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employment

Choose My Own Adventure…

By employment 6 Comments

How about if you give me a little input on what I should do with my life — since I don’t seem to be having much luck figuring it out for myself…

(I don’t think you can fill out the poll if you’re not an LJ user, but feel free to leave me some comments instead!)

Defrauding an Innkeeper

By conversations, employment, las vegas 2 Comments

When you wait tables, you learn to anticipate that people are real morons, and just when you think you’ve seen it all, you have the pleasure of serving some one-in-a-million wacko who thinks that the rules of society do not apply to him.  At this point, you realize that people are even more stupid than you thought.  This kind of enlightenment happens over and over, of course, with each occurrence being more and more strange.  For instance, here is a brief timeline of stupid things I’ve encountered waitressing:

Summer 2000 – A family of organics requested organic chicken tenders insisting that they were not able to digest chemicals.  After arguing with me about it for ten minutes, they ordered every organic item on our menu…and four Diet Cokes.

 

Summer 2001 – A woman asked me, “What is the difference between the chicken salad and the tuna sald?”  Dumbfounded, I responded, “Well, we are out of the chicken salad, and we have the tuna salad.”

 

Summer 2002 – A group of drunk women kept slipping money into my apron (perhaps they mistook me for a stripper?) and ended up tipping me over $65 on their $140 check.

 

Summer 2003 – A group of foreigners argued with me for several minutes, obviously disturbed and confused by the fact that I would not let them bring over a few pizzas from the restaurant next door and eat them at one of the tables at our restaurant.  (No, they were not planning on ordering anything.)

 

My most recent enlightenment took place yesterday afternoon when I had the privilege of waiting on a true wacko.

 

As the lunch rush died down, I glanced over to my section to see that a single older man had been seated at one of my tables.  I went over and performed my usual cheerful greeting, asking if I could get him a drink.

 

“Sure, honey,” he responded, reaching out to touch my arm, “I’ll have a double brandy separator.”

 

“A what?” I was pissed that he touched me, I stepped back a bit.

 

“A double brandy separator on the interim.  You know, honey.”

 

I was thinking, Dude, my name is NOT honey. “Um, so…” I had no clue what the hell he was asking me for.  “Do you want that on the rocks?”

 

“Honey, you know what I mean.  A double brandy separator.  If you know what this is and think I am a moron, I’m sorry, but I was definitely baffled.

 

“Okay,” I said.  “I’ll be right back with that.”

 

To make the story short, I brought him the drink, he drank some of it, he left the restaurant and disappeared for twenty minutes, he came back and ordered another drink (these were $15.50 apiece, mind you) and an appetizer, he disappeared again and I told my manager he was freaking me out and that I was afraid he was going to bounce without paying his check, he reappeared and ordered an entrée, and by this time the entire staff was watching to make sure he didn’t leave.

 

A little while later, I returned to his table to check on him and he stated, “This chicken is marvelous.”  When I noticed he was done, I went to clear his dish and he said, “Um, this wasn’t very good and I can’t pay for my food because I have no money.”

 

“You what?” I asked.

 

“I can’t pay for my dinner.  Plus, I didn’t like it.”

 

“You just told me it was marvelous.”

 

“Look.  I left all this because it wasn’t good.”

 

“It’s a forkful of mashed potatoes and three green beans, dude.  You ate it, you liked it, and you owe $60.20.”

 

“I don’t have it.”

 

“Well, you just stay right there in that chair. I’ll be back with my manager.”

 

I brought over my big scary manager, Guy.  Mr. Wacko decided to be a smartass and Guy walked off to call Mandalay Bay security.  Then that loser winked at me.  He winked at me.  “Your boss is a nice guy,” he said.

 

“Don’t wink at me, genius.  I’m not impressed.  I’m responsible for that 60 bucks and I’m pissed at you.  So, you just sit there and we’ll see how nice of a guy he is.”

 

In the end, three rather large MB security guys came down to inform my crazy at table 151 that defrauding an innkeeper is a felony in Nevada.

 

“Use your judgment guys; do what you have to,” the retard said.  The MB security guys escorted him out of the restaurant after that.

 

Moral of this story — do not order food and $16 drinks from me without intending to pay for them.  Your ass will end up in prison.

 

Later on, my manager asked me if I felt bad for sending some poor hungry guy to jail.  “Hell, no, honey,” I said, “That fucker didn’t leave me a tip!”

March 4th

By employment One Comment

March 4th is the only day of the year that is also a command.

Today I began to realize why I discontinued my career in restaurants after last summer – this realization occured right around the time I waited on some people from Michigan who did not know what time zone they reside in.

If you order the Buttermilk Chicken w/Country Gravy at the House of Blues, expect to weigh at least four pounds more in the morning. I have decided that Country Gravy is simply cellulite in a sauce form, however, I doubt this is what the managers meant when they said we needed to be prepared to provide guests with “descriptive phrases” about the menu items.

Ketchup is a disgusting condiment.

“Only the strong survive.”

By employment, las vegas 8 Comments

As a reward for landing a money job at the House of Blues today, I had the privilege of obtaining my Clark County Health Card and my TAM Card (an alcohol awareness card). You can forget about working in Nevada without the two. If you work on the casino floor, you also have to get a gaming card and a sheriff’s card, but luckily, I didn’t have to deal with that.

Getting my health card involved getting a shot. I’m sure we’re all extremely clear on how I feel about getting shots. Granted, I have gotten through several Novocaine shots in the past few months sans tears, but this was a real shot. However, thanks to my new t-shirt that reads “New Jersey: Only the strong survive” and an intimidating, yet fairly humorous, crowd of Army personnel getting their shots to be able to serve food at the NASCAR Cafe this weekend for a fundraising event, I roused up enough inner strength to refrain from causing a scene while being poked in the arm with a vaccination I’m told will most likely cause me to be feverish and nauseous for the rest of the week. I think we can rule out doing any push-ups for a few days, too. I was good though — didn’t shed a tear. I even held back from shouting the F-word until I got back in the car.

After that, I got to pay $25 in cash to sit through a four-hour alcohol class that was given by a speed-talker. The guy was insane. The first thing he said was, “I’m takin yo’ picture, so fix yo’ hair. Don’t ask me what you look like cuz I’m bald and I don’t care.” Rhyming wacko.

The class went something like this:

First, we watched a video narrated by a talking Jim Beam bottle. It was about how to use SIR to decide whether or not to serve customers alcohol or not. SIR stands for Size up, Interview, and Rate. (Decide how much alcohol they can handle by their body size, talk to them to make sure they’re not trashed, and rate them as “green” for okay, “yellow” for watch them, or “red” for cut the bastards off.) The Jim Beam bottle suggested keeping a diary of these ratings throughout the time the customer is in the establishment. Right. Because when I’m running up and down stairs at the speed of light with six plates on my arm worrying about spilling salad dressing on my shoe, what I forgot to add to the last order I sent to the kitchen, and whether or not my table of obnoxious bachelorettes with fake boobs got their appetizers, I’m going to drop everything and whip out the old diary to write down, “Yellow light, fat woman in the turquoise dress, seat 3, table 14.” Dream on.

We then learned that two things we previously knew about alcohol were totally wrong. First, if a pregnant lady demands a cocktail, you must serve it to her or you will be charged with discrimination. Second, when a person is drinking, bread and starchy foods will break down into sugars opening up the pyloric valve from the stomach to the small intestine causing the person to become drunk faster, not slower. Instead, the drunken customer should be given fatty fried foods, vegetables, or proteins in order to keep the alcohol in the stomach where it will be absorbed at a slower rate.

Next, we learned some common-sense-type things. First, don’t send drunk people down escalators — they will fall, causing a pile-up at the bottom that will result in someone’s skin getting ripped off by the jammed stairs. Second, put drunks in booths, not on barstools — they will topple over and bleed on your garnish tray. Third, you should not attempt to break up bar fights with guns, and fourth, there is a difference between an ID with a “butt curve” from being in someone’s back pocket and one with a crease conveniently placed where the last two digits of the date of birth are located.

At about nine o’clock, he gave us our final test and all the answers to it. He handed out our cards with our pictures on them — of course I left my damn sunglasses on my head. On the way out the door, everyone but me lit up a cigarette and I sighed knowing that I’m going to be the only one not getting a break every twenty minutes at my new job due to my lack of a nicotine addiction/desire for lung cancer.

Bottom line — I’d better make some damn good mon-ay at this new job because my arm hurts and my head is spinning from the overabundance of words that have been spoken to me by that speed-demon in the past four hours.

Four of Clubs

By employment, las vegas 4 Comments

Yesterday, I got out of the car in the Mandalay Bay parking garage and tripped over a speed bump to find a card (the four of clubs with a ‘Q’ drawn on it in black marker) at my feet. I proceeded to the elevator where there was a sort of scary-looking individual waiting to board. I opted to turn back and retrieve the dirty four of clubs off the ground and then returned to the elevator after the smelly short man in a cowboy hat was gone.

I went to the House of Blues and filled out a job application, and I received a call to go back this morning at 10:30 for an interview. Starting Monday, I’ll be a server at the House of Blues Las Vegas in the Mandalay Bay. The four of clubs is my new good luck charm. Score. (I wonder if any four of clubs would work, or do I need to continue to walk around with the dirty folded one I found in the parking garage?)