We had this kid who got hired a few months back. Eighteen or nineteen, always wearing sandals, a moppy blonde hair cut that looked like it was out of 1975, a black baseball cap at an angle, his baggy pants almost down to his ankles, always wearing the same bright yellow boxers.
When I say the *same* bright yellow boxers? I mean the *same*. Not a second pair that looked like the first, nope, in his own words, “Who cares if they’re dirty?”
Like, I don’t know - everybody else in the fucking world?
He was hired as an insider and occasional driver. Well, of course, once he got the “driving bug” he always wanted to be on the road. When he was scheduled to be inside, he’d be grumpy and angry, often cursing “Why can’t I fuckin’ drive?” Nevermind that he was a lousy insider — he took forever on whatever station he worked, and couldn’t be trusted with the cash register. Not, mind you, because he would steal the money, but if someone handed him a $10 bill to pay for a $5 sub, he’d likely give them back a twenty in change. Like Anya said, “…and I’m failing math!” Only no one told him that, and he refused to believe it, to the point Gary, the shop owner, posted above the cash register, scrawled in black marker on a sheet of butcher paper: “FNG NOT ALLOWED TO USE CASH REGISTER ON PENALTY OF MANAGER-IN-CHARGE’S DEATH!”
Gary tried to counsel the FNG repeatedly on some key things to those who work in the food industry - the first, he needed a hair cut. When I say moppy cut, I mean seriously long strangly blonde hair. I swept quite a few of them up at the end of the night, along with all the usual crap that ends up on the floor. The second, his penchant for wearing sandals. Proper socks and shoes are a must, and, eh, you can go without the socks if you really really want to. But of course, this FNG knew best.
One weeknight, FNG showed up for work, stayed in the shop for an hour, then went outside to talk to some girl he knew. He spent the rest of his shift somewhere outside, in the vicinity of the strip mall, while the manager (who hadn’t noticed FNG’s exit as FNG hadn’t said anything about it) got his ass kicked something hard. When this story started getting around, we pretty much knew FNG was going to be going “goodbye” soon. In fact, Gary stated the only reason he hadn’t been fired was the lack of replacement help.
There wasn’t too much going in the way of employment history for this guy. Apparently he was a student at Towson University, but even if currently so, I don’t think he’ll last long. He worked at another pizza shop, and was either fired from or asked to ‘terminate himself’ from a snowboarding shop down the road. Stellar employment history, yes?
But even so, at the beginning of every week, FNG would continue to pester Gary for more hours. He was being scheduled twenty-five, roughly, and wanted twice that. This, of course, was a joke. He put no effort into learning what is, let’s admit it, an extraordinarily easy (if stressful and hectic) job. He bitched about being at work when he was, and caused everyone around him to work twice as hard to compensate for his failings.
Probably the final straw for him came on a particularly grueling day when he sauntered in half an hour late, then whined and cried the whole shift until he was cut an hour before he was scheduled to leave. This time it was I who took the sheet of butcher paper and wrote up a donation form, to buy FNG “A Belt/Shoes & Socks/New, Clean Underwear.” I posted it up on the door of the shift office Friday afternoon - by Saturday morning, most of the employees had signed it, many with encouraging notes, my favorite: “I’m a hippy, haven’t showered since the Nixon Administration and you smell worse than me, asshole!” - Rich.
On the week that Gary took a vacation to New Orleans, FNG announced that he’d been hired by a garden shop down the road, and would work out the week and be gone. FNG was happy because he was making (slightly) more money, and had considerable more hours! Several of us tried to point out the fact that it was a seasonal job, but we didn’t try too hard - we were sick and tired of his attitude, his performance, and most of all: his yellow boxer shorts.
Two weeks after leaving, FNG came back into the shop, with his uniform shirt and hat in hand. He and Gary went into the back office, presumeably to get FNG’s final paycheck. A few minutes later, FNG exited, looking sad, and walked out the door. Thank goodness, we haven’t seen him since.
Gary walked out of the office, shaking his head. “What happened?” I asked.
“He asked for his job back,” Gary said. “Found out it was a seasonal position.”
Of course, Gary had told him no. Sat him down and said, If you’d given two weeks, that’d be one thing, but you quit and left us short handed, when I was on vacation and we had no ability to hire a replacement. You burned your bridge.
Even after this, FNG had the nerve to ask to make a sub.
He didn’t get the sub.
