So began my second week at the Grille. I was originally assigned to pizza subs and excited to learn a new skill. (Really. Remember, I’m still all “happy little worker bee” over here.) But at the last minute, I was boosted up to register. I immediately tried to plead my case on why this was a bad idea. (“But I’ve never worked a register before. This is my first job. I’m more likely than most people to be held up at gunpoint.”)
The person at the register, the registerer, controls everything, the orders, the front tables, the drinks. If the need arises, they can engage the bat signal on the roof and the manager (who may or may not be Batman) will take over for them.
Obviously, I don’t want this power. Most of you probably already know, but when I get nervous or thrust into social situations, I tend to salivate profusely and that I rarely, if ever, have a dry mouth. This makes it hard to talk and sing among other things.
Long story short, after pounding the touchscreen for three hours, I found myself actually beginning to like the job. I guess I was surprised by how much I missed the fresh air, and air-conditioning and, to a lesser extent, people.
I learned that eye contact seems to pressure people into ordering quickly. I prefer to let them take their time if no one else is waiting. I do this by staring off into space or a trash can while they peruse the menu. Surprisingly, I was a little hurt whenever people threw away their receipts. (“How could you?! I printed that especially for you!”)
Going back on the fryer was less fun by comparison and not just because I depleted my supply of chicken. I mean, the oil droplets don’t bother me anymore. The 300°+ oil droplets are like bug bites now. But I know now that there’s a much less sticky job at the front counter, where miscellaneous bits of french fries don’t litter the table, and the floor isn’t gradually becoming slicked over with oil. I also learned that pizza/subs/flatbreads may be the hardest job, second maybe to wraps/ice cream/expediting. Though I haven’t done either of the last two during “The Hammer”, the Sunday night dinner rush (because all the other dining courts are closed) when we serve, if not thousands, 3/2 of thousands of people.
Backpedaling for the frisbie, I turned as I landed one foot in the hole twisted and apparently passed through the tree. I broke my fall with my hands and ribcage on the surprisingly sharp retaining wall bricks, and now I have bruises and “emo wrists”.