When I was first hired almost three years ago, the then Dining Services Director asked me "are you comfortable working with difficult customers?" You know someone is treading lightly when they use a word like difficult, outside a professional environment it translates to someone you should not walk, but run away from before they nag you to an early grave. What he should have said was "are you comfortable never satisfying anyone no matter how hard you try?" "Are you comfortable being called 'little idiot' for six months while a toothless hag spits ground up chicken at you?" "Are you comfortable delivering what your resident ordered twice because they ordered something they don't like and didn't know they didn't like it until they saw their neighbors plate?" "And then once you've changed their order are you comfortable going back a third time because they don't like that either?" I had barely squeaked "yes" before I was tossed into the chaos.
I trained with Donna who has since been banned from orienting new employees. She used a method called “tough love” which was not unlike the sort of “tough love” you receive from a drill sergeant. She gave me two duties: pass out soup, and refill their coffee. I followed her around like a dog carrying out my two tasks, while she affectionately introduced me to residents as “Damn Danielle, try to keep up.” The problem was not my ability to do these two chores, but my failure to have not worked there for seven years. Every resident, I learned quickly, is a creature of habit. When you reach the age of eighty, you can no longer be bothered to change, and more importantly you cannot be bothered to explain these tendencies to a pint-sized moron in a bow tie.
I trained with Donna who has since been banned from orienting new employees. She used a method called “tough love” which was not unlike the sort of “tough love” you receive from a drill sergeant. She gave me two duties: pass out soup, and refill their coffee. I followed her around like a dog carrying out my two tasks, while she affectionately introduced me to residents as “Damn Danielle, try to keep up.” The problem was not my ability to do these two chores, but my failure to have not worked there for seven years. Every resident, I learned quickly, is a creature of habit. When you reach the age of eighty, you can no longer be bothered to change, and more importantly you cannot be bothered to explain these tendencies to a pint-sized moron in a bow tie.
Feeling as though having been to a restaurant and spoken to the elderly in passing was training enough, I eagerly accepted my new duty. The look in Donna’s lazy eye as her cracked lips let out a loud cackle should have been a warning signal, but I was much too optimistic to notice. Nelly shared almost identical features with Baby Sinclair from the TV series Dinosaurs. She was bald, overweight, wore a diaper, and was covered in spots that varied in color, shape and size. Her manners were identical as well.
“Hello Nelly, it is nice to meet you. I am new here and would like to fill out your menu with you” I said slowly annunciating every word the way you do with an infant of limited vocabulary.
She did not look at me. Her hearing aid was making a high-pitched screeching noise that left everyone, but me, unfazed. Willful, I leaned in very close and tried again.
“Hi Nel-ly. Would you like to fill out your menu?” slower, shouting a little now.
Rapidly, all two hundred pounds of her shifted to face me. I saw then that she had no teeth, and wondered how she would even eat anything on the menu. But before I could further ponder this she screamed through pink gums, spit spackling my face “I’m blind, not stupid. Quit being an asshole and fill out the damn menu.” Progress is progress; I dared not be self-righteous and defend myself now. I carefully read the options to her, ignoring her blatant disgust and low guttural responses. However, when she slowly lifted her coffee cup, my fight-or-flight reflexes began to tingle. They say that when one of your senses goes, the others become stronger, this is entirely true for Nelly. Her aim was dead-on; I had only enough time to crouch below her line of fire, the cup skimming my hair. Assistance arrived shortly, and I was transferred to another table.
Donna, absolutely revolted by my performance, assigned me to The Gagger’s table. This is a clever punishment, as at first it seems like a reward. The Gagger is very kind, but she has a secret that lurks in the bowls of her. Shaken up from the situation, I did not notice the smell at first. She was so polite, telling me of her grandson, asking me how school was, and introducing me to her tablemates. I thought I had hit the jackpot. I served them split pea soup, and refilled their coffee cups flawlessly. It was right around dessert when I began to notice a change. The Gagger stopped making polite conversation, her entire demeanor had changed, and she was turning a pale green color. A strange sound gurgled below the table, and it was then that I understood my misfortune. Right on cue, I began to gag, I had to excuse myself acting as though I had a chicken bone caught in my throat. The theatrics were incredible, flopping about, coughing and spitting, wishing I had been born without a nose. It was as if I had rehearsed it diligently. Of course my co-workers had experienced this, they smirked behind their vests and non-skid shoes, acting as if I was a fool for never having encountered uncontrollable diarrhea in a dining room setting. As if it was so normal. Bastards.
Well, Betty and Frank are not as sweet as it seems. They are con artists and instigators. They are on my list after last night. Both ordered the sandwich, and upon delivering the sandwiches they wanted "mashed potatoes" which we don't have, though there was Shepherd's pie. "Frank, FRANK!! You want the taters don't you? What is this thing? What? PULLED PORK? What does that mean?" I don't know lady, why did you order it? Instead I just smiled and said I'll bring it right out. Unfortunately, before I could get away Herman, their table mate decided he didn't want Shepherd's pie, "Miss! Miss? Miss!!!?!?! I WANT THE OTHER THING." Okay, okay I'll be right back. Again, my dirt bag co-workers just laughed. Musical plates happens just about every night. Toward the end of service Frank asked for more coffee. I thought it was unusual because I had given him some maybe ten minutes before and they never drink more than one serving. Then he said "I want you to get rid of this coffee first." His cup was full. The fuck right?
To be fair, this was an easy night. No one barfed on their plate and asked me to take it, no one chewed up their food and placed it in my hand, no one peed on the newly upholstered seats. But boy am I glad to be back at the desk happily blogging away.
