Like a lot of people, I’ve had to go through a series of really awful jobs in order to finally land a decent one. I started working at 14, doing paperwork for my Dad’s business. At the time, being a dumb teenager, I thought this was the worst job in the world, but looking back now it was pretty awesome compared to some of the jobs I’d have in the future. I worked at home, so I could wear my pajamas and do work whenever I wanted, a luxury I miss having.
I’ll start this series of posts talking about the worst job I’ve had in my life. It involved wearing a stupid uniform (complete with a visor), drive thru lines, and deep fryers. Yes folks, I too worked in food service…and for way too damn long.
Driving to Wendy’s at 6:45 in the morning was my equivalent of driving to hell. I got there at 7am every morning to make the stupid salads that the nurses from the hospital down the road would buy for lunch every day to try and be healthy…not realizing that one packet of dressing had like 30 grams of fat in it. Anywho, the 3 and half hours of food prep that I did each day was probably the best part. I didn’t have to deal with people that treated me like shit. There was no noise, no deep fryers, and best of all, no fucking asshole customers.
Every day, a group of cheap old people would come to the restaurant and sit there for hours. My boss nicknamed them “The Committee”. They would sit in the dining area every day drinking their senior discounted coffees with free refills and eat their 99 cent baked potatoes, chilis, and side salads. They thought they were Wendy’s royalty, often cutting in front of people waiting in line to order so they could get their 5th free coffee refill.
They complained about everything and always wanted extra stuff for free. It wasn’t a big deal to give someone an extra packet of crackers or an extra sour cream for their potato, but these cheap asses majorly took advantage of it. One lady actually would bring a Tupperware container from home to fill up with ketchup. EVERYDAY. They rolled up to Wendy’s in their Cadillacs every day, but would bitch if the 99 cent potato you served them was too small (and would demand another one).
If one member of the committee didn’t show one day, I’d often wonder if he or she had died. I would be lying if I said that I didn’t secretly wish for their untimely demise. It could be as simple as a slip and fall. A broken hip. Maybe a misplaced greasy burger… (As a side note, I use the term ‘untimely’, not because I hold a modicum of care for the leather-skinned boars, but because their deaths could not come soon enough, as in it needed to happen yesterday). Sometimes I wonder if these people are still around and if they still torture the Wendy’s employees. They probably are, because old, irritating, belligerent, crusty, putrid human beings never die.
They only get angrier.