SultryMay 28, 2006 at 1:29 AM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | 9 Comments
The phone rang, and rang again. I couldn’t get to it, my hands were busy. My mind was on a hundred things at once. I hoped no one could see me.
But they could. Onlookers, gawkers, stood and watched me, intently, waiting for me to take care of them. The want in their eyes, the hunger, the obvious desire they had for me to take care of their needs. . . .
Yeah, it completely sucked. I worked Saturday night, it was hot as fuck, and although I had anticipated a slow night (Holiday weekend, everybody gone to "the Lake," last years’ reports showed a slow night), I was getting my ass handed to me in chunks. Fuck me running. We did twice the sales as last year, and all but 100 dollars of it since 4 o’clock, when I got there. Summer is officially here in St Louis. I know every place has interesting weather. Good for you. It’s 90 degrees outside, about 125% humidity (that’s right, we have more moisture in the air than it is actually capable of holding), and I am inside a restaurant with two air conditioners, big ones, and it is over 100 degrees in the kitchen where I am cooking. We have a grill, a pizza oven, a convection oven, a bun toaster, a potato warmer, and a steam table.
The thermometer on the wall is pegged. PEGGED. The sweat is keeping my face clean by allowing the soot from the smoke from the grill to run down my face and into my eyes. My underwear are completely wet, like I had been swimming in them. And indeed I had.
It’s not this hot in the rest of the store. The rest of the store is only 85 degrees. Customers come in and make exceptionally witty remarks about the heat, ask why I dont turn the A/C on, et cetera. I am in a heat induced fog, which keeps me from killing them and throwing their sorry carcass on the grill.
"Hot enough for ya?" Thanks, yeah, I haven’t heard that in over 17 minutes. You’re a fucking comedian. Who writes your shit for you, Shakespeare? Got any more cliches while you’re at it, fuck-face? If I hear that one more time, I’m going to stab someone in the face with a fucking butterknife.
When I worked at one particular Domino’s, it was hot like that, but most of them were decent. You know how shitty it is to handle dough that temp? It turns to mush. Cheese fills with water from condensation, and becomes soup. Pepperoni become slimy little–
You live through it. You do what it takes to survive. Water, ice, ice water, shut off everything you can get away with, bring fans in, wait for the sun to go down.
But it never does.
I imagined when I was there that in their high-level meetings, they decided instead of fixing the A/C, it would actually be cheaper to hypnotize everyone into believing it was cool. Or hypnotize them into believing they were in the Artic Circle. This could backfire on them, though, because the anger would still be there. If the supervisor would come in during this to see how it was working, he would see everyone dressed in coats and parkas and gloves, and not sweating. But angry. They would harpoon his ass.
Ever touch anything metal when you are indoors, like a table, or a handle? It’s cool to the touch, because it’s at room temperature, which is cooler than your body. I would touch the table, and it would be warm to the touch. Warm. Warmer than my body. It’s not like this yet, but it will be soon. There are some hit or miss days in June, But July and August I will be working in an oven. At least I don’t do this full time any more. This is just part time now.
The only thing that keeps me going back in day after day is my extremely short memory. I had to write this as soon as I got home. Tomorrow, I will have completely forgotten, and I’ll drive to work completely unaware, happy as a clam with a hard-on, and not until I walk in the door and feel the wall of heat press into me like a large, body-sized pair of tits will it all come back to me, and it’ll start all fucking over again.