Step 1: Derogatory Diminutives
Greetings, simpletons.
As shown in the simple, two-word sentence above, one must think like a dictator in order to conquer--first by recognizing that everyone is beneath you. Everyone.
Your waitress? Beneath you.
Your boss? Beneath you.
Fred, your friend who happens to be a nuclear engineer?
Beneath you.
Regardless of if you are able to force your mind into a power-hungry state, you must at least appear to be a monster. At all times, in all situations, use as many derogatory nicknames as possible: simpletons, minions, plebeians, farmers, Biebers. The options are limitless.
Step 2: Know Your Shit
Literally. You can't rule anything with an upset stomach. Keep your diet in check so that it keeps you at a 3 or a 4 on the Bristol scale.
In the event that a 1 or a 7 insists on disrupting your power struggle, be sure to know your surroundings. Constantly be on the lookout for the closest turd pool.
Step 3: Know Your Competition
And that's me. Good luck, britches.
Also, note that I will be posting creative writing pieces on here from time to time--
1. so you know what you're working against and
2. because I don't know where else to put them.
Emotionlessly,
Emily
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
I Am Probably Going to Hell
To whom it may concern,
I regret to inform you that the purpose of the letter you hold in your hands is to declare that I am officially and immediately breaking free of Brandon Wildes chains of oppression. In the likely chance that the words used in the previous sentence are too complicated for you: I resign.
“Give me a definition of what you think Brandon Wilde is.” I looked at the short, bald black man sitting on the opposite me. Based upon conclusions drawn from my surroundings, I could already see that everything about this little man was a facade for his lack of self-confidence—his seemingly ornate desk made of particle board, the gaudy and mass-produced art displayed on the wall behind his head, the two-year-old employee of the month certificate displayed in a frame beneath said art. In my head, I compared him to the type of man who attempts to use his job status as compensation for his small dick. Despite all of these quickly-formed opinions and judgements, I could not help but be a little nervous about this interview.
“It's a retirement community.”
“Wrong.” a stern grin stretched across his face, exposing a set of pearly whites that severely contrasted with his dark skin, “It's a life-care community. The best one in Augusta, actually.” His grin faded, “Do not call it a retirement community. Do not call it a nursing home.”
A “life-care” community he called it. Sounded like an uptight way to say “retirement community” to me. Regardless of the title, Brandon Wilde is a community for old people--'the elderly' or 'the residents' as Mr. Jones, the small black man and my then-to-be-future boss called them.
Little did I know at the time what I was signing up for. Little did I know that under Mr. Jones authority was another boss with an equally unappealing personality. Little did I know that Mr. Jones would ruin three Christmases in a row for me. Little did I know that I would go from loving 'the elderly' to realizing that they are nothing more than people. And people are bitches.
I would say that “it's not you, it's me...” but that would be dishonest. In reality, it's a little of me, a lot of you, and a good bit of everyone else.
I rush to make it to the time clock before the 4:07 PM mark. After that, I am counted as late. I never should have been told that there is a seven-minute grace period. Frantically, I run inside from the parking lot and simultaneously shove the bottom of my dirty white-collared shirt into the top of my equally dirty black pants. Hands shaking, I tie my tie into a half-windsor rather than the full windsor knot that Mr. Jones prefers. Whatever. He can deal with it. The normal windsor knot is too big for my scrawny neck. I make it to the time clock at 4:06 PM just as I find my tiny gold name tag that reads “Emily: Waitress.” Thank God. I made it.
Entering the kitchen for the first time is my favorite part of the day. From the slightly intimidating dish pit guys, I can always expect to be greeted with “Hey Harry Potter!” or “What's up, Pancake Ass?” or even the classic, “Mutha fucka!” There are never any salutations from the cooks at the food line—they hate me for all of the words I put on my tickets that they cannot understand. And I quickly get out of sight before the lisp-ridden woman at the salad line tries to talk to me—in conversation, there is a point where all of her sentences start to being with “I don't mean to be a bitch but...” Sorry, 'Shalad' Lady, that is the same as saying, “I don't mean to be a bitch and...”
I join the other servers to check my setup for the day on the blackboard. Of course. I always get the assignment with the most work. And of course, at the end of the night, after I have done everyone else's cleanup, I will be left alone in the dining room doing what is left of this work. Typical.
“Uh oh, Harry Potter,” I hear behind me, “you're the only white person working today.”
I turn around to see Shanetta. I laugh and pull a pack of crackers out of my apron and offer her one. When she declines, I ask her what she has against crackers. She laughs and tells me that I am going straight to Hell. Yeah, I get that a lot. Unfortunately, fat, snoopy Clarressia rounds the corner and looks me in the eye, “Why are you back here trying to trick us into racism?!” I roll my eyes. I am not going to respond to this.
She is not okay with my silence, “You need to act more mature than that!” Uh oh. Someone's getting worked up.
“Clarressia,” I try to say calmly, “I don't think you're one to be giving lessons in maturity.”
She shouts, “Oh yes I am! I'm grown!” Grown? She is 'grown?'
“Just because you're one year older than me and you have two children does not make you anymore 'grown' than me. Most people would claim the opposite, actually.” Oh shit, I'm fast with the comebacks today. Thirty minutes later, as I am being handed a write-up by my second-in-command boss, I feel no ounce of regret from my words. People are bitches.
There is no denying that some of the residents fall in this “everyone else” category. However, most of them do not. I lament the fact that the emotional mistreatment of the residents by my co-workers has influenced my own attitude towards them. That is something that I am not okay with.
As I exit the kitchen into the dining room, I notice Ms. Walden shakily standing up to leave from her usual seat with the help of a cane that must be just as old as she is. The clothes she has been wearing for the past three days sag loosely on her small frame in the same way that her aged skin does. One of her reused socks hangs to her ankle, the other is pulled up. I glance at the half-eaten food left on her plate as I approach her and ask with a sweet smile, “Hey Ms. Walden, you coming for dinner?” Ms. Walden appears confused as she looks from me, to her dirty plate, and back to me again. In an instant, the look of confusion transforms to that of clarity.
“Yeah, I reckon,” she says, “but this table is dirty.”
Like a hero, I politely lead her to the hostess stand. The hostess rolls her eyes at us as we approach, “Ms. Walden, you've already eaten tonight.” But there is no trifling with Ms. Walden.
“No I have not. That is a lie. You people are trying to starve me.”
The hostess grudgingly grabs a menu and leads the old, forgetful woman back to her table—but not before stopping next to me, leaning down to my ear and whispering, “You are going straight to Hell.” A great burst of a “HA!” escapes from my mouth—I have not completely dismissed this whole “going to Hell” theory that so many of my co-workers have suggested about me. I like to play games. It is extremely easy to play games with old people. For example, one day I realized that because of her slipping memory, Ms. Walden would often forget that she had already eaten and would return to the dining room for a second lunch or dinner. Now, I try to see how many times I can convince her to return during one mealtime. My record? Five dinners! Maybe I'll break that number tonight, it is early and she is already about to begin her third. I'm probably going to hell. I'm a bitch.
I am not okay with the attitude and stress that this job has placed in my life. I am symbolically dowsing the flames of your negativity.
“Emily, what the hell is this abbreviation!?”
The cooks do not like the way I write my tickets. They do not understand how writing “chic” for “chicken” makes more sense than “chix.” After three years, I fail to see why they still get upset. They should be used to my more logical ticket-writing techniques by now.
I do not smile at these bitches anymore, I am not polite, “That means chicken.”
“What do you mean, it means 'chicken?'”
“Chicken. It's not that hard to figure out. It's spelled c-h-i-C...”
The temperamental woman cuts me off, “Shut up! You're so stupid! Get out of my kitchen!”
I look to my left. My second-in-command boss, Alison, is standing there watching this scene unfold. By this time in my career at Brandon Wilde, I am not surprised by anything. I get self-deprecative rather than pissed. That's healthy, right? After about an hour, Alison approaches me at one of the tables that I am serving, “Did Ms. Barbara's words offend you?”
I stop. Since this woman could fire me, I try to formulate my words correctly, “No,” I say, “What offended me was the fact that my boss was too much of a coward to stop that situation from happening.” Woops. I didn't mean to say that, but as with most of the things that I say about this hell-hole, I mean it. Alison's facial expression is not encouraging.
“Fine,” she snaps, “I'll tell her not to talk to you anymore.” I watch as she storms away, her down-to-her-ass ponytail waving back and forth. She is probably about to go use company time to gossip about my smart-ass remarks and smoke another cigarette. People are bitches.
This negativity and hate should not be at this current level. In light of the recent tragedy, I thought you would have learned a lesson in respect. Perhaps a lot of the problems within the wait staff has to do with the recurring overwhelming sense of being taken for granted.
“I cannot believe that I have to sit through this “Age Sense” training again. It has become apparent that I am stuck at this job. How many more years will I work here? How many more times will I have to take this training class? I already feel like a geriatrics specialist.” A new girl taking the same class as me interrupts my internal monologue.
“It sure was hard getting up so early, wasn't it?”
I feel a pang of pity as I look at her. She is a sweet girl. She is good-natured. Her anger hasn't been tested yet. I feel as if I should warn her of the heartbreak of this job. Of our lazy staff. Of our uncaring management. Of what it feels like when an elderly person you're close to passes away. Instead, I smile, “Sure was. I like sleep too much to cut it so short. Especially after the crazy shift I had here last night.”
Together, she and I suffer through two hours of the president of Brandon Wilde welcoming us in, taking us on a tour, and giving a speech about the average temperament of the elderly. After the first two hours, we are given a break. I pull out my phone to complain about this class to Twitter. Before I can begin typing said complaint, I feel a soft tap on my shoulder. I look to see Connie from the Human Resources department looking rather nervous.
She whispers, “You don't have to stay here if you don't want to.”
Okay. I am both relieved and confused, “What do you mean?” I ask, “I have to do this training again.”
“I just think it would be best for you to go spend time with the rest of the wait staff.”
Okay. I am even more confused, “Why? What happened?”
Her eyes get big and fill with tears. My stomach clenches. She stutters through her next words, “Y-y-you... Nobody told you?” I shake my head. What is going on?
Again, she reaches to find words, “Oh. It's just that... Alicia--”
“What about Alicia?” I think that I might throw up.
“She was in a car accident last night--” I can feel vomit in my throat.
“Is she in the hospital? Are we going to visit her?” I swallow, I have got to stop cutting her words off.
Tears pour out of Connie's eyes as she says softly, “No, we're not going to visit her. She passed.”
I look at the sweet new girl and then back at Connie. It feels like my head is full of cotton, I think I might be yelling, “No she didn't! She was the hostess last night! She was here twelve hours ago! I saw her twelve hours ago!” Connie continues to just look at me as my posture sinks, “I am about to be twenty. She has been here with me since I was sixteen.”
At this time of morning, the majority of the scheduled wait staff is just clocking in. As I walk into the dining room, I see faces stuck in shock. I see faces covered in tears. I see figures on the ground sobbing. Within what feels like a few minutes, all of the servers are at work—scheduled or not. Word spreads fast, I suppose. All of Brandon Wilde's workers gather in the largest room on premises—the wait staff, kitchen staff, nursing staff, laundry staff, human resources—everyone who happens to be at work is there. I have no idea who is running Brandon Wilde right now. I can only imagine the level of agitation of the spoiled elderly.
We have a makeshift memorial for Alicia. A sea of mourners in both Brandon Wilde uniforms and civilian clothing. At the podium, Matthew Jones cannot control the cracks in his voice and the tears from his eyes as he talks about his former employee. I turn and make eye contact with Ms. Barbara. She nods at me. I notice Alison's ponytail draped over the back of the chair in front of me and think to the moment minutes previous in which she had been sobbing into my shoulder. Next to her, the sweet new girl is having an internal struggle on how to react to this situation. Maybe I should have warned her first thing this morning—get out while you can! You will learn of nothing but heartbreak! I hadn't thought to warn her about losing the young. I look around the room and rather than seeing bitches, I see a room full of defeated people. I feel a hand slip into mine. I hold on tightly without a second thought. I see Ms. Walden walk by through the opened door. I wonder if she is coming for lunch.
Regardless of the source of these problems and all of my reasons for leaving, I know that I am most afraid of dying in my Brandon Wilde uniform. I want more than that.
Sincerely,
Emily G. Lambert
I regret to inform you that the purpose of the letter you hold in your hands is to declare that I am officially and immediately breaking free of Brandon Wildes chains of oppression. In the likely chance that the words used in the previous sentence are too complicated for you: I resign.
“Give me a definition of what you think Brandon Wilde is.” I looked at the short, bald black man sitting on the opposite me. Based upon conclusions drawn from my surroundings, I could already see that everything about this little man was a facade for his lack of self-confidence—his seemingly ornate desk made of particle board, the gaudy and mass-produced art displayed on the wall behind his head, the two-year-old employee of the month certificate displayed in a frame beneath said art. In my head, I compared him to the type of man who attempts to use his job status as compensation for his small dick. Despite all of these quickly-formed opinions and judgements, I could not help but be a little nervous about this interview.
“It's a retirement community.”
“Wrong.” a stern grin stretched across his face, exposing a set of pearly whites that severely contrasted with his dark skin, “It's a life-care community. The best one in Augusta, actually.” His grin faded, “Do not call it a retirement community. Do not call it a nursing home.”
A “life-care” community he called it. Sounded like an uptight way to say “retirement community” to me. Regardless of the title, Brandon Wilde is a community for old people--'the elderly' or 'the residents' as Mr. Jones, the small black man and my then-to-be-future boss called them.
Little did I know at the time what I was signing up for. Little did I know that under Mr. Jones authority was another boss with an equally unappealing personality. Little did I know that Mr. Jones would ruin three Christmases in a row for me. Little did I know that I would go from loving 'the elderly' to realizing that they are nothing more than people. And people are bitches.
I would say that “it's not you, it's me...” but that would be dishonest. In reality, it's a little of me, a lot of you, and a good bit of everyone else.
I rush to make it to the time clock before the 4:07 PM mark. After that, I am counted as late. I never should have been told that there is a seven-minute grace period. Frantically, I run inside from the parking lot and simultaneously shove the bottom of my dirty white-collared shirt into the top of my equally dirty black pants. Hands shaking, I tie my tie into a half-windsor rather than the full windsor knot that Mr. Jones prefers. Whatever. He can deal with it. The normal windsor knot is too big for my scrawny neck. I make it to the time clock at 4:06 PM just as I find my tiny gold name tag that reads “Emily: Waitress.” Thank God. I made it.
Entering the kitchen for the first time is my favorite part of the day. From the slightly intimidating dish pit guys, I can always expect to be greeted with “Hey Harry Potter!” or “What's up, Pancake Ass?” or even the classic, “Mutha fucka!” There are never any salutations from the cooks at the food line—they hate me for all of the words I put on my tickets that they cannot understand. And I quickly get out of sight before the lisp-ridden woman at the salad line tries to talk to me—in conversation, there is a point where all of her sentences start to being with “I don't mean to be a bitch but...” Sorry, 'Shalad' Lady, that is the same as saying, “I don't mean to be a bitch and...”
I join the other servers to check my setup for the day on the blackboard. Of course. I always get the assignment with the most work. And of course, at the end of the night, after I have done everyone else's cleanup, I will be left alone in the dining room doing what is left of this work. Typical.
“Uh oh, Harry Potter,” I hear behind me, “you're the only white person working today.”
I turn around to see Shanetta. I laugh and pull a pack of crackers out of my apron and offer her one. When she declines, I ask her what she has against crackers. She laughs and tells me that I am going straight to Hell. Yeah, I get that a lot. Unfortunately, fat, snoopy Clarressia rounds the corner and looks me in the eye, “Why are you back here trying to trick us into racism?!” I roll my eyes. I am not going to respond to this.
She is not okay with my silence, “You need to act more mature than that!” Uh oh. Someone's getting worked up.
“Clarressia,” I try to say calmly, “I don't think you're one to be giving lessons in maturity.”
She shouts, “Oh yes I am! I'm grown!” Grown? She is 'grown?'
“Just because you're one year older than me and you have two children does not make you anymore 'grown' than me. Most people would claim the opposite, actually.” Oh shit, I'm fast with the comebacks today. Thirty minutes later, as I am being handed a write-up by my second-in-command boss, I feel no ounce of regret from my words. People are bitches.
There is no denying that some of the residents fall in this “everyone else” category. However, most of them do not. I lament the fact that the emotional mistreatment of the residents by my co-workers has influenced my own attitude towards them. That is something that I am not okay with.
As I exit the kitchen into the dining room, I notice Ms. Walden shakily standing up to leave from her usual seat with the help of a cane that must be just as old as she is. The clothes she has been wearing for the past three days sag loosely on her small frame in the same way that her aged skin does. One of her reused socks hangs to her ankle, the other is pulled up. I glance at the half-eaten food left on her plate as I approach her and ask with a sweet smile, “Hey Ms. Walden, you coming for dinner?” Ms. Walden appears confused as she looks from me, to her dirty plate, and back to me again. In an instant, the look of confusion transforms to that of clarity.
“Yeah, I reckon,” she says, “but this table is dirty.”
Like a hero, I politely lead her to the hostess stand. The hostess rolls her eyes at us as we approach, “Ms. Walden, you've already eaten tonight.” But there is no trifling with Ms. Walden.
“No I have not. That is a lie. You people are trying to starve me.”
The hostess grudgingly grabs a menu and leads the old, forgetful woman back to her table—but not before stopping next to me, leaning down to my ear and whispering, “You are going straight to Hell.” A great burst of a “HA!” escapes from my mouth—I have not completely dismissed this whole “going to Hell” theory that so many of my co-workers have suggested about me. I like to play games. It is extremely easy to play games with old people. For example, one day I realized that because of her slipping memory, Ms. Walden would often forget that she had already eaten and would return to the dining room for a second lunch or dinner. Now, I try to see how many times I can convince her to return during one mealtime. My record? Five dinners! Maybe I'll break that number tonight, it is early and she is already about to begin her third. I'm probably going to hell. I'm a bitch.
I am not okay with the attitude and stress that this job has placed in my life. I am symbolically dowsing the flames of your negativity.
“Emily, what the hell is this abbreviation!?”
The cooks do not like the way I write my tickets. They do not understand how writing “chic” for “chicken” makes more sense than “chix.” After three years, I fail to see why they still get upset. They should be used to my more logical ticket-writing techniques by now.
I do not smile at these bitches anymore, I am not polite, “That means chicken.”
“What do you mean, it means 'chicken?'”
“Chicken. It's not that hard to figure out. It's spelled c-h-i-C...”
The temperamental woman cuts me off, “Shut up! You're so stupid! Get out of my kitchen!”
I look to my left. My second-in-command boss, Alison, is standing there watching this scene unfold. By this time in my career at Brandon Wilde, I am not surprised by anything. I get self-deprecative rather than pissed. That's healthy, right? After about an hour, Alison approaches me at one of the tables that I am serving, “Did Ms. Barbara's words offend you?”
I stop. Since this woman could fire me, I try to formulate my words correctly, “No,” I say, “What offended me was the fact that my boss was too much of a coward to stop that situation from happening.” Woops. I didn't mean to say that, but as with most of the things that I say about this hell-hole, I mean it. Alison's facial expression is not encouraging.
“Fine,” she snaps, “I'll tell her not to talk to you anymore.” I watch as she storms away, her down-to-her-ass ponytail waving back and forth. She is probably about to go use company time to gossip about my smart-ass remarks and smoke another cigarette. People are bitches.
This negativity and hate should not be at this current level. In light of the recent tragedy, I thought you would have learned a lesson in respect. Perhaps a lot of the problems within the wait staff has to do with the recurring overwhelming sense of being taken for granted.
“I cannot believe that I have to sit through this “Age Sense” training again. It has become apparent that I am stuck at this job. How many more years will I work here? How many more times will I have to take this training class? I already feel like a geriatrics specialist.” A new girl taking the same class as me interrupts my internal monologue.
“It sure was hard getting up so early, wasn't it?”
I feel a pang of pity as I look at her. She is a sweet girl. She is good-natured. Her anger hasn't been tested yet. I feel as if I should warn her of the heartbreak of this job. Of our lazy staff. Of our uncaring management. Of what it feels like when an elderly person you're close to passes away. Instead, I smile, “Sure was. I like sleep too much to cut it so short. Especially after the crazy shift I had here last night.”
Together, she and I suffer through two hours of the president of Brandon Wilde welcoming us in, taking us on a tour, and giving a speech about the average temperament of the elderly. After the first two hours, we are given a break. I pull out my phone to complain about this class to Twitter. Before I can begin typing said complaint, I feel a soft tap on my shoulder. I look to see Connie from the Human Resources department looking rather nervous.
She whispers, “You don't have to stay here if you don't want to.”
Okay. I am both relieved and confused, “What do you mean?” I ask, “I have to do this training again.”
“I just think it would be best for you to go spend time with the rest of the wait staff.”
Okay. I am even more confused, “Why? What happened?”
Her eyes get big and fill with tears. My stomach clenches. She stutters through her next words, “Y-y-you... Nobody told you?” I shake my head. What is going on?
Again, she reaches to find words, “Oh. It's just that... Alicia--”
“What about Alicia?” I think that I might throw up.
“She was in a car accident last night--” I can feel vomit in my throat.
“Is she in the hospital? Are we going to visit her?” I swallow, I have got to stop cutting her words off.
Tears pour out of Connie's eyes as she says softly, “No, we're not going to visit her. She passed.”
I look at the sweet new girl and then back at Connie. It feels like my head is full of cotton, I think I might be yelling, “No she didn't! She was the hostess last night! She was here twelve hours ago! I saw her twelve hours ago!” Connie continues to just look at me as my posture sinks, “I am about to be twenty. She has been here with me since I was sixteen.”
At this time of morning, the majority of the scheduled wait staff is just clocking in. As I walk into the dining room, I see faces stuck in shock. I see faces covered in tears. I see figures on the ground sobbing. Within what feels like a few minutes, all of the servers are at work—scheduled or not. Word spreads fast, I suppose. All of Brandon Wilde's workers gather in the largest room on premises—the wait staff, kitchen staff, nursing staff, laundry staff, human resources—everyone who happens to be at work is there. I have no idea who is running Brandon Wilde right now. I can only imagine the level of agitation of the spoiled elderly.
We have a makeshift memorial for Alicia. A sea of mourners in both Brandon Wilde uniforms and civilian clothing. At the podium, Matthew Jones cannot control the cracks in his voice and the tears from his eyes as he talks about his former employee. I turn and make eye contact with Ms. Barbara. She nods at me. I notice Alison's ponytail draped over the back of the chair in front of me and think to the moment minutes previous in which she had been sobbing into my shoulder. Next to her, the sweet new girl is having an internal struggle on how to react to this situation. Maybe I should have warned her first thing this morning—get out while you can! You will learn of nothing but heartbreak! I hadn't thought to warn her about losing the young. I look around the room and rather than seeing bitches, I see a room full of defeated people. I feel a hand slip into mine. I hold on tightly without a second thought. I see Ms. Walden walk by through the opened door. I wonder if she is coming for lunch.
Regardless of the source of these problems and all of my reasons for leaving, I know that I am most afraid of dying in my Brandon Wilde uniform. I want more than that.
Sincerely,
Emily G. Lambert
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