At the not so wise age of 16, I decided I wanted a car badly enough to give up some of my free summer time. Before making the decision official, I went to battle for money with the parental units. I pled my case in what I thought was a convincing manner, only to be shot down, owing to my "need to take certain responsibilities in my life." I thank them now for this belief, but at the time "taking responsibility" was right up there with "make good choices" and other annoying phrases my mom often quoted.
So I found a job working in the kitchen of a hotel restaurant. I washed dishes. bused tables, prepped salad bar items and made other side dishes. Not very glamourous, but a decent first job. What I really wanted to do was to wait tables. Ok, scratch that...what I really wanted was the tips!
It was during my attempts to make this move that I ran into my first clash with a manager. If you really can call her a manager...We'll just call her She, for these purposes.
She was a relative of the owner and unfortunately in charge of the restaurant. For reasons I never figured out, this woman really did not like me, and didn't try to hide it.
I have always thought of myself as a pretty happy-go-lucky person and it was unusual for me to not get along with someone. I can recall thinking that at least the feeling was mutual. She had about as much personality as bare drywall, a seriously pessimistic attitude about life, and one hell of a power complex; running around, barking orders and acting like She owned the whole place.
I ended up spending the summer avoiding her, picking up odd shifts when her presence was scarce. If She was around during my shifts, I was apt to get blamed for little things that went out of order. She gradually became openly hostile, sending condescending comments in my general direction, while I happily envisioned scenarios of ramming salad tongs down her throat.
If i am recalling correctly, it was the last few weeks of the summer when She was moved off to the side and a new manager was brought into the restaurant. I seized the opportunity and was able to start working a few shifts in the little pizza division of the restaurant. I don't remember loving or hating the work, but I do remember a sense of accomplishment!
After the summer was over, I had managed to hang onto enough money to buy myself a little Dodge Omni. This thing was a total piece of junk, which I fondly referred to as The Bomb (waiting to explode). I quit my job in exchange for cross country practices, taking about a 9 month hiatus from the working world.
Little did I know, I had not met my last (or my worst) adversary of the employment world. I am presently holding to the firm belief that there are good, decent people to work for out there...I have even been fortunate enough to run into a few...So until next time...
