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Hello, folks.
Long time lurker, but since I’ve got a moment or two, I thought I’d relate a little story that happened way back in the Late Pleistocene when I was but a typical high school student who, through no fault of my own, was promoted (in less than 5 weeks) from broiler-operator (a two-chain broiler, or as we liked to call it: a ‘chew-brain toiler’) to assistant night-manager at a certain fast-food burger-flipping palace whose name rather remarkably resembles “Berber Ring”. I promise, this may have happened a few moons ago, but it’s (more or less) absolutely true.
Anyways, on to the plot and the dramatis personae:
It was a dark and stormy night...
No, no, no; that roundly sucks.
It was actually a relatively nice warm spring period of about a month when we were invaded by a certain family consisting of:
1. A drunken lout of a husband (rather like an emaciated, eternally inebriated Jerry Falwell, with a pencil-thin moustache and absolutely none of the charm),
2. a rather zaftig, unfrocked, hirsute, seldom-washed, battle-dirigible of a woman (easily tipping the Toledos at ~180kg) who made Roseanne Barr seem like the Queen of England, again sans charm, and,
3-7. several bedraggled, noisome, unhygienic spawn that seemed to emulate stair-steps in height as their respective birthdays were separated by only 9 short months.
Evidently this bunch really had no rhythm…
Henceforth, they shall be known as “The Family Garoo” (a well-chosen pseudonym to protect the innocent…and guilty).
Others implicated in this now decades-old bit of slander are (pseudonymically):
Tony: the affable and wonderfully clueless day-shift manager,
George: the not very affable, gruff, man with the heart of coal, owner,
Ron: the top high-school (5’ 3”) wrestler with a towering Napoleon complex,
Your humble scribe: the one usually wondering ‘what’s going on?’ high school-aged assistant night manager, and,
“Sarge”: a. k. a.: “Our Man Billy”. The obligatory bull-dyke (Hey. That’s what she called herself.) who could have been a torpedo, longshoreman or heavy security for ZZ Top, but she “liked to work with people”. Ah, yeah.
Anyways.
At our fast-food franchise, where one was (past tense) beseeched to “have it your way”, the Family Garoo would visit and invariably, after consuming the vast majority of their elegant repast, return to our humble shop (yes, they’d take the food ‘home’ first, then make the long trek from their palatial doublewide on the other side of the tracks, back) and after typically displaying a 15-20% of a well-masticated burger and a small sampling of withered fries, and demand that the meal be comped in full and replaced because the food was (numbered for convenience):
1. cold,
2. not what they ordered,
3. ‘bad’,
4. too salty,
5. not salty enough,
6. too much ice,
7. not enough ice,
8. it was Tuesday (seriously),
9. there is no number 9,
10. not what they expected.
Usually, Tony got to bear the brunt of the great unwashed mass, as Ma Garoo and the 3-5 Garoolets would invade the store right after opening so they could have the whole day to feast before they had to make the long slog back to scam dinner.
Tony, the day manager, being relatively clueless and usually not giving a whit how the franchise actually fared as to profits/losses, earning statements or anything fiscal; would normally just find it much more expedient to give them a new sack of burgers and fries rather than waste time (their timing was impeccable, they’d hit the store and make a frightful scene right when the dinner crowd from the auto plant across the highway was in full swing). This, in retrospect, was infinitely cheaper and less time- and materials-consuming than what transpired one dark and stormy night on what was to be my antepenultimate shift as assistant night manager.
It started innocently enough. George, the owner with the heart of coal, was back in his little administrative centre, belting back cheap scotch from the bottle forever in his desk, berating an ancient adding machine because it kept showing that the inventories were always being shorted. A case of burgers here, a flat of fries there, so on and so forth. Now, this was fairly typical behaviour for George, so I just punched in and eased up front to avoid George, his remonstrations and his rare redolence of old cigars, “Old Collie”, kerosene and gherkins.
I’m manning the drink station as the other usuals were in their usual spot (I didn’t design floor-lists, I let my guys choose where they wanted to work…happy employees are productive, and less bitchy, employees), and the dinner crowd was coming in dribs and drabs that night (it was the night of some or another great sporting event that essentially stalled time and bulk shifted every event by about 75 minutes; this will be instrumental later in the saga).
Suddenly, I hear a loud “SUNUVABITCH” emanating from George’s compartment. Figuring since I’m the manager (night/assistant), I should go see what the problem is; I slope off the drinks section and warily saunter toward the ever-increasing (in pitch and inventiveness) stream of invective.
George is going positively polychromatically purple with rage.
“What the hell is this?!?” screams George. “Tony’s got comped meals every day for the last two weeks, at the same time, and all at the same price. What the bloody hell is that idiot doing? Feeding the fucking St. Vincent de Paul (local soup-kitchen type charity nearby)?”
“Well, George, it’s almost just like you said.”
George ratchets up another couple of degrees of the colour purple.
“What the hell do you mean by that”, he sputters.
“Which word didn’t you understand?” (one of my favourite lines), I offer, quickly followed by the tale of the Family Garoo and how Tony figures that it’s just easier to give them a few burgers (hell, we’d throw out a dozen whoppers, about the same juniors, and a few pounds of fries and pies every night) rather than risk some big scene and piss off the straights who really want to get something to eat and actually pay for the privilege.”
“Hellfire, horseshit and damnation; that Tony is a jackass! No more comped meals. Ever! Especially for that family of idiots. NONE! The next time someone gives away free food, they’ll be in the unemployment line tomorrow!” Rant, stomp, snort!
“J’whol, Mien Fuehrer!” I’m nothing if not a respectful employee. Fortunately, George had already returned to his office to continue berating Tony, the adding machine, people in general; so my last comment went luckily unnoticed.
So, I’m back at the drinks counter and relieve Ron (whom I almost stepped on, he was replacing the Coke syrup tank) when I tell him to spread the word, “No comped food, ever. New orders from George. People have a beef (no pun intended, nor in our burgers), send ‘em to George. His rules, let him deal with the fallout.”
Ron agrees, but notes that this could get very ugly real fast. Normally with our “have it your way” deal, someone invariably bitches about pickles (too many, too few, they’re not absent, etc.), not enough/too much ketchup/mustard/mayonnaise, lack /presence of lettuce, etc. With all our burger types, times the sum of the condiments, multiplied by the garden accompaniments, adding the odd “well done” option (for a select certain few whack-jobs), I figured that there are 112! (that’s one hundred twelve factorial or about 1.975e+182) different ways of having your sandwich your way. Inescapably, a few are going to be populating the left-hand side of the bell curve, statistically speaking; so amends will normally have to be made. But, no more. With George’s edict, we are all expected to be 100% 100% of the time.
I’m no chef, but that’s surely seems like a recipe for disaster. Just add malodorous malcontents, little paid and less respected workers, a sprinkling of scammers and stir…
Anyways, Tony has endured his obligatory ass-chewing by George and has left to depressurise and practice his 16oz. curls at the local VFW hall. George was in the back room, still fuming and fulminating over the outrage of being swindled for about (his cost) US$1.50 worth of burgers and fries. I realize that he does have a point, but his overreaction to such a mundane issue (never mind him addressing our pitiful pay, benefits or ridiculous hours, rather obsess over some trivial mater) seems like investing in a howitzer to kill a cockroach. But, he is the boss, and owner of the franchise, so I simply shrug my shoulders and promptly try to forget that he’s here and get back to my ever-so-intellectually-stimulating job.
The early evening progressed as per usual. The dinner crowd was lighter than usual (due to the local sports collective doing whatever the hell they were supposed to do, but for some unknown reason, they were doing it uncharacteristically well) and there was little else of note. Burgers, fries, shakes. Burgers, fries, shakes. The occasional onion ring (made of minced onion; whoever named these culinary abominations “onion rings” should be dipped in flour and baked for forty minutes), order followed by burgers, fries, shakes…
And then, it happened.
Standing in the doorway, shrieking like a scalded cat and waving the greasy and tattered remnants of an earlier purchase, was none other than Ma Garoo and two of her demon spawn.
As she wailed, she waddled. Up to the register where I stood and slamming down the viscous remnants of some long-departed fry-up, she demanded compensation. She demanded restitution. She also demanded free food.
“This food was terrible! It was disgusting!” she wailed.
“Well, then, where is it?” I inquired.
“It was so bad that my husband threw it out the window of our house!” she shrieked, in a nearly apoplectic fit of rage and scamming for free chow.
“And you want me to do what?”, I enjoined, in a most treacly-sweet tone; knowing that soon I’d be able to pass along George’s command and get to see this form of subhuman actually detonate.
“I want my money back!”
“Do you have a receipt?”
“Of course not!”
“Of course not”, I mused. Silly me for asking such a daft question.
“Well, since you don’t have a receipt (and even if she did, she’s still going to get George’s message with both barrels), there’s not much I can do. Oh, and by the way, would you please restrain your “children” from climbing on the counter and have them stop mashing ketchup sachets? It’s annoying the real customers. Thank you so much.”
“What? What! WHAT?”
“I am so sorry. Which word confused you?”
“I want my money and free food!” this time delivered in a register usually reserved for up-close jet takeoffs and marathon jackhammer sessions.
“Well, I am so sorry, but you are getting neither (here’s the wind-up and the pitch
, as per the directive of the owner of the store, no one in general and you specifically, is going to receive any replacement food or refunds. In fact, it says so right here on this little sign (pointing to sign in front of register, ringing out in full 8 point type “Check you order. No refunds or replacements after food leaves counter”).
“What? What! WHAT?”
My, she was becoming tiresome.
“Ma’am, look. There’s nothing I can do. You have no receipt, no spoiled food and I have been instructed not to issue any refunds nor replacements. So sorry. Next!”
By this time, there was a bona fide ugly front blowing in from the east as the real customers in line were getting as weary of this old, sweaty windbag as was I. Ron and Sarge, who were both doing back-up chores in the kitchen, wandered up front to see what all the ruckus was. Ron was a stubby little fireplug of a guy, always spoiling for a good “rumble tumble” (as he termed it) and Sarge walked through life with a perpetual chip on her shoulder, just begging for someone to irritate her enough so she could rationalize kicking the living shit out of them.
In unison (with slathering of chops and dry-washing of hands) “Any problems, boss?”
“No”, I replied, “Nothing that hasn’t been handled. Next?”
At this point, Ma Garoo becomes even more unglued (as if that was physically possible). She bawls “I’m calling my alderman! I’m calling the mayor! I’m calling my lawyer! I’m calling the BBB (Better Business Bureau)!”
“That’s your right. Please do let me know what they have to say about our refusal to give you free money and food.”
With that, she throws the greasy paper bag at me (which I dodge, bless teenage reaction times), slams a meaty fetlock on the counter and “I’m coming back! With my husband! And he has a gun! I want my money!”
Guess what? She just crossed the line from ‘major annoyance’ to ‘downright certifiable’.
“Ma’am, now I will have to ask you to leave or I will call the police and an ambulance. “
Goggling: “An ambulance…?”
“Ma’am, if we have to remove you, I’m afraid you’ll need both. Now, the door’s over that way. Next!”
She nearly burst several major arteries with that announcement. “Did you hear that? They threatened me!” she howled to anyone within earshot.
“You deserved it, you silly cunt. You threatened them first. Now bugger off!” observed one of the folks in line, still waiting for the floor show to terminate so he could order dinner.
With an anguished howl and the definite odour of pickled herring and flapping sweat, she launches herself onto the customer with the wry observational powers. This was too good to let pass…
“Ron, Sarge, please escort this ‘lady’ off the premises”, as I reached for the phone and began to dial the local constabulary.
Seldom does one see two grins as wide as I saw that early evening.
Needless to say, Ma Garoo (with her demon spawn in tow) was ejected, none too delicately, gluteus-first, out the door and further cajoled, trundled and rolled off the property. The screams, although loud, were mainly received by the town’s local feral dog population and the howling marathon that ensued that night was stuff of legend.
After about an hour, life returns to whatever passes for normal around these parts. The dinner crowd has thinned to three or four every half-hour. George and Tony show up, rather coincidentally, one to check his store and the other his schedule. I regale them with the events of the evening and both are bemused, & astonished; however George was less pleased.
“Why did you antagonize that old bitch? Why did you have to escalate the situation with that crazy cunt?” George interrogates me.
(Cont. in part 2)
Long time lurker, but since I’ve got a moment or two, I thought I’d relate a little story that happened way back in the Late Pleistocene when I was but a typical high school student who, through no fault of my own, was promoted (in less than 5 weeks) from broiler-operator (a two-chain broiler, or as we liked to call it: a ‘chew-brain toiler’) to assistant night-manager at a certain fast-food burger-flipping palace whose name rather remarkably resembles “Berber Ring”. I promise, this may have happened a few moons ago, but it’s (more or less) absolutely true.
Anyways, on to the plot and the dramatis personae:
It was a dark and stormy night...
No, no, no; that roundly sucks.
It was actually a relatively nice warm spring period of about a month when we were invaded by a certain family consisting of:
1. A drunken lout of a husband (rather like an emaciated, eternally inebriated Jerry Falwell, with a pencil-thin moustache and absolutely none of the charm),
2. a rather zaftig, unfrocked, hirsute, seldom-washed, battle-dirigible of a woman (easily tipping the Toledos at ~180kg) who made Roseanne Barr seem like the Queen of England, again sans charm, and,
3-7. several bedraggled, noisome, unhygienic spawn that seemed to emulate stair-steps in height as their respective birthdays were separated by only 9 short months.
Evidently this bunch really had no rhythm…
Henceforth, they shall be known as “The Family Garoo” (a well-chosen pseudonym to protect the innocent…and guilty).
Others implicated in this now decades-old bit of slander are (pseudonymically):
Tony: the affable and wonderfully clueless day-shift manager,
George: the not very affable, gruff, man with the heart of coal, owner,
Ron: the top high-school (5’ 3”) wrestler with a towering Napoleon complex,
Your humble scribe: the one usually wondering ‘what’s going on?’ high school-aged assistant night manager, and,
“Sarge”: a. k. a.: “Our Man Billy”. The obligatory bull-dyke (Hey. That’s what she called herself.) who could have been a torpedo, longshoreman or heavy security for ZZ Top, but she “liked to work with people”. Ah, yeah.
Anyways.
At our fast-food franchise, where one was (past tense) beseeched to “have it your way”, the Family Garoo would visit and invariably, after consuming the vast majority of their elegant repast, return to our humble shop (yes, they’d take the food ‘home’ first, then make the long trek from their palatial doublewide on the other side of the tracks, back) and after typically displaying a 15-20% of a well-masticated burger and a small sampling of withered fries, and demand that the meal be comped in full and replaced because the food was (numbered for convenience):
1. cold,
2. not what they ordered,
3. ‘bad’,
4. too salty,
5. not salty enough,
6. too much ice,
7. not enough ice,
8. it was Tuesday (seriously),
9. there is no number 9,
10. not what they expected.
Usually, Tony got to bear the brunt of the great unwashed mass, as Ma Garoo and the 3-5 Garoolets would invade the store right after opening so they could have the whole day to feast before they had to make the long slog back to scam dinner.
Tony, the day manager, being relatively clueless and usually not giving a whit how the franchise actually fared as to profits/losses, earning statements or anything fiscal; would normally just find it much more expedient to give them a new sack of burgers and fries rather than waste time (their timing was impeccable, they’d hit the store and make a frightful scene right when the dinner crowd from the auto plant across the highway was in full swing). This, in retrospect, was infinitely cheaper and less time- and materials-consuming than what transpired one dark and stormy night on what was to be my antepenultimate shift as assistant night manager.
It started innocently enough. George, the owner with the heart of coal, was back in his little administrative centre, belting back cheap scotch from the bottle forever in his desk, berating an ancient adding machine because it kept showing that the inventories were always being shorted. A case of burgers here, a flat of fries there, so on and so forth. Now, this was fairly typical behaviour for George, so I just punched in and eased up front to avoid George, his remonstrations and his rare redolence of old cigars, “Old Collie”, kerosene and gherkins.
I’m manning the drink station as the other usuals were in their usual spot (I didn’t design floor-lists, I let my guys choose where they wanted to work…happy employees are productive, and less bitchy, employees), and the dinner crowd was coming in dribs and drabs that night (it was the night of some or another great sporting event that essentially stalled time and bulk shifted every event by about 75 minutes; this will be instrumental later in the saga).
Suddenly, I hear a loud “SUNUVABITCH” emanating from George’s compartment. Figuring since I’m the manager (night/assistant), I should go see what the problem is; I slope off the drinks section and warily saunter toward the ever-increasing (in pitch and inventiveness) stream of invective.
George is going positively polychromatically purple with rage.
“What the hell is this?!?” screams George. “Tony’s got comped meals every day for the last two weeks, at the same time, and all at the same price. What the bloody hell is that idiot doing? Feeding the fucking St. Vincent de Paul (local soup-kitchen type charity nearby)?”
“Well, George, it’s almost just like you said.”
George ratchets up another couple of degrees of the colour purple.
“What the hell do you mean by that”, he sputters.
“Which word didn’t you understand?” (one of my favourite lines), I offer, quickly followed by the tale of the Family Garoo and how Tony figures that it’s just easier to give them a few burgers (hell, we’d throw out a dozen whoppers, about the same juniors, and a few pounds of fries and pies every night) rather than risk some big scene and piss off the straights who really want to get something to eat and actually pay for the privilege.”
“Hellfire, horseshit and damnation; that Tony is a jackass! No more comped meals. Ever! Especially for that family of idiots. NONE! The next time someone gives away free food, they’ll be in the unemployment line tomorrow!” Rant, stomp, snort!
“J’whol, Mien Fuehrer!” I’m nothing if not a respectful employee. Fortunately, George had already returned to his office to continue berating Tony, the adding machine, people in general; so my last comment went luckily unnoticed.
So, I’m back at the drinks counter and relieve Ron (whom I almost stepped on, he was replacing the Coke syrup tank) when I tell him to spread the word, “No comped food, ever. New orders from George. People have a beef (no pun intended, nor in our burgers), send ‘em to George. His rules, let him deal with the fallout.”
Ron agrees, but notes that this could get very ugly real fast. Normally with our “have it your way” deal, someone invariably bitches about pickles (too many, too few, they’re not absent, etc.), not enough/too much ketchup/mustard/mayonnaise, lack /presence of lettuce, etc. With all our burger types, times the sum of the condiments, multiplied by the garden accompaniments, adding the odd “well done” option (for a select certain few whack-jobs), I figured that there are 112! (that’s one hundred twelve factorial or about 1.975e+182) different ways of having your sandwich your way. Inescapably, a few are going to be populating the left-hand side of the bell curve, statistically speaking; so amends will normally have to be made. But, no more. With George’s edict, we are all expected to be 100% 100% of the time.
I’m no chef, but that’s surely seems like a recipe for disaster. Just add malodorous malcontents, little paid and less respected workers, a sprinkling of scammers and stir…
Anyways, Tony has endured his obligatory ass-chewing by George and has left to depressurise and practice his 16oz. curls at the local VFW hall. George was in the back room, still fuming and fulminating over the outrage of being swindled for about (his cost) US$1.50 worth of burgers and fries. I realize that he does have a point, but his overreaction to such a mundane issue (never mind him addressing our pitiful pay, benefits or ridiculous hours, rather obsess over some trivial mater) seems like investing in a howitzer to kill a cockroach. But, he is the boss, and owner of the franchise, so I simply shrug my shoulders and promptly try to forget that he’s here and get back to my ever-so-intellectually-stimulating job.
The early evening progressed as per usual. The dinner crowd was lighter than usual (due to the local sports collective doing whatever the hell they were supposed to do, but for some unknown reason, they were doing it uncharacteristically well) and there was little else of note. Burgers, fries, shakes. Burgers, fries, shakes. The occasional onion ring (made of minced onion; whoever named these culinary abominations “onion rings” should be dipped in flour and baked for forty minutes), order followed by burgers, fries, shakes…
And then, it happened.
Standing in the doorway, shrieking like a scalded cat and waving the greasy and tattered remnants of an earlier purchase, was none other than Ma Garoo and two of her demon spawn.
As she wailed, she waddled. Up to the register where I stood and slamming down the viscous remnants of some long-departed fry-up, she demanded compensation. She demanded restitution. She also demanded free food.
“This food was terrible! It was disgusting!” she wailed.
“Well, then, where is it?” I inquired.
“It was so bad that my husband threw it out the window of our house!” she shrieked, in a nearly apoplectic fit of rage and scamming for free chow.
“And you want me to do what?”, I enjoined, in a most treacly-sweet tone; knowing that soon I’d be able to pass along George’s command and get to see this form of subhuman actually detonate.
“I want my money back!”
“Do you have a receipt?”
“Of course not!”
“Of course not”, I mused. Silly me for asking such a daft question.
“Well, since you don’t have a receipt (and even if she did, she’s still going to get George’s message with both barrels), there’s not much I can do. Oh, and by the way, would you please restrain your “children” from climbing on the counter and have them stop mashing ketchup sachets? It’s annoying the real customers. Thank you so much.”
“What? What! WHAT?”
“I am so sorry. Which word confused you?”
“I want my money and free food!” this time delivered in a register usually reserved for up-close jet takeoffs and marathon jackhammer sessions.
“Well, I am so sorry, but you are getting neither (here’s the wind-up and the pitch
, as per the directive of the owner of the store, no one in general and you specifically, is going to receive any replacement food or refunds. In fact, it says so right here on this little sign (pointing to sign in front of register, ringing out in full 8 point type “Check you order. No refunds or replacements after food leaves counter”).“What? What! WHAT?”
My, she was becoming tiresome.
“Ma’am, look. There’s nothing I can do. You have no receipt, no spoiled food and I have been instructed not to issue any refunds nor replacements. So sorry. Next!”
By this time, there was a bona fide ugly front blowing in from the east as the real customers in line were getting as weary of this old, sweaty windbag as was I. Ron and Sarge, who were both doing back-up chores in the kitchen, wandered up front to see what all the ruckus was. Ron was a stubby little fireplug of a guy, always spoiling for a good “rumble tumble” (as he termed it) and Sarge walked through life with a perpetual chip on her shoulder, just begging for someone to irritate her enough so she could rationalize kicking the living shit out of them.
In unison (with slathering of chops and dry-washing of hands) “Any problems, boss?”
“No”, I replied, “Nothing that hasn’t been handled. Next?”
At this point, Ma Garoo becomes even more unglued (as if that was physically possible). She bawls “I’m calling my alderman! I’m calling the mayor! I’m calling my lawyer! I’m calling the BBB (Better Business Bureau)!”
“That’s your right. Please do let me know what they have to say about our refusal to give you free money and food.”
With that, she throws the greasy paper bag at me (which I dodge, bless teenage reaction times), slams a meaty fetlock on the counter and “I’m coming back! With my husband! And he has a gun! I want my money!”
Guess what? She just crossed the line from ‘major annoyance’ to ‘downright certifiable’.
“Ma’am, now I will have to ask you to leave or I will call the police and an ambulance. “
Goggling: “An ambulance…?”
“Ma’am, if we have to remove you, I’m afraid you’ll need both. Now, the door’s over that way. Next!”
She nearly burst several major arteries with that announcement. “Did you hear that? They threatened me!” she howled to anyone within earshot.
“You deserved it, you silly cunt. You threatened them first. Now bugger off!” observed one of the folks in line, still waiting for the floor show to terminate so he could order dinner.
With an anguished howl and the definite odour of pickled herring and flapping sweat, she launches herself onto the customer with the wry observational powers. This was too good to let pass…
“Ron, Sarge, please escort this ‘lady’ off the premises”, as I reached for the phone and began to dial the local constabulary.
Seldom does one see two grins as wide as I saw that early evening.
Needless to say, Ma Garoo (with her demon spawn in tow) was ejected, none too delicately, gluteus-first, out the door and further cajoled, trundled and rolled off the property. The screams, although loud, were mainly received by the town’s local feral dog population and the howling marathon that ensued that night was stuff of legend.
After about an hour, life returns to whatever passes for normal around these parts. The dinner crowd has thinned to three or four every half-hour. George and Tony show up, rather coincidentally, one to check his store and the other his schedule. I regale them with the events of the evening and both are bemused, & astonished; however George was less pleased.
“Why did you antagonize that old bitch? Why did you have to escalate the situation with that crazy cunt?” George interrogates me.
(Cont. in part 2)
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