Just Wanted a Historical Record of the End of My Time In the Devil's Laundry
It's been over a month since I quit the Devil's Laundry. I've barely even set foot in the Westgate Plaza since I left. With all the build-up and contemplation of the right way to do things, and whether or not to burn that MFing bridge all the way down, it ended up happening in a fairly simple way (as I pretty much thought it would.)
The manager came in one Sunday morning to borrow some cash because she was covering at another store. I told her I was leaving at the beginning of September and would like to use my earned time off the day before Labor Day. She told me the company was down six CSRs, making me the seventh, but she'd see what she could do.
That day I had a long phone conversation with Rene who, as it turns out, was number six. I guess she and two others were fired (her for very moronic reasons) and four including myself had quit. I spent a week and a half or so assuming the manager wouldn't get me Sept. 6th off, and planning on that as my final shift. Then she called me up one day and let me know it was covered, and that was it.
I picked up my final paycheck and turned in my shirts and key a week or so after that. The manager was working because her useless daughter was supposedly taking over for Rene and she's... well, useless. She was oddly bright and chipper with me, as though I was going to stop and chat and catch up for a bit or something. No. I grabbed my check and beat it out of that miserable place.
Lately I've found myself thinking back on the laundromat almost involuntarily. As though my brain is so readily programmed for nostalgia that it's going back there on it's own, expecting to find some little bit of pleasant memory. There isn't any though. I'll think to myself "I kind of miss those long Sunday afternoons with the radio blaring NPR and... wait, no I don't. If I missed them, I wouldn't feel sick to my stomach right now just thinking of them. And the radio was blaring because I was trying not to slip into a tedium coma." Just thinking of it for the span of time it's taken me to write this entry has left me feeling tense and cranky.
So I'm gonna stop now.
The manager came in one Sunday morning to borrow some cash because she was covering at another store. I told her I was leaving at the beginning of September and would like to use my earned time off the day before Labor Day. She told me the company was down six CSRs, making me the seventh, but she'd see what she could do.
That day I had a long phone conversation with Rene who, as it turns out, was number six. I guess she and two others were fired (her for very moronic reasons) and four including myself had quit. I spent a week and a half or so assuming the manager wouldn't get me Sept. 6th off, and planning on that as my final shift. Then she called me up one day and let me know it was covered, and that was it.
I picked up my final paycheck and turned in my shirts and key a week or so after that. The manager was working because her useless daughter was supposedly taking over for Rene and she's... well, useless. She was oddly bright and chipper with me, as though I was going to stop and chat and catch up for a bit or something. No. I grabbed my check and beat it out of that miserable place.
Lately I've found myself thinking back on the laundromat almost involuntarily. As though my brain is so readily programmed for nostalgia that it's going back there on it's own, expecting to find some little bit of pleasant memory. There isn't any though. I'll think to myself "I kind of miss those long Sunday afternoons with the radio blaring NPR and... wait, no I don't. If I missed them, I wouldn't feel sick to my stomach right now just thinking of them. And the radio was blaring because I was trying not to slip into a tedium coma." Just thinking of it for the span of time it's taken me to write this entry has left me feeling tense and cranky.
So I'm gonna stop now.