of the power of love to heal. Available for $.99 at Smashwords and Amazon.

Hot off the online presses: An Encounter With Death.

After a series of emotional setbacks, Vanessa, is filled with despair. She decides to take control of her destiny, but like her life, nothing turns out as planned. Wanting to meet her maker, she instead has an encounter with Death. A sexy and magical tale of the power of love to heal.

Intended for mature audiences.

Available for $.99 at Smashwords and Amazon.

Please enjoy this excerpt.

This writer will soon be writing in this blog.

This writer thanks you for reading her blog and ebook! 🙂

How to be a Tin God

The server schedule for The Pie Shoppe was taped to the wall above a trash can and a cart holding the bus tub. The noise of food dumped into the trash with a squish and plates dropped into the tub with a jangle resounded as I stared at my schedule for the following week. It’d been completely altered to my detriment. Instead of 4 shifts, I had 3, losing Sunday altogether. My lucrative Friday and Saturday shifts were replaced with the slower Monday and Tuesday.

“Shit!” I said to myself as Star Server slumped a half-eaten Cobb and clanged the bowl on the pile of dirty dishes

“What’s wrong? asked the man, who was younger than me by a few years and an excellent server.

“The Bald Man cut back my schedule. He’s punishing me.”

“Yeah, I saw that. What happened?” he asked, his voice tinged with anticipation for good gossip.

“The Bald Man and I disagreed on what’s fair in the world.”

“He’s gotta be right, you know. You can’t tell him anything.” Star Server also had impressive kissing-management-ass skills, which I lacked, and received whatever schedule he wanted.

“Yeah, well something got stuck in my face this time.”

I told him my story.

Employee rights?

About two months before, I had a family of five who paid their bill with a credit card. There was nothing suspicious about them: a mom and dad, two children and an elderly grandmother. It was a busy shift. They exited quickly. There wasn’t time to grab their bill book to make sure they signed the receipt before they left. Naturally, it wasn’t signed.

The Owner looked dimly upon unsigned receipts and assumed it’s entirely due to slapdash server lameness. Many times, people forget to sign credit card receipts. When I remind them to do so, there are awkward apologies on both sides: “I’m sorry, but I still need your signature.” “Oh! I’m sorry. Did I forget to sign? How silly of me!”

The assistant manager didn’t say anything when I closed out my sales that day, so I figured, with relief, nothing would come of it. Over a month later, as I was counting my cash at the end of a shift, the Bald Man asked to speak with me in the office. I walked back with trepidation knowing this would not be fun times.

The office was the size of a walk-in closet and it felt too small to hold the two of us. A table top, with a couple of metal filing cabinets underneath, rested against the full length of the side wall. A large safe was embedded in the back wall. The room felt cluttered and cramped.

After I turned over my sales for that shift, the Bald Man said, “The customer who paid this bill is contesting the credit charge.” He passed the unsigned receipt and a document across the table top. “We’re still talking to the credit card company, but we need you to accept responsibility for the charge should they side with the customer.”

What? I looked down at the document. It had a photocopy of the receipt for $68.60 on the top half. The bottom half said, “The Undersigned accepts responsibility for incomplete fulfilment of the Financial Transaction represented above as required by The Pie Shoppe, and therefore agrees to accept Financial Obligation for any unpaid Monies from said transaction. The Undersigned further authorizes said Company to deduct said Monies from the Pay Check of the Undersigned.” There was a line for my signature and the date, and another to print my name. I wanted to laugh, though this was no laughing matter.

I took a few seconds to think, still staring at the document. I took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry about the bill. I try very hard to make sure credit card receipts are signed. However, I don’t believe I’m responsible for the unpaid bill.”

The room was too warm and the Bald Man’s face scrunched into a frown. His dark eyes became shark-like and unpleasant to look at. He straightened his spine as he said, “Yes, you are.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re responsible for cash receipts. It’s the same as running a cash drawer.”

“It’s not the exactly the same as being a cashier.”

“When you collect cash and lose money on the floor, you still owe it to us.”

“I agree if I lost a twenty from my pocket during my shift, I’d still owe it to you. That’s beside the point. I’m not responsible for unsigned credit card receipts. ”

“It’s not beside the point. You walk around with your cash drawer. If you’re short, you owe us the money.”

“A cashier can’t be held liable for cash over or short. But you’re still arguing around the point. This is a credit card receipt.”

“Yes, they can and are. This is the point.”

“No, they can’t. Not legally. If a cashier is constantly over or short, you can warn them or fire them. Or train them to be better cashiers. But you can’t charge them.”

“Oh really? Who’s responsible for the cash, then?” I could tell he was mocking me.

“Who do you think is responsible? The Owner, obviously. It’s his business. He’s responsible for creating a system which minimizes mistakes. Mistakes are the cost and risk of doing business. I’m your employee, not your insurance company. If I wanted to take on risk, I’d start my own business.”

“As an employee, you’re responsible for ensuring proper payment.”

“I’m also not responsible for dine and dash. I can’t stand over my customers, watching their every move. There are other responsibilities that take me into the kitchen and away from the dining room. I’m not responsible for management of the whole system. That’s your job. Maybe you should pay the credit card bill.”

He stood up. “Don’t get smart with me.”

I stood up. “Smart? You’re trying to reach into my pocket to pay your expenses.”

“You’re responsible and that’s all there is to it.”

“I think the Labor Board might feel differently.”

His mouth twisted again. “Look, Dawn, we have lawyers to check with before doing such things.”

“I’m sure you do. I’m still gonna double-check before I sign anything.”

There was a long, charged silence. I broke it with, “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“No.”

“Alright. I’ll keep this piece of paper in case I need it. Have a nice night.” I rushed out, my stomach churning.

I finished telling my story to Star Server. “So I checked with the Labor Board, and of course I’m not liable. The Bald Man hasn’t brought it up again, but he did jerk me around on the schedule. Guess he figures I’m gonna pay one way or the other.” I rolled my eyes.

Star Server looked at me, his mouth pulled into a frown. “I think I would’ve signed the piece of paper.”

I looked at him and thought, of course you would’ve. “Yeah. Well, it’s not right.” I put on my apron and started wiping down the salad station.

My schedule remained that way until I was replaced as “bad server” by a couple of colleagues. One had lost his temper in a Bald Man confrontation. The other had called in sick and couldn’t find a cover for her shift.

At least when the Bald Man is petty, it’s with an even hand.

Passages

I stood at the hostess stand and one of my regulars, The Wife, walked in with a man who resembled her husband– same handlebar mustache, same slightly wild, side-combed hair, only they were sandy-colored instead of gray.

“Hi! I haven’t seen you in forever,” I greeted with a big smile.

She smiled too. “Have you met my son?” she asked.

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” He and I shook hands then we walked towards a booth in my section. “Where’s your husband? Parking the car?” The words tumbled chirpily out of my mouth, even as I suddenly sensed what was next.

“He passed away a couple months ago.” She sounded calm.

My chest collapsed. My eyes stung. Death’s hooded presence was looking over my shoulder again, his scythe hollowing out my heart. I was still reeling from the recent loss of my cat. The Wife’s loss of a lifetime love, whose union was represented in their middle-aged son, and his loss of his father seemed incomprehensibly painful. All I could manage was, “I am so sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said, recognizing compassion in my moistened eyes.

As they settled into booth, I asked, “Would you like your extra-hot decaf?”

“No,” she said with a tiny shake of her head, “I’ll just have water.” She’d never just had water before.

I looked at The Son. “I’ll have water too,” he said.

“He looks just like him,” I said to The Wife.

She puffed up proudly. “You think so?”

“Oh yes. I almost thought it was him when you walked in.” I was happy to make her happy. But, as I walked away, I looked back to see her sparkle had dulled like lead, and her ash-colored hair hooded her crestfallen face.

When they were finished, he approached me at the server stand with the bill book open, exact change for the bill on one side and a $5 bill–a generous tip–on the other. His father paid with the same style. I thanked him.

He stared at the front of the restaurant, a wall of windows and a door leading into the patio. The parking lot blacktop glistened darkly under the midafternoon sun. “He passed suddenly. A bleeding ulcer. I had lunch with him the day before. The next day he was gone. We argued at lunch. I didn’t get to say I’m sorry. I didn’t get to say goodbye.” The words were stated blankly, numbly, as if they were said before and often, but the repetition hadn’t eased their poignancy. Then he looked at me. “Life changes. It always changes. We can’t fight the changes.”

My mind floated to my cat. She was put to sleep in my lap by a home pet doctor’s needle. I had to fight the rising force in me to jump up and rip the needle out of the gentle hand, whose owner was invited into my home to do exactly what he was doing, to scream out, “Stop! Stop! You can’t murder my cat! I won’t let you! Please stop!” Instead, my scream stuck in my throat in a bilious lump. My hands caressed my kitty as they had for all her 18 years, while tears dripped off my chin in steady rhythm. She was ill and had suffered enough. Any alternative was more suffering and little hope for much else.

Her surviving litter sister took it better. We all spent the morning huddled in bed, their purrs a continuous hum. As her sister ceased breathing, she moved restlessly about. The body was laid to rest in a cat bed to be picked up later by the crematorium. She sniffed her sister softly, then licked her gently, like goodbye kisses. She laid down to share the bed, as if she was still alive to snuggle, until the body became cold and stiff. She got to say goodbye. I got to say goodbye. I got to say I’m sorry.

No, we can’t fight the changes.

I said, “He will always be with you. He is with everything now.” I hugged him spontaneously, though I’d only just met him, then hugged his mother, who joined us at that moment. We said no more and they turned to walk slowly out of the restaurant.

Me and My Sweet Survivor

Dawn of a New Site

This website is currently being built.  Stay tuned!

This writer will soon be writing this blog.

“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative and creation there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself then providence moves too.

All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issue from the decision, raising in one’s favour all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way.

Whatever you can do or dream you can begin it, boldness has genius, power and magic in it.

Begin it now.”

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe