As part of an April Writing Challenge, I have committed to writing every day this month. So far I’m three for three. You should know – I am quite impressed with myself.
Today’s prompt – “Do you have fun at your job?”
In a couple words?
But honestly, who really does? Work isn’t fun. Work is work. Right?
I can honestly say I enjoy my job. I can look anyone straight in the eyes and say with absolute and complete sincerity that I look forward to work each day. Really.
It definitely wasn’t always that way. For the last five months, I have loved everything about work – the people – the location – the commute – the challenge – the salary – the benefits – and the occasional lunch and 12 oz cans of diet coke at my disposal. Seriously. I love my job.
But…is it fun?
It’s okay. It is quite enjoyable.
But for the life of me, I can’t remember that I ever had “fun” at this job
Especially when I think of fun as the laughing, the joking, and over-the-top pranking.
I haven’t been here that long. Give me some time.
Fun hardly describes my last job or the one before that…or that. Sadly, I haven’t had a good time since the late ’80s/early ’90s at work. Every day was fun – there was always laughing and joking and over-the-top pranking. And drinks. Lots of drinks.
And, I can promise you with absolute and complete sincerity the perk of being lit up like a Christmas tree most days was big part of the reason. Everything is more fun when you’re three sheets to the wind. And surrounded by some pretty awesome people. Yep. That helps, too.
One of the funniest times I can still remember?
Definitely when Ditzy Di almost served a dick to a diner at the four-top on the Terrace.
Ditzy Di was in training. It was a busy Friday on an incredibly hot night in July. The joint was hopping and the food was backing up in the window. Also getting hot under-the-collar was Stretch the Night Broiler Man. Most nights he was pretty easy going. But when it got busy – he lost all patience for incompetence.
Enter Ditzy Di. Normally a day girl, Ditzy Di agreed to stay on through the evening rush. Black Ron, the Daytime Broiler Man, had offered to show Di the breakroom so she could rest between shifts.
Two things you need to know – 1) The Pub did not have a breakroom. . . and 2) don’t tell the authorities, but the Pub frowned on breaks.
Black Ron and Ditzy Di, apparently finished with their break, had just come upstairs. Di had lipstick on every inch of her face with exception of her two lips and her uniform’s green neckerchief’s knot had done a full 180 round her neck.
Black Ron was sporting a shit-eating grin from ear to ear. He patted Di on the ass as he said good bye on his way out the door.
Ditzy Di’s first day was Wednesday. By the end of that shift, she was given 2:1 odds in getting shown the door by the end of Thursday in the “Will She or Won’t She Last Pool”. I had my money riding on Sunday (never a lucky day for a newbie) – so I had a lot invested in her making it through a busy hot Friday in July.
The reason Ditzy Di was still punching in for the 2nd half of her double on Friday is because of Black Ron. She couldn’t figure her way out of a wet paper bag let alone crack the code of the register so she would whisper her order between giggles to Black Ron – he’d make her order and whistle when it was ready.
Life as a day waitress just got complicated for Ditzy Di as she returned from the dining room with her order from the Terrace. A medium special- extra crispy and a Spaghetti with a side of meatballs AND sausage.
Di conned a clueless pizza kid into taking her medium special ticket back to carry-out as she tried to figure out how to time her spaghetti to come up at the same time. As she freshened up her lipstick, she leaned over the counter and called to Stretch – “hey – how long for a spaghetti with balls?” Adding, “I’m waiting on a medium special”.
He rolled his eyes and told her to let him know when her pizza was ready and he’d dish it up.
About twenty minutes later, one of the pimple-faced teens from carryout delivered the medium special to the line and Ditzy Di delivered it to the four-top on the Terrace.
And about ten minutes after that, she was outside having a smoke when one of the four-top diners was at the hostess desk freaking the frick out because he was missing a plate of spaghetti. As the pissed off owner was heading toward the line to get to the bottom of the spaghetti mystery he ran into Ditzy Di, who was freshening her lipstick following her puff break out back.
He inquired about the missing plate of spaghetti and she in turn blamed the mishap on the kitchen. As he was demanding a plate on the fly from the line, anyone paying attention knew Stretch was pissed. And anyone who was anyone knew you didn’t throw Stretch under the bus. Ever.
As Stretch told Ditzy Di her plate was coming, he winked at Perv -the guy who worked the middle of the line. We called Perv, “Perv” because he was a perv. Perv smiled back.
Those of us paying attention knew what was coming next was a shit storm – extra shitty.
Stretch whipped up a plate of spaghetti, placed a big, plump, somewhat excited sausage on top with two, big meaty balls on either side. Perv grabbed an extra fluffy sprig of parsley and strategically placed it where the pubes might go on this piece of art.
Stretch chuckled as he slid the plate under the heat lamp and rang the bell that signaled “order up”. The rest of us were pissing our pants at the sight of the leaning tower of pecker atop the plate of spag. That’ll teach the newbie to throw a chef under the bus.
Enter Ditzy Di – she grabbed the plate and made sure it had what it was supposed to have – big ass link of sausage? Check. Two big, meaty balls? Check and check. She headed out of the kitchen toward the four-top on the Terrace…with Teri the Trainer breaking a sweat trailing after her. Just as she was about to put the plate down Teri grabbed it from her hands and hauled ass back to the kitchen, with Ditzy Di on her heels.
Someone, I can’t remember who, passed by the plate with the Italian pecker with a replacement plate of spaghetti along with a the side of sausage and balls in a bowl minus the pubes bouquet.
The plate of spaghetti was devoured by the table on the Terrace in the blink of an eye.
Ironically similar to the remaining tenure of one Ditzi Di.
Read my other challenges this month.
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