http://www.yourrant.com

If you've read my other notes, you should be well aware that I don't get very many hours at my job (Doc's, the restaurant). In the job interview one month ago, my boss loved me. Just as he hired me, he asked, "What sort of hours would you like?" "Full time," I replied. "Not a problem," he said. My hours? Friday, 5:30 - 10:00; Saturday, 6:00 - 10:00; Sunday, 10:00 - 2:00. That's 12 1/2 hours a week at this job. I figured, 'well, I'm in training. It'll only last a week or two.'

One month later, my hours have changed.

Friday, 5:30 - 7:30; Saturday, 6:00 - 9:00, Sunday, 10:00 - 2:00.  That's averaging about 9 hours a week. When I need at least 40 hours a week to survive, I'm falling short. My boss only recently started letting me take tables, so tips have started coming in. The problem? He only lets me take tables in the evenings, when it's calm enough for me not to freak out (not that I have ever freaked out before), and never in the mornings (Sundays) due to the rush, and my excellence as a busser. Lately the restaurant has been getting REALLY slow in the evenings. So slow that Doc sends me home early, before I even have a chance to do any tables. So not only am I losing out on tips (an average of $50 a night), but I'm also losing out on the few hours I originally started with (an average of $30 - $40 a night). It's been a month; there's no way in HELL I should still be 'training'. I can understand still getting slowly weaned into the actual serving part, but I never get the opportunity!

And so today (after my four days off >_<) I went to work with enthusiasm; I was going to tell Doc that I wanted more hours. I even had a speech planned out...

"Hey Doc. Remember at our interview when you asked what kind of hours I wanted? I told you I wanted full time. You told me that it wouldn't be a problem at all. You even went so far as to mention that if I wasn't satisfied with the hours, you co-owned Smitty's, and I could take hours there as well. I didn't think I'd be starting out with 40 hours to begin with, due to training. 30 hours, probably. 25 if I'm really that worthless. But no - you know I'm fabulous at this job, and somehow I'm still only getting 12 hours on average a week. I live on my own. I pay for my phone bill, my rent, my utilities, my bus pass, and food entirely by myself. Do you expect me to do that off of 12 hours a week, with no tips? No. We agreed on a full-time position, and I'm not getting even part-time hours. I want at least 30 hours a week, or else I'm looking for a new job."

I get to work. I stride inside, full of purpose.

And Doc decided to take a day off. Fuming, I get to work. And suddenly I realize that the mysterious Pedro has arrived. He is, as the other servers have described him, 'Doc's most trusted adviser,' just like in Aladdin, with Jafar and Iago. He ALMOST co-owns Doc's place, but not quite. He had been on holidays two days before I got hired until today. The first thing he says to me (I think - he has an extremely thick Mexican accent), "How long have you been working here?" "One month," I reply, proud. "Ah."

I spent the next hour and forty minute having my intelligence insulted.

Iago gave me my THIRD OFFICIAL TOUR of the goddamn restaurant. "This is where we keep the bread. This is the fridge. And this is the freezer. This is the kitchen, where they cook the food. And I don't know if anyone's showed you this yet, but this is the shelf where the cooks put the food when the servers have to take them out." DUH! "And this is the pop machine. You can get ice over there."

"Pedro, I've worked here for a month. I know this."

"Yes, yes, I know. And this here is our toaster. I'll show you how to work it, because you seem like the type who might possibly get confused."

FUCK YOU PEDRO. This toaster, see, is weird. There's an opening that has an arrow and a label that says, "Insert toast here." Under that label is another label, with another arrow pointing at another opening. It reads, "Toast exits here." You don't even have to press any buttons.

Furious, I just smile and keep my expression as blank and mildly friendly as I possibly can do. How stupid does he think I am? Doc, THE MANAGER, hired me because of my evident intelligence, and my ability to handle situations. I didn't graduate as valedictorian, school president, and with a 98% average to be taught how to use an AUTOMATIC TOASTER.

"That's great, Pedro. I'm going to go grab that table though, okay? I need to make some tips today."

"Wait, wait, wait. I understand that you're new, so I'm going to pair you up with Emma. She's been working here for a while, and I want you to be able to follow her and understand how the process goes. You might give them their food before drinks, and you might serve them appetizers for dessert if you don't get taught beforehand. It's very confusing."

"No," I say clearly. "It's not. I've done quite a few tables up until today. I can handle it just fine."

He completely ignored me. The bastard. "We try to do everything here exactly the same. That way we have order. If you do things wrong, things will screw up. For example, if you ring in the ribs when they want an ice cream and we make it, that's a problem. Because that's not what they ordered. We may lose money because of that."

I could only stare. I mean, what the fuck, dude? How stupid do I look?

He answered my thought pretty quickly.

"Ring in an order means you order food on this computer here, and the order goes into the kitchen, where they make the food. You see this computer? To get on, you press 'login'. You need to put a password in, so these little numbers have to be pressed in a certain order. A password. Do you need help putting them in?" I give him a dirty look, and type in the 13 character password in about three seconds, as we can all do.

And the night went on.

Why did I only have to endure this for just an hour and forty-five minutes? Because that's when I got sent home.

Pedro left. I managed to do one table. I made $10 in tips.

I stormed to my boyfriend's house, and printed out ten resumes. Tomorrow I work in the morning. I'm cornering Doc, and demanding hours. If he says no, I'm applying at Bonanza, and A&W, and Winners.

Pfft, Valedictorian. Governor General nominee. General Proficiency award recipient. $10,000 Dalhousie scholarship student. And now I'm being taught how to toast bread.

I'm not racist yet, but I'm starting to dislike Mexicans.