According to my schedule at the Franchise, Saturday the 20th I’m working from 11am through the dinner rush, so I’ll be looking to be on my way probably around 7:30 or 8pm.
According to my schedule at the Indy, Saturday the 20th I’m working 5-10pm.
Um.
I really don’t know what Gary’s thinking — he knows I work nights. I’m working the Saturday AM at the Franchise to help out a staffing shortage, which of course is exactly what happened to Gary, but the frustrating part is that Gary should know enough not to schedule me Saturday night. Hello, Gary, I’m already working.
Preakness is what happened to dilute the Indy’s driving staff. Sketchy’s working all day, but Silent Bob’s going to a festival, Zap’s got his kid’s birthday party, Jamal’s off the evening for who-knows-why, and Chris the Fat Worthless Slug took off so he could go to Preakness, get piss drunk, urinate in public, and do less with his life than he already does. Thankfully, I rarely work with Chris the Fat Worthless Slug, so I get to avoid those headaches, let’s just say rarely is the dayshift I show up where I don’t have to spend my first half-hour rewashing the dishes he “washed” the previous night.
In any case, the Indy’s schedule request is precisely that — a request. I can’t work because I’ve got another job to work. But just about everyone else is going off to do something fun, and dammit, I’m sorry, but when it comes to making hard decisions, the guy who can’t work because he’s already working another job should get the benefit.
Anyway, I just saw next week’s schedule at the Indy about twenty minutes ago, so I haven’t had a chance to talk to Gary about it. I’ll get to do that bright and early tomorrow morning, and then he’ll be in a pissy mood for the rest of the day. Fan-fuckin’-tastic. I so can’t wait until tomorrow! (Sike!)
So I’m waiting to make a left-hand turn on Padonia Road from Old Padonia. The light turns green, but do I get to go? No, because the wastes-of-oxygen eastbound (westbound traffic, apparently, had drivers with brains) on Padonia Road apparently decided “Hey, we’ve got a red light. Red means go.” And so they did precisely that, through the intersection, through the cycle, because they’re fucking retarded. I swear. I was half tempted to pull into the intersection and let one of the red-light running moronic pieces of dung whose parents should be executed for raising such stupid incompotent moronic pieces of fuck hit me, because then, I could’ve screamed at them for running a red light and wrecking my car and nearly killing me, and venting my rage at them in person, instead of on the internet.
Why the hell can you never find police brutality when it is really needed?
Wednesday night was very busy at the Franchise. We’ve got two schools in our delivery area, an elementary school and a middle school. Throughout the year, once a month on Wednesday nights, we run a “school night” where the store donates back a percentage of the store’s nightly earnings back to the school in question. Yesterday was the night for the elementary school, and in fact, was the last night of the school year we were running this promotion, so all the students’ parents felt especially obligated to order this time (did I mention we were short a driver?) and thusly we were very very very busy.
In seven hours working, I took twenty-three runs, which isn’t too unremarkeably until you consider that at eight o’clock I had twelve runs and I finished my last delivery at ten after ten and then spent the remaining not-quite-an-hour finishing mopping and dishes. In twenty-three runs, I made exactly $100 in tips and mileage (not bad for a school night, which typically brings out a bunch of cheap-os). Including my hourly wages for the day, and the tips earned at the Indy that morning, my total income for yesterday was $188.50.
I get very frustrated sometimes, working with E.G. and Zebulon. Not individually, when they can be tolerable, but together the “Doublemint Twins” can be truly infuriating, blaming each other for their mistakes, throwing identical rants about how horrible their jobs are, complaining about a) their crappy love life and b) how the girls they like are dating guys who don’t deserve them, and throwing sometimes loud hissy fits when they have to remake a pizza one, or the other, made incorrectly the first time. Seriously, its a wonder customers don’t get fed up at being made to feel like fifth-class citizens and ask for their money back. (It problably doesn’t hurt that the mere mention of Japan as anything but THE BESTEST COUNTRY IN THE WHOLE GALAXY is enough to launch them into a bitterly violent rage).
Even more frustrating is the new guy. He’s not new, he’s been here over a month, but he’s the newest guy, so he’s the new guy, “Ghetto Boy.” He’s training to be a manager and worked his first unsupervised closing shift Monday — I think he’ll work out fine, and I also think that if Zebulon doesn’t pick up his shit, Ghetto Boy’ll be getting a lot more of Zeb’s hours. Last night Ghetto Boy was completely retarded. He was putting credit slips with the wrong pizza boxes, failing to get proper contact information on delivery orders, and failing to get proper business information on one of the few business addresses we have in our area. Fortunatly, I was able to locate the business by the process of simple elimination (well, if store A is 3434, and store C is 3438, then store B, which does not have an address displayed on their door, must thusly be 3436, and, y’know? It was). Anyway, it’s a good thing he was gone before I got back from that run because I was ready to give him a Snay Special Ream-Out.
My last four runs were both doubles, and both almost identical — first, a stop at Sweet Air Road or Paper Mill Road addresses, followed by a quick double-time up Jarrettsville Pike to a stop along Fallston Road in Hazzard County.
After returning from the first double, arms elbow deep in soap water furiously washing dishes as quickly as possible, the second double came in moments before closing. Zebulon wandered back and explained to me that this second run was “even more implausable than the first.” I went and looked at the dispatch computer, then gave him a funky look, shook my head (one of those “dude. You so don’t know what you’re talking about” looks, and wandered back to the dishes). If anything, the first double was much more implausable than the second, but in any case, both runs amounted to the exact same thing. (And, no, he wasn’t being sarcastic.)
Dork.
Oh. And Japan is a nine-millionth-world country.
