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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 1931
We have a standing "Help Wanted" ad.
We're forever hiring.
In the front of the house it's not so bad, maybe we go through a dozen waiters, then one of them stays a few months, moves on, the cycle begins again.
There were different issues with the waiters, a couple were obviously lazy, a few obviously incompetent, we had one that was sort of working out but decided to pursue another opportunity closer to home. You couldn't really blame him, although they did, there was a lot of loud name calling in the back, pettiness, squabbling over tips, the threatening of fisticuffs, it was embarassing to be near and so I just left....
We interview for his position.
There's a list of questions we should be asking - things like "Do you have any hobbies?" or "Do you have any outside interests or family members" because any of these things are signs they'll be leaving us. We're really looking for someone who'll be happy to work 5 and 6 days a week, 8 to 14 hours a day, for eternity.
An addictions problem would be nice, it'll help them to cope.
There's no end to applicants. One or two a day. They talk to us, the owner, have coffees, cappucinos, it's an informal interview, he trots out the Italian ladies in the back, they've been there for 20, thirty years, the waiters 10 and 20 years, they know a good thing when they see it, they're living proof of how great he is to work for, his easygoing temperment, maybe the new employee decides to try it out, shows up for a shift or two, then vanishes. They found it wasn't for them, decided to go back to school, discovered they were pregnant, tired, busy, the list of excuses is unending but the results are the same: sooner or later they don't come back.
Some never even make it in, confirm the job, when they'll be starting, then never show up.
In the kitchen it's the same. We've been hiring for a sous-chef as long as I've been there. They don't show up, or show up for a couple of shifts, call in sick, disappear. The record was not even2 weeks.
There are everywhere the proofs of the dead, the waiters and chefs that came and then left, old photographs on the wall, phonecalls, customer enquiries for staff long gone, automated doctors appointments calling the restaurant, mail comes to them c/o the restaurant but they're no longer here to collect it and they've left no forwarding address.
They are the disappeared.
There are more of them in this restaurant than there are in all of Chile or Argentina.
And the ad goes up again: "Help Wanted"...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2141
It's been a rough couple of days. Sunday I got through without any painkillers, unless you count Scotch.
Monday painkillers were definitely required, whether for the Scotch or my tooth is still undetermined.
The pain has spread, diffused, throughout my mouth. No longer just in the tooth, now it feels as though my entire mouth is stuffed with cotton, the feeling as if there were an electric current running through all my teeth, persistent headache, intermittent fever and cold sweats, it hurts to smile or in any way to contort my face.
I don't eat solid food. soft bananas, chewed carefully. Cold smoothies, blended, although I bit down on a still frozen blueberry and kicked loudly, cried softly for 10 minutes.
It's getting better.
But I have to see a dentist.
I have a fear of dentists. A phobia almost.
Funny, in that I've never had a bad one. They've always been friendly, jocular, attentive....
But their stock in trade is misery and pain.
They scold and chide me for smoking. I know, I know, but they do it every time. They promise me that for a mere $40,000 and visits every other week for the next 2 years I can have a new smile.
It's not going to happen. They live in some sort of imaginary world where everyone is a dentist, everyone earns what they earn, has the benefits they have.
I don't.
They talk above you, your mouth stretched open, slivers of metal stuck into the root of your tooth, talk about their weekend, the new Maserati they're going to buy, impervious to your pain,
You try to signal them, get their attention, but they assure you they won't be too much longer and keep talking. Inane programs on the overhead TV.
Meanwhile the freezing has worn off, the metal shards are nails hammered into your jaw and you toy with the idea of just biting down and running the hell out of there...
The metal shards would go right through your jaw, you could pull them out the bottom with pliers, and, hell, it couldn't hurt possibly any more than it's hurting now, could it?
Eventually, when you've moved into the zone of indifference and everything in the world is suffering they finish up, try to cheerfully rebook you in a few weeks, $1000, $2000 please, give you a free loot bag filled with floss and toothbrushes and little pamphlets...
They should be paying me.
And for the suffering, the hours of misery trapped in the chair, the days spent with cotton stuffed in your cheek, mouth numb (at best), expectorating blood, rinsing mouth with salt water, a headache the T3's can't seem to find, $10,000 wouldn't be enough.
They wonder why I'm not more regular.
It's been beef broth with overcooked noodles sucked down through a straw.
The kids, they understand that they have to just leave me alone, they don't understand the pain, cheerfully eating their little apples, crunching pistachios and potato chips...
I can see the offending tooth, the treacherous little maggot, hiding behind a clump of other teeth, pushed behind a lower canine. I should have had braces, they'd all be lined up in those perfect little rows, instead they look like they were fired into my mouth scatter-shot. Ground down from stress, stained with Nicotine, coffee, red wine, I am the embodiment of vices that are paying for my dentist's Maserati, second wife, child support and private schools.
I have to see a dentist. There's no postponing it any longer, the excuse (valid, they'd approve) of having no money no longer cuts it, I don't have the kind of money they'd like or understand, but enough to cut the pain, temporarily stop the agony, some mild preventative work because it's important I save the awkward and listing ivories I have left, would be better to replace them all with implants, every one of them, 4 in the top, 4 in the bottom, $5,000 per implant, $40,000, not a Lamborghini or Maserati but a down payment at least, hell, sometimes you have to save up for things you know, and here there's a weak smile from the dentist, laughing at his little joke...
I have a fear of dentists.
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2351
I've a toothache.
Nasty, nasty toothache. And while I'm taking a veritable concert of medications (currently on the Scotch and Advil Mix), it's still there.
After you take the pill, an hour, maybe two, where you forget that it's there. Well, not forget, but you feel pretty good comparatively.
Then it begins to throb, intermittent.
Occasional waves of fever as the bacteria attack the body. I'm pretty sure I'll live but it's unpleasant nonetheless.
I swill my mouth with diet pop, salt water, Listerine, Scotch.
I can't brush, can't even think of brushing at the moment...
26 days until benefits kick in. I'm pretty sure it'll be gone in the next 2 or three days; but I have a huge phobia of dentists. Immense phobia. Early experiences with modern dentistry, all unpleasant, I'd just as soon see a barber or shoemaker for the extraction and necessary repairs. Couldn't hurt more and would probably cost a hell of a lot less.
So forgive me for not writing at greater length. I can't talk, I have a toothache.
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2046
I overslept.
I never, ever oversleep on Garage Sale day, but I've come down with a major toothache, the extra-strength Tylenol's, Advil Gel-caps and bottle of Scotch only slightly numbing the pain, but such a fine buffet of painkillers did help me to sleep in.
Despite the late start a few worthwhile ones - hundreds dotting the city, but went for the area along the Elbow river - the first sale a bunch of interesting knick-knacks from South East Asia, picked up another Bali mask, similar (but not identical) to another one I have that took some damage in the move. And an X-box game and slingshot.
A few more garage sales, the treasure of the day proved to be a set of antique juggling pins (similar again to a set of antique juggling pins I have, oddly, now with 2 sets of juggling pins and a unicycle that I should be a waiter...) for only $1.00.
And then the Gel-caps and Scotch began to wear off and it was time to come home.
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2162
We're not open Mother's Day. It's a Sunday, the one day of the week we all have off - even the owner, and it's a little surprising, given how busy it would be, but the owner has decided it's not worth the hassle. Mother's Day diners, they're not spending any money.
Nonetheless we get no less than a hundred phone calls trying to make reservations.
Some customers are OK with it, some act surprised ("You're not open Sundays?" "Sir, we haven't opened Sundays for 30 years..."). Some are irate and accuse us of "not being open on Mother's Day". Which is true, but it's also true that we're not open on Sundays and that's been the way it is since the restaurant opened. Some, the more foolish, call on Sunday and speaking to the owner try to make reservations, he tells them himself we're not open, and there's no arguing with him. Pity the fool that tries.
We have an older clientele, the Mother's day crowd has no appeal, if the average age of our customer is 50-60, how old will their mother be?
Still, a few bring them in on Saturday night. Exhumed, unwrapped, powdered and painted, the Sarah Coventry and Avon brooch grave goods applied, their wheeled, escorted, paraded into the restaurant. Once a year they're a happy family.
It's a museum of archeology, paleontology...
Wheelchairs, oxygen bags and strollers, regular customers trot out and exhibit their mother's for all the world to see. Vainly trying to persuade her to have a glass of wine, live a little, once a year they're the good son or daughter, the rest of the year "Mom" is re interred in her retirement home or underground apartment, buried far away from busy lives that never, ever include her, but tonight's her night and for the first time ever we all get to meet "mom".
Saturday was a long, late and busy night.