When school started I was relegated to the five to seven shift. I really couldn’t believe that this was an actual shift. I had to work everyday to get any hours. The five to seven shift consisted of sweeping and mopping the floor and bathrooms, emptying the trash in the kitchen, washing the dishes and making the cookies. The most difficult part was washing the soup warmers. Especially on days when we had cream of broccoli which no one liked and consequently crusted and adhered itself with amazing strength to the sides of the pot.
Jobs in Food: Schlotzsky’s Part One October 4, 2008
When I was 16 I got a job at Schlotzsky’s. Their slogan was and still is: Funny Name, Serious Sandwich. A more apt slogan would be: Stupid Name No One Can Spell, Average Sandwich on Vaguely Compelling Bread but I guess it just doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Cater This by Sean Murphy: PIP October 3, 2008
There’s something oddly fascinating about being in the presence of a genuinely stupid human being. Not a boring, run-of-the-mill, thick-headed doofus; but a bona fide, jaw-droppingly inept, “how did they survive this long?” stone-cold moron. When the conditions are just right, exposure to such a person can be an exhilarating experience. Todd “Lickity” Split was that kind of man.
Cater This by Sean Murphy: Your Cup Runneth Over September 24, 2008
(Between 1979 and 1986 I worked in the catering department at the University of Arizona Student Union. These are some of my stories.)
It should’ve been easy – lunch for thirty two in the President’s dining room (or PDR as we called it). Four round-tops seating eight apiece of which I was only responsible for two. Piece of cake.
Lunches were never much of a hassle anyway, it was dinners that sucked. At night everybody wanted to hang out and talk while we paced in the wings, waiting for them to leave so we could bus the tables and set up again – but lunches were pretty cut-and-dry; get’ em in, get ‘em fed, get ‘em out.
I’d served this group before – The Daughter’s of the American West, a social club of feisty senior-citizens bussed up from Green Valley every month to reminisce about the good ol’ days of cattle branding, barbed-wire fences and killing Indians. They never gave me much trouble, at most I’d have to reheat a plate or keep replenishing Sweet’N Low but not much else. What could possibly go wrong?
My first job was as a grocery bagger at a busy grocery store next door to my high school. It was between my eighth and ninth grade years, I was fifteen. There were many things to hate about that job. For some reason the one that really stuck in my craw was the fact that I had to wear a tie. What benefit did it serve the store to have a bunch of fifteen year olds running around in poorly knotted ties? Seriously, one guy showed up who had his tied in a square not. This was the first tie I’d ever been forced to wear or own, it had an image of the Lone Ranger on it. Why the Lone Ranger? I have no idea. It must have been on sale at Name Brand Clothing, a precursor to TJ Maxx where our mom diligently searched the racks for high quality knock offs or damaged real things a few times a month. I hated wearing that tie, “What are we, waiters?” I used to ask my fellow “courtesy clerks.”