Yesterday, I mentioned my job as a teen at the Italian restaurant in the mall. I thought I'd dive a little more into that experience today. The restaurant was owned by a family friend, so when I went in to "interview," I knew it was really just a formality. I met with the manager, a nice woman named Sandy, and we chatted for a bit. Then she needed an i.d. of some sort from me for the official paperwork. Since I was 14, the best I had was my junior high school id, so I gave it to her. We talked a little longer, and then she said with a confused look on her face, "So, your name is Gaspar?" It took me a minute to realize what happened, but apparently she looked at the top of the Gaspar de Portola Junior High card instead of where my name was printed. I nicely corrected her, and she said, "Oh, that makes much more sense." I realize that's not a classic story, but ask yourselves, how many times have you been mistakenly called Gaspar? That's what I thought.
Anyway, I worked there from age 14 until I was about 16 and a half, which was an interesting timeframe for me developmentally. I went from being a kid being dropped off by his mom to an adolescent driving himself and knowing everything. The job itself was pretty good to me. Since I was a kid, I didn't have the most typical work hours. During the summers and breaks, I worked 3 or 4 days a week. During the school year, they accommodated me by having me work Friday nights and all of Sundays. Not a bad gig, right?
Since it was cafeteria style, I didn't have to wait tables and put up with the crap that goes along with that. I made pizzas, cooked them in the big oven, and served people as they entered the line. Almost every interaction consisted of me serving them by cutting a slice of pizza, putting it on a tray, and handing it to them. I bussed tables, and when closing up, did the typical polishing and vacuuming you might expect. Not exactly rocket science, but it could get pretty crazy during the rushes.
Then one day, I was told that another pizza place bought the restaurant. When asked what that meant for my job, I learned that the new place was keeping all of us on. We had to meet with the new manager to talk about schedules and learn the new business, but it wasn't supposed to be an interview per se. So I went in and met Doug, the new manager. He asked about my schedule, I told him, and he didn't have a problem with it.
I had my first day of work there about two weeks later after they did some renovations. I was mainly behind the scenes, watching how some people they brought in were doing everything and taking mental notes. I was there for 8 hours, and I felt confident that I grasped enough to start working there regularly. When I was leaving, I asked Doug if the schedule was ready. "Not yet," he said tersely, "call me tomorrow and I'll have it done." Like the dutiful young man I was, I called the next day and left a message for him with another person. I called again the next day, but he wasn't there either. The next day, I tried again. "Hello, may I speak to Doug please?" "Sure, hold on," the woman on the other end of the line said. "Finally," I thought, because I really wanted to get back to work so I could get comfortable there before the approaching summer. The woman returned and asked, "Who's calling please?" "This is Peter Klein," I replied. "Hold on again," she said. I heard her cover the phone with her hand to tell him it was me, and then she returned a moment later, claiming "Doug just stepped out. Can he call you back?"
He didn't. I tried the next day to no avail. The next day, an old co-worker answered the phone. "I'm just trying to get the work schedule," I said. "It's been up here all week," he told me, "but I don't see you anywhere on it." I asked to speak to Doug, and he said that Doug asked if he could call me back. That day passed too, and so I called one more time. (You can't spell 'persistent' without Peter, after all.) This time, I recognized that voice that answered as Doug's. "Hi Doug, this is Peter Klein. I've been trying to get a hold of you all week to find out my work schedule." "Oh yeah, that's not completed yet," he lied. "Call back tomorrow," he said and hung up immediately.
Being mildly intelligent, I knew something was going on. Still, I follow orders well, so I called back the next day and caught Doug again. "Let me ask you something, Peter," he started. "What would you like your schedule to be during the school year?" "Well, as we discussed before, I'd like to work Friday nights and Sundays during the year as I have been." He jumped in with, "That's not too good for me, Peter. That's only two days out of the seven. How do you expect to keep a job like that?" I was completely taken aback, but managed to say, "Well, I can work five days a week during the summer, but that's how my schedule's been for the past two and a half years." "Yeah, that's not too good for me," he repeated. "I'm sorry, but I don't have a job for you." Click. The bastard hung up on me.
"Uh, Mom," I said, walking into the kitchen. "Guess what just happened." I told her the whole story, and she said, "Well you call him right back and make sure he's sending you a check for the day you worked there." She had a good point. As much as I hated confrontation, I built up my fake confidence, picked up the phone and redialed the restaurant's phone number. Doug answered again. "Hi Doug, Peter Klein again. I just wanted to make sure you were mailing out my check for the day I worked there." Very sternly, he responded, "I don't have any of those figures around. What do you want, like ten bucks?" "No," I said, with a very un-Teen-Peter-like resolve, "I worked there for 8 hours making $5.25 an hour." "Well, I don't have the books ready so you'll have to wait." Click. Bastard did it again.
I went back in and told my mom. She called my dad on his car-phone (yeah, this was a while ago), and he called Doug. When my dad called us back, he said that Doug would have the check ready the next day for us to pick up. My mom went the next day and got my check while I was at school, and I can imagine the glare Doug was on the receiving end of. My parents are both very nice people, but don't fuck with their kids. I'm not saying they'll cut you, but I'm not exactly saying they won't, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, I worked there from age 14 until I was about 16 and a half, which was an interesting timeframe for me developmentally. I went from being a kid being dropped off by his mom to an adolescent driving himself and knowing everything. The job itself was pretty good to me. Since I was a kid, I didn't have the most typical work hours. During the summers and breaks, I worked 3 or 4 days a week. During the school year, they accommodated me by having me work Friday nights and all of Sundays. Not a bad gig, right?
Since it was cafeteria style, I didn't have to wait tables and put up with the crap that goes along with that. I made pizzas, cooked them in the big oven, and served people as they entered the line. Almost every interaction consisted of me serving them by cutting a slice of pizza, putting it on a tray, and handing it to them. I bussed tables, and when closing up, did the typical polishing and vacuuming you might expect. Not exactly rocket science, but it could get pretty crazy during the rushes.
Then one day, I was told that another pizza place bought the restaurant. When asked what that meant for my job, I learned that the new place was keeping all of us on. We had to meet with the new manager to talk about schedules and learn the new business, but it wasn't supposed to be an interview per se. So I went in and met Doug, the new manager. He asked about my schedule, I told him, and he didn't have a problem with it.
I had my first day of work there about two weeks later after they did some renovations. I was mainly behind the scenes, watching how some people they brought in were doing everything and taking mental notes. I was there for 8 hours, and I felt confident that I grasped enough to start working there regularly. When I was leaving, I asked Doug if the schedule was ready. "Not yet," he said tersely, "call me tomorrow and I'll have it done." Like the dutiful young man I was, I called the next day and left a message for him with another person. I called again the next day, but he wasn't there either. The next day, I tried again. "Hello, may I speak to Doug please?" "Sure, hold on," the woman on the other end of the line said. "Finally," I thought, because I really wanted to get back to work so I could get comfortable there before the approaching summer. The woman returned and asked, "Who's calling please?" "This is Peter Klein," I replied. "Hold on again," she said. I heard her cover the phone with her hand to tell him it was me, and then she returned a moment later, claiming "Doug just stepped out. Can he call you back?"
He didn't. I tried the next day to no avail. The next day, an old co-worker answered the phone. "I'm just trying to get the work schedule," I said. "It's been up here all week," he told me, "but I don't see you anywhere on it." I asked to speak to Doug, and he said that Doug asked if he could call me back. That day passed too, and so I called one more time. (You can't spell 'persistent' without Peter, after all.) This time, I recognized that voice that answered as Doug's. "Hi Doug, this is Peter Klein. I've been trying to get a hold of you all week to find out my work schedule." "Oh yeah, that's not completed yet," he lied. "Call back tomorrow," he said and hung up immediately.
Being mildly intelligent, I knew something was going on. Still, I follow orders well, so I called back the next day and caught Doug again. "Let me ask you something, Peter," he started. "What would you like your schedule to be during the school year?" "Well, as we discussed before, I'd like to work Friday nights and Sundays during the year as I have been." He jumped in with, "That's not too good for me, Peter. That's only two days out of the seven. How do you expect to keep a job like that?" I was completely taken aback, but managed to say, "Well, I can work five days a week during the summer, but that's how my schedule's been for the past two and a half years." "Yeah, that's not too good for me," he repeated. "I'm sorry, but I don't have a job for you." Click. The bastard hung up on me.
"Uh, Mom," I said, walking into the kitchen. "Guess what just happened." I told her the whole story, and she said, "Well you call him right back and make sure he's sending you a check for the day you worked there." She had a good point. As much as I hated confrontation, I built up my fake confidence, picked up the phone and redialed the restaurant's phone number. Doug answered again. "Hi Doug, Peter Klein again. I just wanted to make sure you were mailing out my check for the day I worked there." Very sternly, he responded, "I don't have any of those figures around. What do you want, like ten bucks?" "No," I said, with a very un-Teen-Peter-like resolve, "I worked there for 8 hours making $5.25 an hour." "Well, I don't have the books ready so you'll have to wait." Click. Bastard did it again.
I went back in and told my mom. She called my dad on his car-phone (yeah, this was a while ago), and he called Doug. When my dad called us back, he said that Doug would have the check ready the next day for us to pick up. My mom went the next day and got my check while I was at school, and I can imagine the glare Doug was on the receiving end of. My parents are both very nice people, but don't fuck with their kids. I'm not saying they'll cut you, but I'm not exactly saying they won't, if you know what I mean.
So it was a rather unceremonious end to my first job, and the way that era ended made me sad. My friend Jon loved it though, and would bust out, "That's not too good for me, Peter" at every opportunity. He can never remember Doug's name, but he has that line down pat. The job set me up for my next foray in the restaurant business though, and I'll write all about that tomorrow.
Have a good day, gentle readers, and I still have plenty of good spots available in this week's Follow Up Friday, so email ptklein@gmail.com ...if you dare. Bwa ha ha.
4 comments:
Grrr...still makes me mad to this day. Nobody puts my Baby Peber in a corner. I'll bet your life is in a lot better place today than that small time loser Doug's is.
Notice how she didn't deny cutting people? Tough lady, that Laynie.
Playing by the rules is a two-way street. Peter worked hard and was an exemplary employee and should never have treated in that fashion.
It is no accident that after I called Shithead (Doug)and let him know in no uncertain terms to do the right thing....he did. I'll keep our exact conversation to myself.
Most people named Doug suck. That's what I've found. On an unrelated note, are you going to that O-staff reunion?
Post a Comment