Replacement Pizza

April 19, 2008 at 3:13 AM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  Last week, I came into Domino’s to find the manager and the two assistants missing.  Working was a loaner, an assistant from another store.  Eric?  I forget.  Dina did show up and worked through dinner, but Eric closed.
  I just love the bright, young, ambitious, go-get ’em type.  I love to watch them go down in flames.
  I come in and we’re slow–of course.  After about 20 minutes, the rush hits, and we start getting orders stacked up.  I’m on the phone taking orders while Eric slowly goes down on the line.  I get off the phone, and go to the line to help out. 
  At first he tries to tell me what to do.  Then he is surprised that I know already.  Then he finds that I can top pizzas.  And cheese them.  And sauce them.  And then I am caught up and taking dough from him.  "Oh.  You’ve done this before?"
  Yes, child, I have done this before. 
  We get through the little spurt before Dina comes in, and then I don’t have to help much after that.
  Oh, wait–yeah I do.  About 7 pm, someone calls about their pizzas that were supposed to be there at 6:45.
  Their 45 pizzas.  To a fundraiser at a bowling alley.  Dina saw Kevin on the phone with them, whispered a harsh "Oh, shit!" and ran to the office to get the piece of paper.  They had called Tuesday and she took the information down but forgot to enter it in the computer.
  Well, they still want their pizzas.  What do you do in a situation like this?  For one thing, you DROP EVERY THING ELSE and start making the pizzas.  Toss dough, ask questions later.  I’m going to be up, but Dina asks me to hang and make; I comply.  She starts on the dough.  Eric has questions.  He wants to KNOW.
  "Didn’t you know about this order before?"
  "Why wasn’t it already in the computer?"
  "I forgot to enter it, Eric."
  He looks at the price.  "Oh.  Are we giving them a deal?"
  "Are these ‘school’ pizzas?"
  "No, they’re just rung up that way."
  "But why is–"
  "It’s a fundraiser, Eric."
  "So do you–
  I finally cut in.  "Dude!  Why are you asking all these questions?  We. Need,  To.  Make.  Pizza.  Now."  He was pissing her off asking all the questions, I could tell.  All of this was obvious–or obvious if you’re not an idiot–and it seems like he just wanted her to admit she made a horrible mistake, and that he could do better.
  This assclown is a loaner from another store.  Obviously ambitious, and here he sees an opportunity–he’s here to work, but he’s spying on us, milking the store for all the information he can so he can go back and say–"oh, yeah, I can run that store much better."  I’ve seen his type before. 
  I help make the pizzas, about 30 of them, till the oven is backed up.  All they have left is 15 cheese pizzas, so Dina tells me to hit the road.  I do.  I take a triple–it was lined up for me, nothing else I could do.  Twist my arm.
  When I come back, the big order is gone, thankfully, and Dina is gone too, because dinner is over, and we are getting down to Eric, me, and Paro.  The rest of the night was exceptionally unremarkable, and the tip average was down.  My personal view is that it was Eric, and his wonderful phone persona.  For one order, the customer said they had a coupon, and we showed no record of it.  It’s in the back of the phone book, but the computer didn’t register it.  He said to me, "Make sure you get the coupon from them.  If it’s an old expired one–" his theory "–go ahead and take it, but make sure you tell them.  Shove it in their face."
  I said, "Well, that really all depends on how they tip."  I am not confronting a customer about a coupon.  Maybe in the old days I would have, but there is just not enough care in me for that now.  They could pay me with deposit bottles as long as I got a tip out of it.
  Eric was frustrated with my attitude, and I was….resigned to my fate for the evening.  I knew I was going to have to do all of my work and most of his cleaning, because he would be busy in the office, talking on the phone to all of the other stores, bitching about all the work he had to do.  I’m sure he was going to narc out Dina on every little thing he could, meanwhile he didn’t do an actual food count (a big no-no), instead going with the computer generated ideal food.
  He says to me later, "You know where the bank is, right?"
  I answered him truthfully, "Dude, I’ve never been there."  The closing driver is ALWAYS supposed to follow the closing manager to the bank for security, in separate cars, for the night deposit.
  But it’s an inconvenience for me, it’s the opposite direction that I go, I’ve never been asked, and this guy has not been endearing himself to me enough that I care whether he follows procedure or gets raped in the eye socket by Sandy Duncan wearing a strap on.  (I live for irony.)
  His whole attitude grates on me.  Even when I was my at my dickest as a manager, I still said "please," or *asked*–even when it was implicitly not a request, but a command.  Looking back, maybe I should cut him some slack as being–even if he’s been doing it for two years–new.  But it’s not my job to train new managers, especially ones as socially inept as this pizza cowboy.    What really irks me is that I’ve seen this exact type before, and he is the perfect one to take this position all the way to the top.  He could go far in this company.  Corporate types adore numbers-running little Hitlers.
  So he tells me I have to follow him to the bank.  Whatever.  I briefly consider going straight when he makes a right turn.  That’d be funny.  But I follow him.  South of the highway, left, another left.  I hang back while he makes the deposit, and then he rolls down his passenger side window, perhaps to impart some final wisdom for the evening.
  I drive off without looking back. 

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