And so - complain, complain, work.
4 days this weekend at the restaurant...and I'm working with Sketchy East Shore Pam.
And the other waitress, Cathy, who is a professional server and knows what she's doing.
She's not a problem.
But Sketchy East Shore Pam, on a variety of anti-psychotics, probably drunk, and - I'm increasingly of the opinion, high on meth, is proving a nightmare.
I overlap shifts with her - I open, she starts at 4:30. She has to take the Ferry to get here. And when she gets here she always needs a few minutes to put on her makeup.
It doesn't help.
And she starts. And she's nothing but pure chaos, she gets to her table limit, which is two, maybe three, and so I'm staying now into the evening picking up the tables she can't handle. And looking after the tables she says she can. And I can't complain because otherwise I'd be doing it myself, - anybody is better than nobody, but she's a fucking nightmare. It's like paying someone to do it yourself. She's lost, lost, lost. And I want out. And she chatters endlessly, tells me how much she's done this, how good she is, how fancy her manners are - and it's all "Nope", be pleasant - but - ....
It's 8:00 before I can cut and leave. She's an hour and a half to sweep and close. "See you!" and I wave goodbye.
She calls the Cathy in tears. I was an asshole and left her with the close by herself and her cash doesn't balance and...
Cathy and I, we're of a similar mind. We laugh. But she's a fucking nightmare.
This morning, early at work - because even with an hour and a half to close I'm going to have to do it again - sweep, mop, etc, etc.
Sketchy East Shore Pam, would fit right in at Newkey's on the East Shore, but she ain't fitting in so well here...