I Am Tired of It

I waited tables at this crappy Italian place under the freeway, over by Division and God-knows-what --you know where I mean--for like eight years. I stuck around while three managers came and went.

Danny, the first guy, had this short spiky hair that he kept running a comb through, even when he would talk to customers. He would bend over the table and pull this comb out of his front pocket and say, "Is everything to your satisfaction, ma'am?" I guess enough of his little hairs fell into people's fettucini that he got axed.

Then there was Barbara, who musta been 70 at least, who would grab the Mexican chefs' butts all the time and tell them where she'd like hot oil rubbed on her. She stayed for maybe 5 years, redecorated the whole place in light pink and baby blue and hung a picture of her son in Army camouflage in the break room.

Finally there Rick who was the Assistant Manager first, but stepped in when Barbara went to the hospital. First thing he did was take down that creepy picture, then he got the owners to get more seafood on the menu. I always thought Rick was pretty good at being a boss and he gave me a lot of hours. But then one day I was early for my dinner shift and the chefs were swamped so they asked me to grab some broccoli or something out of the walk-in cooler. When I opened the door, I found Rick with his cock in the tub of mayonnaise. He had headphones on and he didn't notice me at first. I thought this was weird for two reasons. First, the mayo was cold so what the hell, it couldn't feel good. And second, I worked there eight years and never once was there a dish on the menu with mayo in it.