Tuesday, March 18, 2008

The Queen Meets the King

You know I had to represent for my Afro-American roots. Soo...

It all began when I got into an accident last month. It involved sleeplessness, darkness, and a stationary utility cart sitting quite comfortably in the middle of a usually(but not at 11:30pm) highway. Bottom line? It was my fault. From the insurance company's wack-ass P.O.V, "What if it had been a small child?" If this conversation had not been recorded for training purposes, I might have revealed the answer that A. The child would have been one dead mothafucka. B. You would not be recieving a call from my ass. Sheesh. My car insurance shot up to $350.00 per month, and this is before these asshats found out about the accident.

But fortunately, nobody was injured. But I found myself as broke as a joke, but not laughing worth a damn. I was washing my Hairy Peter uniforms and found myself cruising past Burger Fling. On a whim, I walked in, completed an application, and spoke to a manager. I got an interview the next day, and started working the day after that. I have a brief, troubled history in fast food(WacArnolds, Chubway, Vato Hell, PiPi's Pizza, Smithfield's Nigga-Free BBQ, ect) but nothing that they needed to know about. Hell, I didn't even get drug-tested. Not that I would be bold enough to do drugs, knowing about the Peeter's random drug testing.

And I found myself there... at the Fling... I was dropped off in the bitter cold at 4:30 in the morning. The early 80's music was being played even outside, from the speakers above the doors. My uniform consists of a black and red striped fugly-ass polo shirt, which seems deliberatly unflattering and androgenous, and Wal-Mart special "hooker pants." SMH. Not the classiest way for a manager to try and describe my attire, especially with a cold sore lingering around her lower lip(don'tlookdon'tlookdammitilookedagain). I even dug my old slip-proof clown shoes out of the closet. I hate those damn things, but my sneaker of choice, Vans, is probably not going to sit well with anyone. Period. The smell of bacon, burnt hash browns, and biscuits was really not unpleasant. I clocked in, checked in with a manager, and started getting to know everything I could about opening the restaurant. I would have to say that the employees I met on my first day made me feel like the whitest person on the earth. I got used to the curious glances and the whispering and snickering. I've done it; everybody has to start off as a nOOb. But some of these women.... Jesus take the wheel, please? What possessed this girl to put hot pink weave in her head? The women were making me feel a little embarrassed about my skin color. There were a few women who would be considered "hit-able" after a few beers, but got-damn! there was a lot of beat-up looking mofiggitys that day. The worst one reminded me of Suge Knight with a lacefront wig, and the best kind of looked like a cross between Busta Rhymes and a moose. There was quite a lot of lazyness that went un-corrected, and probably not noticed by management. While I scurried around like a chambermaid, scrubbing doorhandle mounts, soda machines, and wiping off stainless steel fixtures, I noticed a lot of the jerks watching me, while eating candy, Cheesy Tots, and drinking soda. The entire morning's gossip was centered around a shooting in a local housing project that I used to live in. That place is rough; the first night I moved in, I saw a pregnant white chick get her ass walloped in front of the BNN convenience store (never did find out the meaning of the acronym). It was such a change from the Peet! Everyone is so chill, and relaxed, and DGAF. I just wanted to let everyone know about the changes going on; there will sure as hell be more to follow.

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