Nicholas Jeff: The Dishwashed Cigarettes

I understand that sometimes a smoker have to smoke, even if it’s on the clock.  But does he have to smoke every fifteen minutes–in total disregard of lunch rushes and the “team concept”?  And someone please tell me how many smoke breaks do you have to take just to get by?  Let me just tell you this story.

Two hours into my shift, my fellow busser and the manager on duty walked back into the restaurant, Shelly Sholes, smelling like Newports and Ax Body Spray.  The busser, John Christopher, who I called Tar-Lung, was seventeen and walked and talked like he was the love child of Shaggy.  The manager, JF, nineteen, ghost complication with an outdated Eminem hair cut—it makes him feel hardcore.  Now normally, I wouldn’t care about smoke breaks, you lungs your problem, but this was the sixth time!  Feel like I’m bussing by myself.

Anyhow, Tar-Lung came up to me—now mind you, my uniform was every color but white—and asked me, “Do you need any help with anything?”  Translation:  Can you tell me there nothing to do so I can have an excuse to go outside, suck down more rat poisoning and nicotine, while talk to JF about this 300 pound hussy I slept with last night.

“Yeah here’s what you can help me out with,” I said, “unless there’s a table outside that requires cigarette smoke to bus it—don’t go outside anymore!”

“Dude, do your realize it’s not my fault I have to smoke cigarette.”

“So what don’t you hook an IV up to your arm and fill it full of nictoine.  Then put it over your shoulder so you could bus and get your poison at the same time.”  I started off to the next table.

However, Tar-Lung had to fight for the last word, “I think if you smoked you understand, dude.”

“I’d understand?  Why do I have to turn my lungs to charcoal just to understand you’re laziness and incompetence?   I mean do I have to stab myself to understand I need to go to the hospital or that it hurts?  Look, just go bus table three before you have to smoke through your nose.”

Table three had about seven plates and about ten glasses—he picked up one plate and five glasses, while JF came from the woodwork to grab four glasses and left the rest.  When I finished helping the server, I was going to reset table three, but not only are there still glasses and plates there, but Tar-Lung and JF didn’t come back yet.  Guess the cigarettes called them.  Is there crack in cigarettes?

I walked through the kitchen and all the dishes from table three on a storage shelf, which meant the dishwashers had to put them away.  That’s like dumping your kids off at you neighbor’s house so you can watch TV.

So I wanted out the backdoor and sure enough these two mf’s are outside smoking looking at me like it’s a Sunday afternoon and all fine in the world.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “are you the two people Donald hired to sit around smoke like trains and drive me to the brink of termination?”

JF, who is nineteen, ghostly skin with the outdated Eminem haircut, said “We have the right to smoke you know.”

“Well if you have the right to pollute your lungs and increase the chances of dying of cancer then I should have the right to clog my arteries and increase my chances of a stroke.  So I want hamburger breaks every twenty minutes.  With lots of bacon and A-1 sauce.”

This manager stood in my face and said, “Look, if you don’t like it—quit.”

“Boy, they still weigh you in ounces.  You better wait for you jewels to drop before you get in my face.”  And if there was job out there, do you think I be here?

Holding his pack of cigarettes, he stared at me for a second then said, “You fired.” I grabbed the pack from his hand and smashed it.  JF balled his fist.  I smiled as if to dare him.  Lowered his fist, he mumbled and bumped me en-route inside as Tar-Lung followed.

But Tar-Lung left his pack of cigarettes on the ground.  I walked back into the restaurant, holding the cigarettes as Tar-Lung was padding his pockets.  With his hand out, looked at me with puppy dog eyes, or maybe it was a withdrawal symptoms, and said, “Dude, please, come on.  I’ll get JF to over turn the firing.”

“What are you going to do, give him a BJ?”  Just then, the dishwasher signaled for the cigarettes.   He punched them, dumped them out, and put it through the machine along with other dishes.  Seconds later, the cigarettes came out wet, ripped, and scattered all over the dishes and machine.  I have the dishwasher a pound.  Tar-Lung cried.

Donald walked into the dishwasher’s station with JF, discussing my termination.  Once he heard my side of this story, my termination was over turned, but only because Donald was afraid I would sue.  And I would have, I was actually hoping to do so.  However, JF was fired.   At which time, the dishwasher was sent on break while Tar-Lung cleaned out the dishwasher and did a few racks of dishes.  As for me, I had to clean up the entire dining room by myself.  But I walked with $186 because the servers though I was the only busser.

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