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So I've never been able to take criticism very well. But not in an, "Oh yeah?! Well fuck you buddy!" type of way. Oh no. A friend of mine, once trying to be comforting, I think, described me as a "sensitive heart". Fuck that, I'm pretty sure I'm just a puss. My lip quivers. I blink back tears. I take the sort of breathy, unsteady huffs of air usually reserved for five-year-olds who've fallen off their Big Wheels. But at least I'll smile, nod, and then go hide in the bathroom while it happens.
I mention this not to garner sympathy, but because when compared to one of my best friends, CA, I'm a freaking rock. In the group of friends I had throughout my teens, CA has always been the gentlest of us, the sweetest, the one who went on to become an RN because she found it so rewarding. My friends and I have always been particularily sensitive to her distress for some reason, and God help anyone who upsets her, even if we tease her ruthlessly about it ourselves.
As it happens, when I was fourteen, I got my first job with CA at a popular sandwich chain that rhymes with GRUBWAY over the summer. Whereas had I been paired with any other of my friends work together would have been impossible because we'd devolve into giggling, tittering ne'er-do-wells, CA and I managed to maintain enough professionalism that the management overcame it's reservation and allowed us to work the same shifts.
Despite my long career in customer service, usually in the food industry in some form or another, I've never really LIKED dealing with people (usually because so many of them were so . . . well, you know), and back then was no different. CA would happily agree to man the front, serving customers, while I lurked in the back, ostensibly doing "prep-work" while I daydreamed about being a pirate. On this particular occasion, while the manager was off picking up her husband from the airport, I was using the little mirror in the back to try for the fiftieth time to fit all my hair underneath my baseball cap -- I'd flat-out refused to dye my then-purple hair a less ridiculous colour, so the compromise was keeping it out of sight of the clientelle, harder than it sounds with waist-length curls. So I'm muttering and grunting and shoving bits of hair and thinking how when I have my own restaurant I'll let my staff dye their hair pink and yellow if they want, when I hear the wail from out front.
"WELL YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE SUCH A BITCH ABOUT IT!"
Sobs follow, and I immediately abandon my cap to go investigate.
Out front, I find a very scandalised looking older woman with her hands planted on her hips, working up a really good froth no doubt, while CA is weeping into her hands and the other employees mill about uncomfortably. Nobody else seems to be willing to take charge, so I decide to pretend I'm not some punk brat who's been on the job less than a week and try lamely to take control of the situation.
"What seems to be the problem here?" Yes, excellent! Pat yourself on the back, Cookie, that sounded very professional. Not lame at all.
The old woman gives me a nasty look, and miraculously decides not to point out CA's shrieked insult. "I was just telling this girl that she's not supposed to leave empty meat packages out here where customers can see them! It implies the meat isn't fresh!"
Technically, she's right. Sort of. We're trained to take any product out of it's wrapper before we bring it out so customers only see the wax paper we carry it on. I'm still unsure of the school of thought behind that one. Did they really think we were back there grimly cultivating the bacteria for their swiss cheese instead of opening a package? (I'm sure it has more to do with brand names and perceived quality, but still.)
Now I'm starting to get angry. She's picking on CA. You don't pick on CA. CA saved up her allowance and bought me Totally Hair Barbie for my birthday when I was like seven, damnit! Years later, she would take a week off from work not long after the birth of her first child to drive me all the way down to Vancouver for my immigration interview.
As it turns out, however, I needn't have worried.
Before I can come up with a sufficient response (one that would probably have gotten me fired -- airlines usually make me pay for an extra seat for my BIG FAT MOUTH), CA suddenly draws in a slow, deep breath, tilts her head back, and closes her eyes briefly. When she's opening them again, she's smiling. "I'm so sorry, ma'am." she says in a chirpy, sweet voice. "I had no reason to yell like that at you. You were absolutely right. Would you like me to go get you some fresh meat for your sub?"
Everyone is staring at her, amazed at this sudden shift in mood. The woman blinks once, twice, then looks slightly mollified as she says in a stiff voice. "Yes, that will be sufficient. I want the FRESH stuff."
CA merely smiles and nods and heads into the back, patting my shoulder in a down, girl! sort of way as she passes to let me know she has things under control. I'm unconvinced.
She vanishes behind the door.
It's quiet for a moment. There are other people in line, but nobody is placing an order. I can hear the squeak of rubber soles as people shift uncomfortably. Most of the employees are staring at the floor.
And then it happens.
Suddenly, from the back, comes the bellow of an angry cow. Pans clatter loudly. Something thumps into the wall. The mooing continues, gets louder and more frantic, in between CA shouting "HOLD STILL" until it abruptly cuts off.
A moment later, she emerges from the back and marches past my gaping mouth carrying cold cuts on a sheet of wax paper. She's splattered marinara sauce all up her arms and across the front of her uniform like blood. Dots of it even fleck her face, and she continues to smile as she lets it slap wetly down on the counter in front of the shocked woman. "Sorry, ma'am. I didn't expect him to put up such a fight. Is that fresh enough for you?"
Before the woman can respond, CA turns to me. "Can you guys handle things here on your own?"
"Uh. Sure."
"Good. 'Cause I quit."
And she walked out. Tomorrow, she will start on as a Candy Striper at the hospital.
We stare after her for a long moment. One of the customers is giggling quietly. The woman still looks shocked, as if she can't process what's happened. Hell, I can't process what's happened. CA watches Martha Stewart on Sundays. She scrapbooks. It will be the single biggest display of spine and temper I will ever see from her, and will go down in legend in our small social circle. The complaint the woman will make to the manager will be well worth it.
Finally, one of the other employees clears his throat and steps forward, managing a smile. "So, what vegetables would you like on that?"
I mention this not to garner sympathy, but because when compared to one of my best friends, CA, I'm a freaking rock. In the group of friends I had throughout my teens, CA has always been the gentlest of us, the sweetest, the one who went on to become an RN because she found it so rewarding. My friends and I have always been particularily sensitive to her distress for some reason, and God help anyone who upsets her, even if we tease her ruthlessly about it ourselves.
As it happens, when I was fourteen, I got my first job with CA at a popular sandwich chain that rhymes with GRUBWAY over the summer. Whereas had I been paired with any other of my friends work together would have been impossible because we'd devolve into giggling, tittering ne'er-do-wells, CA and I managed to maintain enough professionalism that the management overcame it's reservation and allowed us to work the same shifts.
Despite my long career in customer service, usually in the food industry in some form or another, I've never really LIKED dealing with people (usually because so many of them were so . . . well, you know), and back then was no different. CA would happily agree to man the front, serving customers, while I lurked in the back, ostensibly doing "prep-work" while I daydreamed about being a pirate. On this particular occasion, while the manager was off picking up her husband from the airport, I was using the little mirror in the back to try for the fiftieth time to fit all my hair underneath my baseball cap -- I'd flat-out refused to dye my then-purple hair a less ridiculous colour, so the compromise was keeping it out of sight of the clientelle, harder than it sounds with waist-length curls. So I'm muttering and grunting and shoving bits of hair and thinking how when I have my own restaurant I'll let my staff dye their hair pink and yellow if they want, when I hear the wail from out front.
"WELL YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE SUCH A BITCH ABOUT IT!"
Sobs follow, and I immediately abandon my cap to go investigate.
Out front, I find a very scandalised looking older woman with her hands planted on her hips, working up a really good froth no doubt, while CA is weeping into her hands and the other employees mill about uncomfortably. Nobody else seems to be willing to take charge, so I decide to pretend I'm not some punk brat who's been on the job less than a week and try lamely to take control of the situation.
"What seems to be the problem here?" Yes, excellent! Pat yourself on the back, Cookie, that sounded very professional. Not lame at all.
The old woman gives me a nasty look, and miraculously decides not to point out CA's shrieked insult. "I was just telling this girl that she's not supposed to leave empty meat packages out here where customers can see them! It implies the meat isn't fresh!"
Technically, she's right. Sort of. We're trained to take any product out of it's wrapper before we bring it out so customers only see the wax paper we carry it on. I'm still unsure of the school of thought behind that one. Did they really think we were back there grimly cultivating the bacteria for their swiss cheese instead of opening a package? (I'm sure it has more to do with brand names and perceived quality, but still.)
Now I'm starting to get angry. She's picking on CA. You don't pick on CA. CA saved up her allowance and bought me Totally Hair Barbie for my birthday when I was like seven, damnit! Years later, she would take a week off from work not long after the birth of her first child to drive me all the way down to Vancouver for my immigration interview.
As it turns out, however, I needn't have worried.
Before I can come up with a sufficient response (one that would probably have gotten me fired -- airlines usually make me pay for an extra seat for my BIG FAT MOUTH), CA suddenly draws in a slow, deep breath, tilts her head back, and closes her eyes briefly. When she's opening them again, she's smiling. "I'm so sorry, ma'am." she says in a chirpy, sweet voice. "I had no reason to yell like that at you. You were absolutely right. Would you like me to go get you some fresh meat for your sub?"
Everyone is staring at her, amazed at this sudden shift in mood. The woman blinks once, twice, then looks slightly mollified as she says in a stiff voice. "Yes, that will be sufficient. I want the FRESH stuff."
CA merely smiles and nods and heads into the back, patting my shoulder in a down, girl! sort of way as she passes to let me know she has things under control. I'm unconvinced.
She vanishes behind the door.
It's quiet for a moment. There are other people in line, but nobody is placing an order. I can hear the squeak of rubber soles as people shift uncomfortably. Most of the employees are staring at the floor.
And then it happens.
Suddenly, from the back, comes the bellow of an angry cow. Pans clatter loudly. Something thumps into the wall. The mooing continues, gets louder and more frantic, in between CA shouting "HOLD STILL" until it abruptly cuts off.
A moment later, she emerges from the back and marches past my gaping mouth carrying cold cuts on a sheet of wax paper. She's splattered marinara sauce all up her arms and across the front of her uniform like blood. Dots of it even fleck her face, and she continues to smile as she lets it slap wetly down on the counter in front of the shocked woman. "Sorry, ma'am. I didn't expect him to put up such a fight. Is that fresh enough for you?"
Before the woman can respond, CA turns to me. "Can you guys handle things here on your own?"
"Uh. Sure."
"Good. 'Cause I quit."
And she walked out. Tomorrow, she will start on as a Candy Striper at the hospital.
We stare after her for a long moment. One of the customers is giggling quietly. The woman still looks shocked, as if she can't process what's happened. Hell, I can't process what's happened. CA watches Martha Stewart on Sundays. She scrapbooks. It will be the single biggest display of spine and temper I will ever see from her, and will go down in legend in our small social circle. The complaint the woman will make to the manager will be well worth it.
Finally, one of the other employees clears his throat and steps forward, managing a smile. "So, what vegetables would you like on that?"
I need to do something like that at work 
It's still the most extreme reaction I've ever seen from her, the equivalent of seeing a sloth suddenly run a marathon and win (or, er, uh, some other more flattering comparison). She is the most white bread friend I have, and I say that with much affection, and I think she's still embarrassed by it to this day. (So I make sure to bring it up as often as possible.)
ALL HAIL CA!
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