So I was at work yesterday when a young kid came in with his father. He was probably about eight years old, I guess (I’m pretty terrible at estimating kids’ ages), and was dressed from head to toe in a full body Spider-Man suit.
Anyway, father and son began wandering the store; the dad was busy looking for presents or whatever, and the kid was becoming increasingly bored and impatient. After a few minutes, he walked over to where I was, tidying. He smiled at me as I turned around, and said ‘You do a good job keeping the shelves in this shop nice and tidy!’ to which I smiled, panicked slightly because I suck at talking to kids, and said ‘And you do a good job of keeping the streets of New York safe, Spider-Man.’
With wide eyes, the little boy stared at me before he cried, with shrill excitement across the store, ‘Dad! I made a friend!’
So yeah, that was cool.
Manager (female): I’ve put the new girl on the bar with you tonight, so no distracting her.
Me: What do you mean ‘distracting’?
Manager: You just… have a way of distracting the female staff.
Me: Do I?
Manager: You do.
Manager: You just… do. So don’t.
Me: Well, how can I not do it, if you don’t tell me what I’m doing?
Manager: Just… don’t distract the girls tonight. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.
Me: Won’t that be distracting?
Manager: … … … Shut up.
Michelle: Where are these drinks going?
Me: They’re going to… oh, your favourite table. Number 69.
Michelle: Uh, no that’s not actually my favourite.
Me: In terms of table numbers, it probably is. It’s not like we have a ‘table anal’.
‘Oh… Oh, yeah… I can totally do that.’
Okay, guys… I’ve come up with a new section. At the restaurant where I work, we give out little comment cards at the end of each meal. Ninety nine times out of ten, they’re pretty dull and unspectacular; but every so often we’ll get some thing really stupid.
This isn’t one of those times. I mean, it’s pretty stupid… But I just felt like writing about one, and this was the best I had. So anyway, keep a look out for some forthcoming Comment Cards post, and we’ll get started with this one!
In the garden of the bar in which I work, there are a load of outside tables for customers to eat and drink on when the weather is nice; and tragically, this means that hot days consist of me running up and down an endless parade of stone steps and balconies, littered with plates and glasses and worst of all, people. Most of the tables are in one big, triple tiered area to the right of the staircase. However there does sit one solitary table to the left… Table 32. My enemy.
Why the dramatic moniker, you ask? It’s because table 32 lies across a small area of grass, with stepping stones leading up to it; large slabs embedded into the greenery. Now, I don’t know if it’s because of my height, I’m fairly tall, or if they’re just designed to drive people insane like that Chinese torture method where they tie someone down and leave a leaking tap dripping on their head for days, but these steps are not the correct distance apart for one to just normally traverse them. Now, I know I could just walk on the grass alongside the stones, but as small a diversion as it is, it is still a diversion, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some inanimate slabs of rock tell me where I can and cannot walk, so I do at least have to stay the course; which leaves me with but two scenarios…
I’m working my second job again today, and then as soon as I finish cashing up here after an 8 and a half hour day, I have to run home, get changed, and then run to the next town to work my second job for another 5 hours or so. There’s a bottle of toxic white spirit underneath the till, and I’ve got to say, that thing is positively screaming ‘drink me’.
Hooray for today.
This morning was the first time I’ve ever been late for my new job. I figured it wouldn’t matter, since I open up the store on my own, and have half an hour before I start letting in customers anyway. It was also the first time ever that the boss of the company had decided to come early to see how I got on, so of course she was already there waiting, phone in hand, about to ring me. Thank fuck, it was only ten minutes. So that was screw up number one…
Me: You know, instead of reading that book, you could actually help me do some work.
Co-worker: I’m not technically reading. It’s a book of photos.
Me: I know, I know. I just assumed that looking at a picture book would be the closest you’d ever get to reading, and I wanted to sound encouraging.
Co-worker: Cheeky fuck.
Me: But hey, it’s a step up from your usual books. At least these pictures don’t ‘pop up’, like the last best seller you presumably thumbed through. And I know, chapter three when the little dog found the ball was riveting, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t cry at the end of chapter six when little Timmy found his teddy bear, but if we might delay conversations of contemporary literature until perhaps after you help me stock up the bar? What do you say, champ?
I was serving a kindly old man at the bar today. He had come for lunch, as he has often done since his wife died recently. He’s probably near 90 and, despite his frailty, is always very nice and polite and funny.
Today when he came, there was a little boy screaming and shouting in excitement, as tedious toddlers often do, on the other side of the restaurant area. As I gave the elderly gentleman his child’s portion meal (I told you he was old), I asked him if there was anything else I could get him. He laughed and said “A couple of earphones!“, and then looked over at the still screaming infant, who began waving frantically at the old man. Then, as he smiled and began waving back, he shot me a quick glance, and said, still waving and smiling, “… and a gun.”
A child murder joke from a 90 year old man.
I’ve never had a grandfather, but if I did… I’d want it to be him.