It's really a shame I've fallen off the blog map, AGAIN. My five months in rural Missouri may not have been a roller coaster of excitement and adventure, but it certainly was worth about 10 blogs of giggles. Now I think I don't have enough motivation to catch up. See, I'd love to be a writer, and yet, my self-motivation is that of a three-toed sloth, which is why I'll:
- never be thin, just "not fat"
- always apply for jobs that are slightly too easy for me
- have started 10 oil paintings and only completed two (one only because it was literally "commissioned" and i was pressured to do so).
- always think I'll exercise when i get home from work and almost never do
- Am not now packing for New Zealand
And that's my fantastic news of the moment -- I'm moving to New Zealand!!!!!, for REAL this time. It's no longer a dream or a long-range goal, or 12 months of paperwork away. It's really happening. In fact, Beau is already there and has been for what has been an excrutiating four weeks. I stayed behind to take care of the monumental task of trashing, shipping, and selling all of our worldly possessions which is an incredible pain in the ass. Not to mention the ridiculous hoops of fire I have to jump through to get my cat to NZ (6 months of preparation and a couple thousand dollars in bills). In fact, I need to stop this writing and go pack now!
Bugger.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
The end of The Roadhouse
So, I was pretty...aghast when I saw that I haven't posted since April. I mean, I knew it had been AWHILE, but April is like another lifetime ago. And at the time I had been so eager to post about that whole drama with my barmaid/waitress/bartender job, and now all the steam has left me. So, I'll give the short version. And I won't change the names to save the innocent.
After impressing my boss after working a week at the bar/restaurant, where I was, as aforementioned, a waitress/barmaid -- all jobs I had never done before (but had been curious about), and was increasingly getting better at -- I was offered the golden ring -- the bartender position. There was already a bartender, a really cool woman who worked 7 days a week, 15 hours a day, I shit you not. They started preening me for it, it wasn't that hard, though it was very fast and frantic on the weekends. They kept telling me how Sunday would be my big day when I'd work alllll alone and give poor Dana (bartender) her first day/night off in 3 weeks.
Anyway, on Saturday night I was doing the barmaid thing and making some pretty good tips, despite the ardent competition of my barmaid coworker. With about 2 hours left in the night, the owner suggested I go behind the bar, and give Dana the chance to have a seat, a smoke, and a drink, and me to get my feet even more wet. I was up for it.
It was frantic, fast, and fun. I was enjoying myself. At one point, I had accidentally punched in $22.50 instead of $2.50 for a beer, but let it fly, writing it down on a piece of paper to tell the boss later. There was no time to fix it then. I had done the same thing earlier, and it was somewhat slower and Dana had been able to fix it. This second time, there was just no chance for that. There was a band, and the bar was packed with fishermen who drank like...fishes *giggle* After a couple of hours, the last drunken slob was kicked out, and after frantic cleaning and restocking of the bar, I near collapsed into a bar stool along with my fellow barmaid, while Dana and Evil Owner began to count the night's earnings. I counted my own tips, which equaled about $135. Not bad. Especially for someone who had started out making about 50 bucks a night.
So Dana and E.O. counted....looked at each other and muttered quietly...then they counted, and counted again. Barmaid and I were basically prisoners since we couldn't leave til "released." It was obvious there was a problem. Their faces were unnecessarily grave. Then I spoke up, and told the E.O. about the mistype in the register. There started a 10 minute lecture on how awful I was, because of the rules of the State of Missouri, liquor licenses, inability to change the books AT ALL once the night's final receipt is printed out, etc.
Two things followed which made the whole event completely unbelievable:
1) The E.O. kept insinuating that the discrepancy in the receipt (which was about $38) was due to "missing cash" and not the very obvious clerical error (which was easily found on the receipt since you don't usually ring up $22.50 of beer, since all beers are rung up individually as soon as they're ordered). I kept trying to tell him, there is no missing cash (which of course, insinuates we stole it), but that it was an error on paper. He just could not comprehend this, which in turn, made him all the more incomprehensible to me. It wasn't rocket science, and this guy runs a business! And to top it all of, he was completely pissed at me that I hadn't told him early enough, despite the fact that he had been there all night and saw my fast-moving, non-stop ass working itself into the ground. He was indignant that I didn't KNOW that once this receipt is printed out, it's the word of God and he can't change it by law! To this day, I wonder if this is truly correct. Is the State of Missouri's liquor laws so incredibly rigid that they completely disallow any kind of explanation for errors in accounting?? I'd love to be set right on this one way or another. And since the E.O. never told me about this rule, I'm not sure how he expected me to follow it knowingly. But then, it was not a night of logic...
And so...
2) Now E.O. starts saying that the money "has to be replaced." That whatever is on that receipt needs to be coughed up for the State of Missouri. Again, implying that we (bartender, me, barmaid), need to produce such money. At this point, not only am I shocked to near stupefaction, but I'm outraged. He's asking us to PAY him our tips for the difference? Is he fucking KIDDING me? When you work a 12 hour shift, all on your feet, with NO breaks and NO food, those tips are pretty damn precious to you (especially when you're only making $3/hour). I have had several "customer service" jobs in my lifetime, and the drawer being short is a fairly common occurrence (as well as it having a bit of extra cash). Sometimes it's a few cents, sometimes it's a few dollars. Once in awhile it's a big amount (which usually leads back to clerical errors such as this). In every job I've had of this nature, the company eats the loss (or keeps the gains). If my drawer was over $5, I've never been asked to pay it back, nor have I ever been handed a 5-dollar bill when my drawer was over (what a way to encourage shortchanging people!).
And this feeling started to come over me. This guy's not only an idiot and a crook, but he's just not someone I want to work for. As the minutes are ticking away, and I'm trying to have a level-headed argument with him (that's really just turning into an argument), I'm thinking, "I need to walk out of here." The bartender and the other bar maid both kinda shrugged and said they'd chip in to cover the short drawer, but that to me was ridiculous. For one, *I* was the one on the register, so it was my drawer that was short. Hell if I'd let this Evil Boss take their money. Then E.O. had the gall to say, "What, you don't expect *me* to pay for it, do you?" Secondly, AGAIN, it wasn't about missing money, but I had been banging my head against the wall long enough.
I said, "I don't think I'm comfortable working in an environment where every time my drawer is short, you're going to take my hard-earned money." He then said in a disgustingly smug voice, "Well, this will be good for you. This will be a lesson for you. It'll be a good lesson for you. Now you won't do it again."
What a prick.
So, very calmly, I took a piece of paper, wrote down my name and address and phone number. I took $20 from my tips and handed it to him with the note. I said, "You can take the rest out of my final paycheck and send it to me. Thank you." Then I walked out.
That final paycheck had a lot of hours on it, since I was working 12 hour days at that time, every single day. It may have only be $3/hour, but it was hard-earned cash.
I never got that final paycheck.
I suppose I could have confronted him, made a big stink, maybe even reported him. But in the end, I just wanted to wash my hands (and hair) of the place. And also, it turned out to be a good thing. I ended up getting a great job at a wonderful non-profit and I absolutely love the people I work with. I leave every day at 5pm, get an hour lunch, and when I get home, I don't smell like a big, fat, cigarette.
Life is good.
After impressing my boss after working a week at the bar/restaurant, where I was, as aforementioned, a waitress/barmaid -- all jobs I had never done before (but had been curious about), and was increasingly getting better at -- I was offered the golden ring -- the bartender position. There was already a bartender, a really cool woman who worked 7 days a week, 15 hours a day, I shit you not. They started preening me for it, it wasn't that hard, though it was very fast and frantic on the weekends. They kept telling me how Sunday would be my big day when I'd work alllll alone and give poor Dana (bartender) her first day/night off in 3 weeks.
Anyway, on Saturday night I was doing the barmaid thing and making some pretty good tips, despite the ardent competition of my barmaid coworker. With about 2 hours left in the night, the owner suggested I go behind the bar, and give Dana the chance to have a seat, a smoke, and a drink, and me to get my feet even more wet. I was up for it.
It was frantic, fast, and fun. I was enjoying myself. At one point, I had accidentally punched in $22.50 instead of $2.50 for a beer, but let it fly, writing it down on a piece of paper to tell the boss later. There was no time to fix it then. I had done the same thing earlier, and it was somewhat slower and Dana had been able to fix it. This second time, there was just no chance for that. There was a band, and the bar was packed with fishermen who drank like...fishes *giggle* After a couple of hours, the last drunken slob was kicked out, and after frantic cleaning and restocking of the bar, I near collapsed into a bar stool along with my fellow barmaid, while Dana and Evil Owner began to count the night's earnings. I counted my own tips, which equaled about $135. Not bad. Especially for someone who had started out making about 50 bucks a night.
So Dana and E.O. counted....looked at each other and muttered quietly...then they counted, and counted again. Barmaid and I were basically prisoners since we couldn't leave til "released." It was obvious there was a problem. Their faces were unnecessarily grave. Then I spoke up, and told the E.O. about the mistype in the register. There started a 10 minute lecture on how awful I was, because of the rules of the State of Missouri, liquor licenses, inability to change the books AT ALL once the night's final receipt is printed out, etc.
Two things followed which made the whole event completely unbelievable:
1) The E.O. kept insinuating that the discrepancy in the receipt (which was about $38) was due to "missing cash" and not the very obvious clerical error (which was easily found on the receipt since you don't usually ring up $22.50 of beer, since all beers are rung up individually as soon as they're ordered). I kept trying to tell him, there is no missing cash (which of course, insinuates we stole it), but that it was an error on paper. He just could not comprehend this, which in turn, made him all the more incomprehensible to me. It wasn't rocket science, and this guy runs a business! And to top it all of, he was completely pissed at me that I hadn't told him early enough, despite the fact that he had been there all night and saw my fast-moving, non-stop ass working itself into the ground. He was indignant that I didn't KNOW that once this receipt is printed out, it's the word of God and he can't change it by law! To this day, I wonder if this is truly correct. Is the State of Missouri's liquor laws so incredibly rigid that they completely disallow any kind of explanation for errors in accounting?? I'd love to be set right on this one way or another. And since the E.O. never told me about this rule, I'm not sure how he expected me to follow it knowingly. But then, it was not a night of logic...
And so...
2) Now E.O. starts saying that the money "has to be replaced." That whatever is on that receipt needs to be coughed up for the State of Missouri. Again, implying that we (bartender, me, barmaid), need to produce such money. At this point, not only am I shocked to near stupefaction, but I'm outraged. He's asking us to PAY him our tips for the difference? Is he fucking KIDDING me? When you work a 12 hour shift, all on your feet, with NO breaks and NO food, those tips are pretty damn precious to you (especially when you're only making $3/hour). I have had several "customer service" jobs in my lifetime, and the drawer being short is a fairly common occurrence (as well as it having a bit of extra cash). Sometimes it's a few cents, sometimes it's a few dollars. Once in awhile it's a big amount (which usually leads back to clerical errors such as this). In every job I've had of this nature, the company eats the loss (or keeps the gains). If my drawer was over $5, I've never been asked to pay it back, nor have I ever been handed a 5-dollar bill when my drawer was over (what a way to encourage shortchanging people!).
And this feeling started to come over me. This guy's not only an idiot and a crook, but he's just not someone I want to work for. As the minutes are ticking away, and I'm trying to have a level-headed argument with him (that's really just turning into an argument), I'm thinking, "I need to walk out of here." The bartender and the other bar maid both kinda shrugged and said they'd chip in to cover the short drawer, but that to me was ridiculous. For one, *I* was the one on the register, so it was my drawer that was short. Hell if I'd let this Evil Boss take their money. Then E.O. had the gall to say, "What, you don't expect *me* to pay for it, do you?" Secondly, AGAIN, it wasn't about missing money, but I had been banging my head against the wall long enough.
I said, "I don't think I'm comfortable working in an environment where every time my drawer is short, you're going to take my hard-earned money." He then said in a disgustingly smug voice, "Well, this will be good for you. This will be a lesson for you. It'll be a good lesson for you. Now you won't do it again."
What a prick.
So, very calmly, I took a piece of paper, wrote down my name and address and phone number. I took $20 from my tips and handed it to him with the note. I said, "You can take the rest out of my final paycheck and send it to me. Thank you." Then I walked out.
That final paycheck had a lot of hours on it, since I was working 12 hour days at that time, every single day. It may have only be $3/hour, but it was hard-earned cash.
I never got that final paycheck.
I suppose I could have confronted him, made a big stink, maybe even reported him. But in the end, I just wanted to wash my hands (and hair) of the place. And also, it turned out to be a good thing. I ended up getting a great job at a wonderful non-profit and I absolutely love the people I work with. I leave every day at 5pm, get an hour lunch, and when I get home, I don't smell like a big, fat, cigarette.
Life is good.
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