Stupid AfterWork!
About a month ago I submitted an essay I wrote for my discourse (composition) class to AfterWork. It's this writer's magazine thing for college writers. Well, I submitted this:
“So, you only have vanilla?” the lady asks, staring at me questioningly.
I restrain the urge to roll my eyes. Was she not, just a second ago, reading the sign explaining in big, bold, capital letters “VANILLA ONLY?” Or was the sign, really, that confusing?
“No,” I want to say, “We have vanilla swirled with white chocolate that tastes just like vanilla.” But, I bite my tongue knowing that unless I have a huge craving to hear the phrase “you’re fired” the sarcastic remark should be left unsaid.
So, I just nod and repeat what the sign clearly states: “Vanilla only.”
Ah, the joys of working at IKEA. Remind me again why I had to wake up at ten o’clock on a Saturday, when my body can sleep till two? Oh yes, that’s right, because I have to go to work. Oh Lord, if you have any mercy whatsoever kill me now!
I glance at the screen of my register to check the time. 2:03 p.m. Okay, so my shift started at twelve; it’s only two and the store closes at 9:30 p.m., but as always the costumers don’t leave till ten, and then there’s clean up, so that means about 10:30 p.m. if I’m lucky. So…only nine hours left. But wait, I get two thirty minute breaks. So, 9 - 1 = 8. EIGHT HOURS! The desire to strangle the computer is overwhelming as I realize how much longer I have to stand here, in this disgusting white polo shirt with the words “Restaurant & Café” written in navy blue stitching, and wait slavishly on idiotic costumers. This agony is not worth the $7.35 an hour!
Defeated, I take the money from this nitwit of a woman, motion her toward the pick up area so I can help the next costumer and keep the line moving. It’s never a good idea to keep people waiting, especially the people who shop at IKEA. They can be just down right nasty when impatient. Once, a male costumer yelled at the entire Bistro staff and called us, and I quote, “Stupid” because he didn’t get his ice cream in the proper sequence it was ordered in. Apparently, he didn’t comprehend the fact that there are two lines and he’s not the only person who purchased an ice cream cone. He made a huge ruckus and, in the process, got involved in a verbal spat with another customer who was attempting to make him realize that he was acting like a jerk by yelling at a bunch of teenagers. Hopefully, nothing like that will occur today.
At 4:30, and about a thousand hotdogs and cinnamon buns later, it’s time for my lunch break. I ask who has a cash drawer because I can’t leave the register unoccupied or the line will stretch from the Bistro all the way to the parking lot. Ashley, unhappily, admits that she does and reluctantly takes my place. I can’t say I blame her, cashiering is the worst. You don’t get to leave right away after clean up, you have to go to the Cash Office and count your money, which at 10:30 at night after a hard day’s work is rather mind boggling even if it is simple math.
I clock out and practically run up the stairs to the second floor where the cafeteria is located, rejoicing in the fact that I have a full thirty minutes of me time. Upon reaching the Staff Cafeteria I help myself to lunch: slopping IKEA’s famous Swedish Meatballs on my plate, making myself a salad, and filling up a glass with Cherry Pepsi, nothing like some caffeine for that extra boost of energy that has been long lost by now. Sitting down at one of the tables, a long sigh of exhaustion escapes my lips as I relish the feeling of just sitting. After four and a half hours of standing my feet finally get their well deserved rest. Once I’m over the fact that I’m actually on my break and don’t have to worry about taking orders, refilling the frozen yogurt machine, or cleaning the tables I hear my stomach growl as if to say, “Less savoring and more eating!” No need to tell me twice. I attack my food, stabbing the round pieces of meat and shoving them into my mouth. I’m absolutely starving and the food tastes delicious. Don’t you just love lunch breaks? I know I do.
When my plate is absolutely clean, with the exception of the random crumb that managed to escape my ravenous attack, and a now empty glass, its contents drunk to the very last caffeine enriched drop, I chance a glance at the clock. Still twenty minutes left to the heaven that is the lunch break, or any break for that matter. I slip my tray into the rack of dirty dishes that I, thankfully, don’t have to clean and make my way to one of the black leather sofas conveniently located in front of the TV. I plop myself, rather unceremoniously, onto the couch and enjoy the feeling of sinking as the cushion collapses under my weight. I close my eyes and just let go, praying that time will stand still and I won’t have to return to picky customers, and the smell of hotdogs cooking on the grill.
Unfortunately, you can never have too much of a good thing and this is no exception. Time has not, as I had vainly hoped, stood still in that relaxing moment but raced forward, as if to spite me, and I must now return to the chaos that is the Bistro.
Clocking back in, I retrace my steps and find my eyes taking in the familiar sight of the hustle and bustle to fulfill the costumer’s order. As I pass through the silver swinging doors, an eager head of brown curls pulled up into a ponytail, due to health standards, turns my way and I automatically know whose turn it is to go on break. Yami smiles at me and informs me of her job as cinna-bun, basically she cooks the cinnamon buns and makes sure we don’t run out, which I am now to take over while she unwinds in the Staff Cafeteria.
Oh, great. Of all the jobs, I get the one that is most dangerous to my health. Out of everyone in the Bistro, and everyone I know, I am the most accident prone. It never fails, even though I always wear the oven mitts, each time I’m in charge of the cinnamon buns I’ve burned myself, either when I put them in or take them out of the oven. As a rule, an IKEA Food Service employee is only allowed to burn themselves twelve times before they are “let go.” This is due to safety reasons and the fact that they don’t want to get sued. I, in the time span of about three or four months, have managed to burn myself seven times. What can I say, I’m accident prone.
Sending a silent prayer to the heavens that I don’t burn myself, I resume the job that Yami left me to continue. Better cinna-bun than cashier, which I will unfortunately have to get back to once Yami returns. Thankfully, she knew what she was doing and had enough baked cinnamon bun trays for me not to make anymore while she took her break. All I have to do is put a few trays of frozen buns in the warmer to get them ready to be baked in the oven. No burns today, baby!
“Four hotdogs, three cinna-bunns, and three ice creams!” Ashley calls to her server, Kristie, who rushes to place the order.
I smile triumphantly as I place the last tray inside the warmer. Since there is nothing left to do as cinna-bun, for now anyway, I ask Kristie if she needs any help serving the order. She gives me a grateful look as she tells me to make the three ice cream cones for her while she puts up the hotdogs and cinnamon buns. So, I head to the frozen yogurt machine, placing three cones between my fingers, and carefully fill each cone with the proper amount of ice cream. I finish one and inspect it quickly, proud with the look of it, picture perfect one might say - not like when I first started. In the beginning the ice cream part of the cone always tilted to the side reminiscent of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. But, as they say, practice makes perfect.
I finish the third cone and hand them to three children, all licking their lips in anticipation of the sugary treat. But just as soon as I finish one order I move on to the next. IKEA is always a crowded place, and Saturday is when it’s at its peak. So it’s no surprise that by the time Yami arrives from her break, I haven’t noticed that a full thirty minutes have actually past.
For a while I help Kristie serve, until the time comes for me to get back on the register. I swipe my card to sign onto the computer and off I go taking orders left and right.
“How may I help you?” I ask, ready to punch in their request.
“Two hotdogs and a Pepsi.”
“Two dollars please.” I take the money and stuff it in my drawer. “Thank you.” I give the falsely sweet smile and hand them their receipt. Off they go to pick up their order and a new costumer immediately takes their place. On and on it goes, the endless dance of hotdogs, cinnamon buns, coffee, frozen yogurt, diet coke. A smile plastered on my face that causes my cheeks to hurt, and I wonder if what parents say about your face staying that way is true. I hope not, it would be horrible to forever only show that one emotion, a cheesy smile.
The dance continues until my second break at 7:00, and off I go just as tired, if not more so, than the first time. Who thought taking orders would be this tiring? I shrug off the question, not really caring about the answer, and head back to the Staff Cafeteria to melt my already stir fried brain with some TV. My appetite has vanished from the hotdogs and cinnamon buns mixing together to create a sweet, meaty smell that has been gradually filling the Bistro throughout the day. When I first got in that morning, and toward late in the afternoon you couldn’t really smell it, but after you’ve baked about forty dozen cinnamon buns and grilled about three hundred hotdogs the smell starts to accumulate.
I park myself in front of the TV and watch the screen, just for the sake of staring at something other than the register. My body aches and my legs are cramping due to standing for so long. I remind myself I only have three more hours till I can go home, safe from the swarm of customers, the scream of the oven, and the scent of hotdogs. In all honesty, I’m in a rush for my break to end so I can get the rest of the day over with. At this point, I would give my left lung for the day to be over so I can go home to my big, soft bed and sleep.
The final hours of the day are always a blur, as my impatience to leave and get everything done is overwhelming. From 8:00 to the time I leave is a total rush. Not only do orders still have to be taken and served but there is cleaning to do as well. In between each throng of people, and even during the throng toward the very end of the night, the Bistro is cleaned: counters are wiped; dishes are washed; the grill cleaned; the ketchup, mustard, straws, relish, napkins, sugar, soda lids, and cups are refilled; the hotdogs, hotdog buns, and cones are restocked. It’s a lot to do and somehow it all manages to get done. Once it’s all finished I keep going until…
“Attention IKEA costumers the store is now closed.” A collective sigh of relief can be heard from the entire Bistro. Now, this announcement doesn’t mean that I can pack up and leave, oh no, it’s more like a warning to the customers that IKEA wants you gone. I can’t go home until the last costumer is done paying for their purchases at the cash lanes and if someone is to come up and order I am still expected to take that order. So, I wait impatiently for the last person to head toward the door, and hope that no one comes over to the Bistro because it’s just been cleaned and I don’t want to make it messy again so it has to be cleaned again and thus extending my stay here longer than necessary.
Unfortunately, this hope is always in vain as someone struts up to my register as if the “IKEA is closed” announcement never happened. The transaction is completed quickly and I check to see if there are any more customers left. There are none, so I empty my drawer and put the money in its pouch faster than you can blink. Now, I’m off to the Cash Office to count my money. I count my one, five, ten, twenty, fifty dollar bills, total my change, add it all up and throw it in the basket behind the door and away I go out of IKEA.
Once I’m in the parking lot and find my mother waiting to drive me home, where I am anxious to be, I feel as if a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. The day is finally over, and I can relax. As if magically I’m inside my house, the ride home seemingly taking no less than half a second; I fly up the stairs, into my pajamas and crash land onto my bed and nestle into its softness. The knowledge that I have to do this again tomorrow barely registers as I let sleep take me.
I'd love for ya'll to read it and tell me what you think. It's not boringf I swear...at least I don't think so.
Anyway, I submitted it because I think it was pretty good, actually I think it fucking rocks but I'm attempting not to sound too cocky. Also, I recieved an A on it from my prof, who is known to be a really strict grader and hard to get an A from. So, I figured if he liked it so much to give me and A then I should submit it.
Well, apparently I was wrong. I got back this paper in my mailbox say, and I quote:
Dear Writer,
Thank you for you interest to contributing to AfterWork. I regret to inform.... I think we all know where this is going...
Anyway, I'm pissed for 2 reasons:
1- My piece rocked and how can you "regret to inform" me that you aren't including it it your shitty Concordia magazine!
2- If your going to turn me down at least have the brains to turn me down professionally! I mean do you not re-read? Come on! THIS IS AN ENGLISH MAGAZINE AND YOU USED INCORRECT GRAMMAR! Gosh, it's as if my piece sucked so bad you couldn't take the time to read over your little sorry-your-writting-sucks letter. I mean I know we can't have perfect grammar all the time (Lord knows I don't). But if it's a professional type aplication or rejection, especially for a lit. magazine, then you should be as close to perfect as possible. Also, it was like a paragraph...how long Could it take to fix? Granted, I know that I had some mistakes in my piece but they even said that they have someone go over it with you before it's placed in the final product. And I doubt my piece had that many mistakes to take away from the actual story.
FREAKIN' A AM I PISSED! GRRRR!!
“So, you only have vanilla?” the lady asks, staring at me questioningly.
I restrain the urge to roll my eyes. Was she not, just a second ago, reading the sign explaining in big, bold, capital letters “VANILLA ONLY?” Or was the sign, really, that confusing?
“No,” I want to say, “We have vanilla swirled with white chocolate that tastes just like vanilla.” But, I bite my tongue knowing that unless I have a huge craving to hear the phrase “you’re fired” the sarcastic remark should be left unsaid.
So, I just nod and repeat what the sign clearly states: “Vanilla only.”
Ah, the joys of working at IKEA. Remind me again why I had to wake up at ten o’clock on a Saturday, when my body can sleep till two? Oh yes, that’s right, because I have to go to work. Oh Lord, if you have any mercy whatsoever kill me now!
I glance at the screen of my register to check the time. 2:03 p.m. Okay, so my shift started at twelve; it’s only two and the store closes at 9:30 p.m., but as always the costumers don’t leave till ten, and then there’s clean up, so that means about 10:30 p.m. if I’m lucky. So…only nine hours left. But wait, I get two thirty minute breaks. So, 9 - 1 = 8. EIGHT HOURS! The desire to strangle the computer is overwhelming as I realize how much longer I have to stand here, in this disgusting white polo shirt with the words “Restaurant & Café” written in navy blue stitching, and wait slavishly on idiotic costumers. This agony is not worth the $7.35 an hour!
Defeated, I take the money from this nitwit of a woman, motion her toward the pick up area so I can help the next costumer and keep the line moving. It’s never a good idea to keep people waiting, especially the people who shop at IKEA. They can be just down right nasty when impatient. Once, a male costumer yelled at the entire Bistro staff and called us, and I quote, “Stupid” because he didn’t get his ice cream in the proper sequence it was ordered in. Apparently, he didn’t comprehend the fact that there are two lines and he’s not the only person who purchased an ice cream cone. He made a huge ruckus and, in the process, got involved in a verbal spat with another customer who was attempting to make him realize that he was acting like a jerk by yelling at a bunch of teenagers. Hopefully, nothing like that will occur today.
At 4:30, and about a thousand hotdogs and cinnamon buns later, it’s time for my lunch break. I ask who has a cash drawer because I can’t leave the register unoccupied or the line will stretch from the Bistro all the way to the parking lot. Ashley, unhappily, admits that she does and reluctantly takes my place. I can’t say I blame her, cashiering is the worst. You don’t get to leave right away after clean up, you have to go to the Cash Office and count your money, which at 10:30 at night after a hard day’s work is rather mind boggling even if it is simple math.
I clock out and practically run up the stairs to the second floor where the cafeteria is located, rejoicing in the fact that I have a full thirty minutes of me time. Upon reaching the Staff Cafeteria I help myself to lunch: slopping IKEA’s famous Swedish Meatballs on my plate, making myself a salad, and filling up a glass with Cherry Pepsi, nothing like some caffeine for that extra boost of energy that has been long lost by now. Sitting down at one of the tables, a long sigh of exhaustion escapes my lips as I relish the feeling of just sitting. After four and a half hours of standing my feet finally get their well deserved rest. Once I’m over the fact that I’m actually on my break and don’t have to worry about taking orders, refilling the frozen yogurt machine, or cleaning the tables I hear my stomach growl as if to say, “Less savoring and more eating!” No need to tell me twice. I attack my food, stabbing the round pieces of meat and shoving them into my mouth. I’m absolutely starving and the food tastes delicious. Don’t you just love lunch breaks? I know I do.
When my plate is absolutely clean, with the exception of the random crumb that managed to escape my ravenous attack, and a now empty glass, its contents drunk to the very last caffeine enriched drop, I chance a glance at the clock. Still twenty minutes left to the heaven that is the lunch break, or any break for that matter. I slip my tray into the rack of dirty dishes that I, thankfully, don’t have to clean and make my way to one of the black leather sofas conveniently located in front of the TV. I plop myself, rather unceremoniously, onto the couch and enjoy the feeling of sinking as the cushion collapses under my weight. I close my eyes and just let go, praying that time will stand still and I won’t have to return to picky customers, and the smell of hotdogs cooking on the grill.
Unfortunately, you can never have too much of a good thing and this is no exception. Time has not, as I had vainly hoped, stood still in that relaxing moment but raced forward, as if to spite me, and I must now return to the chaos that is the Bistro.
Clocking back in, I retrace my steps and find my eyes taking in the familiar sight of the hustle and bustle to fulfill the costumer’s order. As I pass through the silver swinging doors, an eager head of brown curls pulled up into a ponytail, due to health standards, turns my way and I automatically know whose turn it is to go on break. Yami smiles at me and informs me of her job as cinna-bun, basically she cooks the cinnamon buns and makes sure we don’t run out, which I am now to take over while she unwinds in the Staff Cafeteria.
Oh, great. Of all the jobs, I get the one that is most dangerous to my health. Out of everyone in the Bistro, and everyone I know, I am the most accident prone. It never fails, even though I always wear the oven mitts, each time I’m in charge of the cinnamon buns I’ve burned myself, either when I put them in or take them out of the oven. As a rule, an IKEA Food Service employee is only allowed to burn themselves twelve times before they are “let go.” This is due to safety reasons and the fact that they don’t want to get sued. I, in the time span of about three or four months, have managed to burn myself seven times. What can I say, I’m accident prone.
Sending a silent prayer to the heavens that I don’t burn myself, I resume the job that Yami left me to continue. Better cinna-bun than cashier, which I will unfortunately have to get back to once Yami returns. Thankfully, she knew what she was doing and had enough baked cinnamon bun trays for me not to make anymore while she took her break. All I have to do is put a few trays of frozen buns in the warmer to get them ready to be baked in the oven. No burns today, baby!
“Four hotdogs, three cinna-bunns, and three ice creams!” Ashley calls to her server, Kristie, who rushes to place the order.
I smile triumphantly as I place the last tray inside the warmer. Since there is nothing left to do as cinna-bun, for now anyway, I ask Kristie if she needs any help serving the order. She gives me a grateful look as she tells me to make the three ice cream cones for her while she puts up the hotdogs and cinnamon buns. So, I head to the frozen yogurt machine, placing three cones between my fingers, and carefully fill each cone with the proper amount of ice cream. I finish one and inspect it quickly, proud with the look of it, picture perfect one might say - not like when I first started. In the beginning the ice cream part of the cone always tilted to the side reminiscent of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. But, as they say, practice makes perfect.
I finish the third cone and hand them to three children, all licking their lips in anticipation of the sugary treat. But just as soon as I finish one order I move on to the next. IKEA is always a crowded place, and Saturday is when it’s at its peak. So it’s no surprise that by the time Yami arrives from her break, I haven’t noticed that a full thirty minutes have actually past.
For a while I help Kristie serve, until the time comes for me to get back on the register. I swipe my card to sign onto the computer and off I go taking orders left and right.
“How may I help you?” I ask, ready to punch in their request.
“Two hotdogs and a Pepsi.”
“Two dollars please.” I take the money and stuff it in my drawer. “Thank you.” I give the falsely sweet smile and hand them their receipt. Off they go to pick up their order and a new costumer immediately takes their place. On and on it goes, the endless dance of hotdogs, cinnamon buns, coffee, frozen yogurt, diet coke. A smile plastered on my face that causes my cheeks to hurt, and I wonder if what parents say about your face staying that way is true. I hope not, it would be horrible to forever only show that one emotion, a cheesy smile.
The dance continues until my second break at 7:00, and off I go just as tired, if not more so, than the first time. Who thought taking orders would be this tiring? I shrug off the question, not really caring about the answer, and head back to the Staff Cafeteria to melt my already stir fried brain with some TV. My appetite has vanished from the hotdogs and cinnamon buns mixing together to create a sweet, meaty smell that has been gradually filling the Bistro throughout the day. When I first got in that morning, and toward late in the afternoon you couldn’t really smell it, but after you’ve baked about forty dozen cinnamon buns and grilled about three hundred hotdogs the smell starts to accumulate.
I park myself in front of the TV and watch the screen, just for the sake of staring at something other than the register. My body aches and my legs are cramping due to standing for so long. I remind myself I only have three more hours till I can go home, safe from the swarm of customers, the scream of the oven, and the scent of hotdogs. In all honesty, I’m in a rush for my break to end so I can get the rest of the day over with. At this point, I would give my left lung for the day to be over so I can go home to my big, soft bed and sleep.
The final hours of the day are always a blur, as my impatience to leave and get everything done is overwhelming. From 8:00 to the time I leave is a total rush. Not only do orders still have to be taken and served but there is cleaning to do as well. In between each throng of people, and even during the throng toward the very end of the night, the Bistro is cleaned: counters are wiped; dishes are washed; the grill cleaned; the ketchup, mustard, straws, relish, napkins, sugar, soda lids, and cups are refilled; the hotdogs, hotdog buns, and cones are restocked. It’s a lot to do and somehow it all manages to get done. Once it’s all finished I keep going until…
“Attention IKEA costumers the store is now closed.” A collective sigh of relief can be heard from the entire Bistro. Now, this announcement doesn’t mean that I can pack up and leave, oh no, it’s more like a warning to the customers that IKEA wants you gone. I can’t go home until the last costumer is done paying for their purchases at the cash lanes and if someone is to come up and order I am still expected to take that order. So, I wait impatiently for the last person to head toward the door, and hope that no one comes over to the Bistro because it’s just been cleaned and I don’t want to make it messy again so it has to be cleaned again and thus extending my stay here longer than necessary.
Unfortunately, this hope is always in vain as someone struts up to my register as if the “IKEA is closed” announcement never happened. The transaction is completed quickly and I check to see if there are any more customers left. There are none, so I empty my drawer and put the money in its pouch faster than you can blink. Now, I’m off to the Cash Office to count my money. I count my one, five, ten, twenty, fifty dollar bills, total my change, add it all up and throw it in the basket behind the door and away I go out of IKEA.
Once I’m in the parking lot and find my mother waiting to drive me home, where I am anxious to be, I feel as if a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. The day is finally over, and I can relax. As if magically I’m inside my house, the ride home seemingly taking no less than half a second; I fly up the stairs, into my pajamas and crash land onto my bed and nestle into its softness. The knowledge that I have to do this again tomorrow barely registers as I let sleep take me.
I'd love for ya'll to read it and tell me what you think. It's not boringf I swear...at least I don't think so.
Anyway, I submitted it because I think it was pretty good, actually I think it fucking rocks but I'm attempting not to sound too cocky. Also, I recieved an A on it from my prof, who is known to be a really strict grader and hard to get an A from. So, I figured if he liked it so much to give me and A then I should submit it.
Well, apparently I was wrong. I got back this paper in my mailbox say, and I quote:
Dear Writer,
Thank you for you interest to contributing to AfterWork. I regret to inform.... I think we all know where this is going...
Anyway, I'm pissed for 2 reasons:
1- My piece rocked and how can you "regret to inform" me that you aren't including it it your shitty Concordia magazine!
2- If your going to turn me down at least have the brains to turn me down professionally! I mean do you not re-read? Come on! THIS IS AN ENGLISH MAGAZINE AND YOU USED INCORRECT GRAMMAR! Gosh, it's as if my piece sucked so bad you couldn't take the time to read over your little sorry-your-writting-sucks letter. I mean I know we can't have perfect grammar all the time (Lord knows I don't). But if it's a professional type aplication or rejection, especially for a lit. magazine, then you should be as close to perfect as possible. Also, it was like a paragraph...how long Could it take to fix? Granted, I know that I had some mistakes in my piece but they even said that they have someone go over it with you before it's placed in the final product. And I doubt my piece had that many mistakes to take away from the actual story.
FREAKIN' A AM I PISSED! GRRRR!!