Crazy From The Heat

July 6, 2006 at 8:38 AM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | 5 Comments
  Well, I understand all the unrest in the middle East.  All the conflict, strife, war, and general unhappiness.  The whole area, all of the countries of the middle East, are all either desert, or the next to become desert.  It is completely hot as fuck, very little water, no natural resources other than oil. No agriculture to speak of.
  Because of this (or, let’s be realistic here, it could also be because of their completely fucked up religion), they all live in a backwards, seventh century culture.  They are angry, unreasonable, crazy.  They have ridiculous rules for ridiculous things, are offended at the slightest thing, and are basically looking–just looking–for an excuse to kill someone.
  They are an inspiration.  I have adopted this as my knew customer service attitude.
  I know I wrote about this before, the heat in the store, but I felt it merited a redux.  Monday, the day before the 4th, it was 95 degrees in our fair city.
  It was 105 in the store.  This restaraunt, this hellhole that I came so close to buying–this place is a nightmare for two solid months.  The thermostat is not just pegged–it breaks past the peg trying to go further, in search of water.
  It affects everyone’s attitude.  I try to be cheery, but I only do it to piss people off even more.  I act crazy and irrational and.  . .You know what, it might not be an act.  The heat just does it to you.  I get so angry about it, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it, so I take it out on as many people as I can.  Employees, customers, random fucks in the parking lot.
  For those of you who are new and don’t understand, fuck off.  I mean, let me explain.  This is my second job, a friend of mine owns this little restaurant.  We do delivery and carry out, no dine in.  Much like I accused Domino’s Pizza of 10 years earlier and it cost me my job, if we had dine in the place would be cooler for the customers.  Since it’s just employees, fuck ’em.
  But Scott, the owner, knows it’s hot, and he likes it.  He is insane.  In the winter, I come in, he has the heat set on 80+.  The first time he turns his back, I turn that shit down.  I save him money in the winter.  This place has an oven–two, actually, a grill, a potato warmer, bun toaster, deep fryer, and a dozen refrigerators, all with heat-producing compressors. I mean, Christ, why not put in a wood burning stove and a fireplace, or add an incinerator?  The two A/C units fight a losing battle against all of this heat.  Long about April or May, it would start to get really warm, and I would turn the AC on.
  Scott would turn it off.  It’s 70 degrees outside, therefore it’s not that hot in here.  Yeah, like only 85.  Scott would say, "What are you going to do in July and August?"
  "Well, suffer, obviously.  That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be comfortable now, does it?"  His philosophy is:  "It’s going to be shitty later, so don’t try to be happy now."  Can’t really argue with compelling logic like that.
  And yet, people come in and want food.  Fuck them all, individually, with the same gigantic device.  (By that I don’t mean anything as offensive as a large dildo or similar phallic substitute.  I mean something like a refrigerator.)
  One older dude and his son–or maybe it was his young boyfriend, who knows?–came in to order food.
  "Hot enough for ya?"
  I should have killed them when I had the chance.  "I didn’t know I had a choice."  They then thought they would be helpful, the fuckin idiots, and they propped my front door open for me.  The AC is on, but that doesn’t matter.  105 inside, 98 outside.  The laws of thermodynamics related to heat sinks and air flow tell me that it is not going to make the outside or the inside any cooler.
  More important is that this is up front, where it is hot.  There is a chime on the door that goes off when someone enters.  When the door stays open, I don’t know if anyone has come in, since I’m hiding in the back whereits only 85 degrees.  So I have to stay up front.  After those ass clowns, and a few other incredibly aware stragglers float through ("Wow!  Sure is hot in here!  Do I get a discount?")
  Piss.  Off.
  A hot chick comes in–and actually, who knows if she’s really hot. I’m pretty fucking delirous at this point–and says, "Wow, it’s hot in here."
  I have sweat dripping everywhere.  My forehead is shiny, I can hardly keep my eyes open, the sweat stings that falls into them.  My arms are wet and slippery, like I’ve been delivering baby goats all day.  Sweat drips down my back, into the the crack of my ass, completing the pleasant feelings I have in my body.  My testicles have stretched completely away from me, hanging around near my knees.
  I respond in a calm, cool way. "Oh, really?  I hadn’t noticed."  She thought I was funny, but not funny enough to ice my balls down for me, which is all I want at this point in my life. 
  Later, an older but attractive and smartly dressed woman entered. Business attire.  I never understood this.  It’s summer, and she is wearing, like a business jacket.  A dress suit, and slacks.  The attire of choice for MAUL’s–Middle-aged urban lesbians.  She orders and pays, and almost under her breath, she starts to say it, then realizes how ridiculous it sounds, so she stops.  Just like someone falling off of a sky scraper, and you say, "Wow, sure is far to the ground."  Thanks, Commander Obvious.
  But I want to hear her fascinating insight.  "I’m sorry?" I inquire politely, in the hopes that she might repeat the very stupid and obvious thing she just said.
  She said quietly, "It’s a little warm in here."
  I answer, "Hmmm.  Hadn’t really noticed.  Doesn’t feel like it.  Perhaps it’s just you.  You might be going through menopause.  You look kind of old.
 You might want to see a doctor."
  Perhaps–you think–perhaps I am being too hard on them.  After all, they are just people, trying to make conversation, plus they are customers, and the customer is always right, right?  Don’t I care about the business? Don’t I care about ..  ..
  Whatever the hell else it is I should care about?
  Quite frankly, no.  Scott, the owner, and a friend, indicated to me in the only way he knows how, which is passive-aggressively, that there might be some duties in the restaurant which I have neglected, and could I please, from now on, strive to maintain a standard of excellence, blah-blah-blah.
  I said, "Dude, when it’s one hundred and fucking five goddamn degrees in here, you’re lucky I keep the place open after you leave."
  I remember visiting Chicago some years ago, and right across from Planet Hollywood was another restaurant we had heard about, so we checked it out. 
Ed Debovick’s, that may not be spelled right.  It was a 50’s style diner, the server’s dressed in that fashion, and they would get up on the counter and dance and so forth.
  But they were rude to you.  On purpose.  Part of the atmosphere, part of the kitsch.  I thought it was a great business model, and ten years ago I recommended a friend of mine incorporate it into his business.
  He felt that his profession required more dignity than that.  I said, "Look, you’re a mortician, not a rodeo clown."  Nevertheless, he declined.
  But I have clandestinely adopted it as my personal customer service attitude.  Especially on the day before the fourth of July, we are completely dead, ready to close, and then, someone gets out of the fireworks display early, and wants to order food.  I am 2 minutes from locking the door.  We close early many times on Monday anyway, the advantage to working for a small company.  I do what I want.
  After shutting everything off, it cooled down to 95 degrees.
  The phone rings.  "Scooters steak express, I’m sorry we’re closed."
  "Closed, huh?  The menu here says open till ten."
  "Sometimes we close a little early on Monday, especially if it’s slow."  I can tell they are a little drunk, but they’ve been nice so far, so I answer politely.
  I can hear him mutter under his breath, "That’s bullshit."  Then he says to me, "Well, hey, if you’re so closed and everything, why’d you even answer the phone?"
  I love this question.  I don’t get it often, but when I do, I use the answer I developed 15 years ago.  Because it’s the truth, it’s even funnier.  "To make it stop ringing."
  He starts to get pissed now, so I, being the ass I am, relish it.  He says, "Listen, you minimum wage fucker, I will talk to th’ owner and get you fired, sumbitch.  It ain’t ten yet, you better make me some food."
  This is now called "Open Season."
  "First of all, dickhead, I make more than minimum wage.  You’re the one living in a trailer, not me.  Second of all, I’m not your wife, so you can’t talk to me like that.  And the owner is a friend of mine, and we’ll both come over and kick your ass."  An idle threat, but I had to put it in perspective for him.
  He straightened up a bit, tried a new tack.  "Well, I think I will just place a few phone calls tomorrow–" he was drunk, tomorrow would be a holiday, he has no idea what he’s talking about "– to the Chamber of Commerce, the Better Business Bureau, the Attorney General’s office, and Channel 2 news.  So you better get on that grill, bitch."
  He sounded pretty cocky, pretty sure of himself.  And drunk.  He wasn’t going to remember this the next day, which was a shame, because I wanted him
to remember this part.
  I said, "Listen, ass clown.  Let me put this into perspective for YOU.  So that you understand exactly how this is going to work.  We are closed. 
Everything is shut off.  I’m going home now.  I could care less if you live or die or grow mushrooms out of your ass.  You want me to cook for you?  I have two words:  MAKE ME."
  This by the way, defines my new customer service philosophy:  Make me.  I think I’ll put it on a shirt.
  In the middle of his stream of drunken cuss words, I hung up the phone gently.  I was ready to walk out the door.  As I did, the phone begins
ringing again.  It feels good, to lock the door and walk away from a ringing phone.
  Ha!  Sucker.  Make me.


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  1. You a mean bastard to deal with.  I tell you to do something you better jump and get it done NOW!  ahahaha.

  2. and if there was a doubt, this is why I dubbed you
    King Of Assholes
    yeah, you\’re just oozing sugar and sweetness out of every pore, aren\’t you????
    you don\’t fool me
    and, more importantly… I ain\’t afraid  of you, so nyah nyah nyah!
    *slinking off toward the door, hoping I can run faster than you*
    hugs and shit

  3. You sound about as bitchy as I am… cool .  someone to bitch with and cuss at every stupid ass idiot that rubs me the wrong way today.. \’cept nobody\’s rubbing me at all. (dangit) *sighhh
    Yeah I\’m grumpy as hell too
    Like K said..
    Hugs n shit *grins

  4. "Scott, the owner, and a friend, indicated to me in the
    only way he knows how, which is passive-aggressively…"
    You make me laugh.  No, wait, I worded that incorrectly: MAKE ME LAUGH, bitch!

  5. There\’s a restaurant down here in Texas called Dick\’s.  I\’ve only been to the one in San Antonio on the Riverwalk.  Anyway, the waiters are purposely smart-ass\’s, sit down at your table, make sassy remarks about what you\’re ordering, etc.  You know, kind of like what you like to do!  Just kidding!!  😉  It\’s funny to watch people who\’ve never been there, and their reactions to the some of the things the waiters say & do. 
    I think you\’d love working there!  Better yet, you could open your own Dick\’s (I think it\’s a chain)!  Food\’s good too.   And even with the crazy behavior, so is the service!

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