Letter of Resignation/ Ode to the Chinese Restaurant for White People

Feb 22, 2005 22:40

To Whom it May Concern:

I can no longer work in your establishment because I need to be sedated.

If I have to bring one more incompetent idiot
their plate of White People Chinese Food placebo
I’m going to reach down their throat, grab their asshole,
and make a hat out of it.

If I have to tell someone once more how to eat their Chicken Lettuce Wrap
(I mean, how obvious is it? Chicken, lettuce, wrap. What the fuck?!)
I’m going to vomit on their table and tell them
to figure it out for themselves.

If I approach a party of guests with a forced congenial “hello”
and am returned with another insolent silence,
a glassy-eyed stare, or a half-assed smile
I’m going to pull them out of their seat by their nostrils and scream,
”I’m fucking talking to you! You’re not better than me.
I’m more important than you for the simple fact that
I breathe through my nose... just for starters.”

I have to quit because the managers
are all reformed frat boys who still
count on their fingers
and say ‘awesome’ too much.

I have to quit because some people
actually enjoy working here
and that makes me pit them.
And I hate pity.

I have to quit because I suffer from full-body retches
due to the combination of the stench of the food,
the medieval cleaning products, and the assorted
imitation perfumes and colognes that attack my nasal passages daily.

Furthermore, I would rather give myself
a broken glass and chili oil enema
than waste the gas, time, and self-respect
I have to muster every time I drive to work.

I would rather eat third-world dysentery dog shit
than learn any more fuck-head fellow employees’
names, nicknames, sexual preferences,
or petty hang-ups with one another.

I would rather cut off my own nipples
and give them to my cat to play with
than iron a white shirt, tuck it into
standard blue jeans, and tie on a tie
for another day of looking like everyone else
in a white apron and stupid grin.

You degrade my time with 2.13 an hour.

I’m an artist.
I can’t balance trays on my fingers.
This could lead to carpal tunnel syndrome.

I’m a dancer.
I refuse to maneuver around tables, chairs,
and hundreds of two-footed morons
in the intricate, fluid flow known as the
“Restaurant Mambo.”

I’m a poet.
I do not waste words on menu items,
silly pleasantries, or clept lingo like:
“On the fly.” “Rush.” “Table 24.” “The blond.”

I can’t hack it here
and I hate the fact than any monkey
can walk the restaurant walk,
talk the restaurant talk,
and earn that restaurant cash.

I have to quit because
I hate people,
I hate food,
and this may interfere with my ability
to perform my job.

Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Katheryn E. *****

(7/1999)

*Editor's Note:
You might be interested to know that almost a YEAR after I quit this job my former manager called me at home to bitch me out. He had no memory of me (dick. I was a trainer and could fucking speak Spanish to the kitchen staff!), but wanted to make sure I knew he had a wife and child and supported his family off of that hell hole. Not to deny me my 1st Amendment rights or anything... Seems some of the current employees of the place were passing my book around the restaurant; it had been on sale in the mag. section of Barnes & Nobles, right across the street, for about a year as well. I had, in some ways, arrived. Yet! The manager called me while I was in the tub, and at the very end of the conversation said that he'd let me get back to my bath. Creep. I wanted to write an "Ode to the Manager of the Chinese Restaurant for White People" but I think I got my best jab in with the frat boy/awesome line. And still I go on.

birmingham, poetry

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