Four Days Of Convenience

This was the first day. It was about seven a.m; sometime after I'd cut a bulb of lettuce, when I finally got to sit down on that blue crate over a bucket in the back room that served as my morning "resting seat". It was a slow morning, for a Monday, at least; and I could of sworn I was gonna get a stiff neck from all the quick darting my tired head was doing. At every beep and buzz my head shot out from the back room, expecting some new customer on the prowl for a complicated food order. But, no.

This morning was slow, at least for now. It wasn't even eight and I'd already downed two or three cups of coffee, soaked in cream and weighted in sugar. I had gotten two hours of rest last night and should have come in at four. I was lax, especially after learning that the boss wouldn't be in till much later that day; or even much later tomorrow, if I was lucky. All I knew was that I was going to avoid a scolding in my tired state. A point at which I'd of probably retaliated in a dizzy rage, throwing down my apron and quitting before my manager could officially even hire me.

But this job was off the books. About ten dollars an hour, ten hours a day, seven days a week, from four to three, no time and a half. I didn't mind. I got access to all the coffee and bottles of water I could ever drink. That, and whenever I was hungry I could whip up anything I wanted on the grill. And at the end of the day it was okay for me to take home any breakfast sandwiches that nobody had taken past ten. I still had three from yesterday festering away in my fridge. Or did I eat those... No matter.

Like a buzz, the guy teaming me called my a*s out from the back and ordered two buttered rolls to replace the ones in the front foil basket. We only made a handful a day. After that, the orders came fast. The guy training me had me strike up a slew of new breakfast sandwiches which I half-did by myself and wrapped to an astonishing array. I think he was pleased. It was my fifth day here and I was certainly getting quicker. I hoped they'd noticed that. Next on the bill was a ham and cheese sandwich, hot and buttered.

The customer was an Italian man, about forty, which meant he was going to be difficult. The old Italian men always were. Usually hailing from New York, who come down to s****y suburban-farm life in Jersey. They do this as a means of escaping the chaos of the North, freeing themselves from the hustle and bustle. Instead they bring bad driving and a self entitled attitude, believing because they are older, the world owes them. They're a prick to you until you bring up one of the five boroughs, then they're your best buddy and begin a speech on how their bitchy generation was the best, despite their barbaric upbringing and closed minded ideologies.

We got the order done quick, sure enough he wanted the sandwich heated up. A fact that would have been nice to know before we had wrapped it. The early Rush was done and I made some more breakfast sandwiches. Suddenly, all became quiet. The sky was blue and the highway outside was a bustle. The whole day came to a halt and it was smooth sailing for a while after that. I was late this morning, and the guy that had been training me went ahead and made twenty two sandwiches on his own, an hour and a half before I showed up.

When I came in I avoided eye contact and waddled into the storage room to put away my coat and lace up my apron. I jumped at the voices of middle aged women on the other side of the storage room door. Sometimes the register would go off and I'd come running for nothing. The sandwiches were going quick, but only the ones we didn't have to replenish. I could rest easy for now. Just for now. The chaos died down and I began to talk to the guy that trained me.

In a moment the statues of being coworkers evaporated, and he began to tell me of his ventures through India, the United Kingdoms and America. My eyes were widened by his life's story, since that was really all it was. I didn't have much of anything to throw in, but it was sure nice listening. This job was an experience in learning about the cultures of my fellow workers. It was a subject they would never hesitate to speak about, and a subject I would never choose to ignore.

This was the second day. The day had hit a wall, at least for the few minutes I had to sit down and internally hate myself for not getting a full night's sleep. I was late again. The guy training me didn't care much. I wouldn't say it was my lateness that pissed him off, but rather my inability to remember the placement of rolls and bagels in the morning. I had only really practiced putting them away one time. I was too tired to try and explain it. He scolded me and I nodded until he stormed out, my mind in another place, distracted by double vision and the hazy sound of his voice.

He stormed out to have a cigarette. I fumbled around a bit and he returned, much calmer. He apologized briefly and told me of what was expected of me. At least... I think that's what he was talking about. The day passed by rather quickly, to be honest. I flunked some orders, did some right and was sarcastically told to come in the next day at eight in the morning. While I would have loved to heed that offer, here I sit, well enough rested and awake at two.

I figured I'd take an hour for myself in the morning, since I only have about four to three hours of free time a day now. I made an early coffee and some sugary fruit flavored cereal to start today. My boss had sold me two packs of ninety-nine cent baby cigars; and I couldn't wait to down one of those while waiting at the bus stop the next morning. I was actually waiting for this local cop to stop me. See, the other day I was waiting by the road, at about four, for my boss to come rolling up and open the store so I could start my routine.

This cop pulls up and says somebody reported me for snooping around in cars. If by "snooping around in cars" they mean standing on the sidewalk, freezing my nuts off, then yes! I figured it was only a matter of time before someone called them. A bearded man in a trench coat, standing by a convenience store, with no one around… (Except the f**k in the pickup truck who was so paranoid by my presence.) It had all the red flags and makings of a terrible scenario in paranoid America.

Though, it doesn't take much effort. Anyways, back to my story: The cop walked up with his flashlight in my face and he asked what I was doing there. I told him everything, was completely real and blunt with the guy; even displaying aggravation. I was especially tired that morning. He understood, I think, and just copied down my ID identification. He said it was incase he ever ran into me again. Whatever the f**k that means. I was hoping to run into him again, to cement my place at that street side.

There was no law that said I couldn't be there. Plus, I had no other time or place away from my family to smoke my cigars. The only time I ever had to smoke was during the eight minute walk from my job to my house, where my brother was usually the only one home at the time. I was drinking so much coffee as of late, I thought it was gonna kill me. I was so tired of food and only wanted water, coffee and something to smoke every now and again. I'd given up pot for now, which especially made my free time a bore.

I didn't have much of a personal life anymore. I didn't mind much. I wasn't expecting to stay at this job for much longer. Another month tops. I dreamed about traveling, maybe being a vagabond. But, then thought about joining the coastguard or the navy, all since my two favorite writers both went into the service in their respective times. That, and my life was going nowhere. I didn't much care anymore. Up till now, everything in my life felt so relative and distant; any point in holding on would prove to be null and void, just like my three hours a day. That only time to myself, which I wasted everyday, in fear and impatience for what I was going to do with my off-time the following day.

This was the third day. The week that I had decided to up and quit being a porter came the day after, what would become my last day on the job; and before I served the two week period, all because my new boss wanted me to start at the convince store as soon as possible. At the time I had gotten into a nasty fight with Debora. We’d disputed over and old friend of hers f*****g with me and a whole bunch of other jumbled s**t I’d rather not go into right now. But, on the whole… deep down I believe my sudden rush, from leaving my old job and settling somewhere else, had something to do with a deep psychological need to keep myself busy and distracted by causing friction in my life.

That way I wouldn’t think about her too much or the fact that we’d fallen apart. I wasn’t even sure if she was done with me. Honestly, for the first time, ever, I was scared, and by the time the week was up, faith or not, I found myself begging for her to come back. One day she’d finally messaged me and I turned around to find my last job despised me and my new one had me by the balls. So, one night, in a fit of sleepless energy and a carefree attitude, I declared a desire to join the Coastguard and leave this new store position behind. I was in a frenzy.

Life was coming down all around me and I couldn’t keep track of everything that was happening. I feared that my love was unfaithful, I feared the hate of my old job, I feared seclusion from my friends who’d been busy living their lives, I feared the judgment of my parents, I feared being broke, I feared my smoking habits being discovered, I feared being kicked out and the list could have gone on forever. So, I did what I usually did. I went to bed and decided to solve it tomorrow.

Procrastination was my biggest problem, and my besets friend. That very night my grandfather, the amazing man that he is, agreed to come with me to the store the next day, have me tell my boss that after a week of training, that I quit and request my due pay for the week. My manager attempted to haggle, negotiate and convince me to stay. He even tried to make men feel guilty, and it worked for about a minute before I caught on and shrugged my shoulders. This job wasn’t going to make or break me.

At most, all it did was provide me time to think about my station in life and see into the lives of others. And that was a nice feeling. It was this sort of second sight into the world outside your own closed perspective. But that was it. Some nice conversations. That, and this job taught me in one week what four years of high school coking class never could. I could now cook a library of s**t. And most of it being fast food which is all local eateries were anymore.

I was out of a job though, and finding a new one was gonna be a b***h, especially after how I'd left the last one. I tried not to think too much about it. As I usually did. I felt it was time for a change. I had some good times in the past, but I longed to get far away from my life. I’d followed bands, I’ve cooked, I’ve hosted my own art shows, I collected games, and movies, and comics, and all of it had gotten me nowhere. Not all the money time in the world could fuel this tired streak I was on, and laziness always came back around to find me.

Mistakes were made, but I wasn't going to be torn apart by them, or the judgments of those around me, for that matter. What the hell did anybody know about me? That I was a failure? Falling and taking time to do land? I guess so. Least, that’s how it seemed to me. And I tried not to give a damn. Cause not caring just made everything feel better. But, just for a little while.

This was the forth day. I took to the grill hard and fast today! Oh man, there wasn't a better cook thus far along the eastern coast this morning! The guy training me sat back, did the bagels and rolls, letting me run my course. The foreign fellow at the front desk, in the middle of brewing coffee, even took time out to come over to me and compliment my work. Once I believed everything had been filled and finished, he came up to me again. Once more, the foreign fellow praised me for my skill that morning, all the while my trainer sat in the back, on his phone.

I felt more confident, being left to my own devices. But, come ten o'clock the lunch shift would start and I would have to make up all the chicken and fries. The fried chicken was especially annoying, because it was this whole long drawn-out process. The true test would come in-between the breakfast and lunch preparations. I ran off a few orders with my trainer's help and began to make my own breakfast. I ran into S; an acquaintance of mine that I'd met back when I worked as a porter.

He came in and glared at me for a good while, scratching his chin curiously. I stood up and walked on over to where he was standing on the other side of the counter. I asked him if he needed anything and pretended as if I was the twin brother of a guy who worked at the grocery store I'd previously met him in. He realized it was me and we chatted for a bit until the morning rush caught up and he grabbed a bacon breakfast sandwich, leaving as quick as he had come. The rest of that morning I was on fire!

Never before had I displayed such ability in the work place. And u like pushing carts, this job was spent making food for people, which, when dwelled upon after the fact, left me feeling accomplished. Perhaps this was the day it was all going to turn around. Every meal I made quick and neat. Drop an egg. Make a new one in less time. The grill was my b***h and the meals, my children. Peace came at eleven. The whole store was dead and settled down to a day old cinnamon roll which I ate half of and threw out.

An order came in for a roast beef sub and the manager sat by as my trainer who said that I have to fluff up the mean when I put it on a sandwich, as to not waste too much meat by making it look big. In confidence my trainer told me of how the manager is a schmuck when it comes to the percentages of meat that we put on sandwiches, and that a little more or a little less won't kill anybody. I agreed. He said if I wasn't sure about how much meat to give and I put on too much, not to worry.

My manager then claimed that he could cook ninety percent of the things found on the menu. I bet he can't. And it appears the bad mood has found me. It all fell apart after one chicken buffalo sandwich. Or was it buffalo chicken? Doesn't matter! Nevertheless, I was told one more slip up would result in me being fired. Well... not fired. My training would be discontinued. Or some obscure s**t like that. I don't know. The manager spoke about being clear and forward, but all I've known him to be, so far, was very vague and spitefully suggestive.

He seemed almost insulted when I asked about pay, panicking to think of an answer as to why it might be low some weeks. I didn't care. I was here for the experience of cooking. And in one week I learned what four years of high school cooking could never teach me. That was all I really wanted out of this. If I got let go, it wouldn't matter. Nothing seemed to matter these days.