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I recently received some second-hand philosophy from a friend: “You never know what the lesson’s going to be.” In school, I asked quite a few questions and argued many a point, but as a student, my academic journey was primarily plotted by powers greater than me. In life, as my quoted friend concurs, we can each actively participate in our existential education, but we must concede that the co-captains of our course through life include luck, chance, fate, and destiny. In his multi-part contribution to Your Voice Here, Zach Lee reviews a few of the lessons he’s learned on the job of life.
Rat Race (Part II)
With summer ending, I needed a new part-time gig with a lesser optical risk. I found a Starbucks that was opening a few suburbs over, sweet-talked my way through an interview and before you knew it I was attending coffee school. Yep, for four days and six bucks an hour, I learned how to make the perfect froth for your triple-caramel, no-whip, 3-equal, extra-hot, mostly-skim, half-decaf mocha. And I hope you fucking choke on it.
Having been indoors for a few jobs, I decided to take back the streets. Blasting “Moby Dick” from Led Zeppelin II while taking side streets at 65 seemed like an ideal job for a high school senior, so I took work as a pizza delivery driver for Il Forno’s. There’s really nothing like driving through a blizzard with a pizza steaming up the windows, the music blaring, and a joint hanging out of your mouth. Now that’ll put some hair on your chest. For those who know me and my oft-noted tardiness, perhaps this will provide you with some insight. On the rare occasions that I arrived before a pizza’s estimated delivery time, I almost always unfailingly interrupted some kind of naughty activity. Tousled hair, flushed cheeks, and embarrassed smiles would regularly greet me from behind cracked doors. I guess the thrill of ordering a pizza and coming before it arrived was all the rage in the ‘burbs in the mid-90’s. “For the thrill of racing the pizza guy… Nutbeforedingdong.com.” I remember arriving especially early to one house. After three doorbells in as many minutes, the door was finally thrown open by a guy in his late thirties. He wore a pair of wrinkled jeans and a button up shirt with only one button fastened. He excused himself to get cash, and no doubt, catch his breath, but left the door wide open. While I was waiting, a woman walked down the stairs in jeans and a shirt, clearly trying not to look disheveled. I said hello, and she attempted to engage some nonchalant conversation. You know, weather, traffic, pizza… things she knew we could relate on. Never mind the fact that she looked like she’d been doing pushups in a sauna for the last twenty minutes. Thinking she’d pulled a fast one, she smiled and excused herself to help find some form of payment, (interesting that neither of their pants contained any money). If only she hadn’t turned around to get funds she never would have blown her cover. But as she walked away, I observed yet another private moment that is privy only to the delivery driver. Hanging over the butt of her jeans were the back half of an unfastened pair of snap-up panties. I admired her commitment, watching as she walked back to the kitchen. You knew she couldn’t tell how her wardrobe was amiss, only that something was definitely wrong. She disappeared in the kitchen, only to have One-button McGee reappear with a wad of cash. As we’re finishing the transaction, Butt-flap walked back by, this time with her underwear fixed and clearly mortified. I thanked One-button for the tip, he gave me a knowing douchebag smile, and I was back to the car where my cigarette and Pink Floyd awaited.
After a brief attempt at higher education at the University of Arizona, I began combing the city of Tucson for some sort of living. Slim pickins, ladies and gentlemen. Here’s a tip: if you ever apply for a classified ad that claims to let you choose your own hours, make a great salary, and begin a career in sales, don’t be surprised if you find yourself riding in the back of a Chevy pick-up on your way to Douglas, Arizona with a case of cheap manicure kits to solicit door-to-door. That’s all I’m saying.
Next I took the exciting leap into the world of telemarketing, or as I like to call it, “Fuck you, click”. Another gift from the classifieds, I took this job solely because it paid well and I needed money. Bad combination. For two weeks, I went through a paid training course in tele-surveys. You’d call and beg people to take a ten-minute survey all about their complete personal banking history. I can’t tell you how many Americans are just lining up to disclose their entire financial history to an unsolicited phone call. On the upside I did learn dozens of new swear combinations that I’d never previously considered. After being told things like “Go fuck a gorilla!” a dozen times a week, you began to dread having anyone even pick up the phone. First I started hanging up after two rings. Then I tried to dial the numbers extra slow.I made it about a week out of training before my loathing required me to call in sick. The next week I called in sick twice. Then the next week, 3 times. Finally, after about a month and a half of two-day workweeks, I got a phone call from the office:
“Hello, is this Mr. Lee?”
“Yes it is.”
“Do you realize how many days you’ve called in sick since you’ve worked here?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“You’ve been sick 20 of the 38 days you’ve been employed here. You’re going to have to be here from now on if you want to keep this job.”
“You’re absolutely right.”
I never went back again.
Finally, I reentered the world of food service as an employee at a local coffee shop chain called the Coffee Xchange. They liked that I had worked at Starbucks, as it meant they would have one employee who knew what coffee should taste like. The company was owned by an evil Persian named Keya. This was a man who made his employees drive 30 minutes to a closed nightclub on the edge of town in order to pick up their paychecks. For those of you new to employment, that’s a red flag right there. Truly incompetent management, however, trumped the Xchange’s corrupt ownership. The general manager, you see, had made a pledge to the Children’s Miracle Network. He promised that donation jars, prominently displayed by the register, would be seen by hundreds of eyes and would pull in a hefty sum. What he didn’t say was that he would take money out of our tip jar in order to meet his promise. As a veteran of the working world at 19 years old, I considered it my duty to stand up not only for myself, but also for the silent majority. You can make me wear flair, you can tell me to clean the bathroom, but you may not fuck with my paycheck. The Children’s Miracle Network received an anonymous phone call explaining our manager’s shady practice in detail. Appalled, CMN pulled their jars and raised a nice little stink, going so far as to call a local newspaper. Coffee Xchange’s management wanted blood, and they were doing all they could to discover the culprit. Unfortunately, I was bit too righteous for my own good. Proud of my actions, I happily copped to the phone call when asked. This led to the higher-ups having an unprecedented meeting entirely about one employee, namely me. Finally, I was told that while they appreciated my honesty and intention, I should bring up any gripes internally in the future. I was happy to oblige, thinking that my maturity and character had won the day. I remember driving home to a beautiful sunset that evening thinking that honesty truly was the best policy. Two weeks later, I left for a weekend trip to Las Vegas with some of my fraternity friends. Not only had I given the Xchange a month’s notice, not only did I work extra shifts in order to be given time off, but on the last day of work before I left, my manager approached me, shook my hand, thanked me for all my hard work that day, and wished me a fantastic vacation. I happily obliged, and having had my prescribed blast in Sin City, I showed back up to work the next Monday ready to rock. Strangely, I found that I wasn’t on the schedule. I called my manager to ask why I wasn’t working the same day I’d been working every week for six months. She explained that it was a scheduling error, to go home for the day, and that she’d call me in the afternoon. The afternoon came and went without a call. The next day, again nothing. Wednesday morning I called the store.
“Uh, Lisa, you were supposed to call me?”
“Oh yeah. Umm… well, you didn’t show up for work on Saturday, so we let you go.”
“What?! I was on freaking vacation!!! Wait, are you saying I’m fired?”
“If you want to put it that way.”
“Um, Lisa, I was in Vegas, remember? You told me to have a blast? ‘See ya Monday’? Ring any bells?”
“Yeah, well, we changed the schedule. I tried to call you but you didn’t answer so it was a no-call, no-show. It’s company policy to terminate employees who blow off work.”
“You have got to be fucking kidding. I’m coming down to the store.”
“Don’t, or I’ll call the police.”
And that, friends, was how I got fired on my day off.
1 Comment
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Support Barack Obama
I believed every word of this until your bit about you showing up early to a house as a pizza boy.
Dude, you’re Zach “I’ll see you at 7pm sharp (which really means 11:30)” Lee!
Early? Ha!
Who do you think you are? Me?