6 Places I Have Worked, Part I
This is Part I of the final installment of the Me-me-meme.
My first real job was as a busboy at The Whistle Stop (aka “The Weasel Slop”) in Seaside Heights, NJ. I worked the breakfast and lunch runs. The oft mentioned Unky Rich worked the dinner run. Several other friends worked there too.
I was 16-years-old when Nan dropped me off. There was a short, skinny man with a cheesy mustache holding a kid by his neck when I walked across the parking lot. The kid’s feet weren’t touching the ground. The little man was reading him the riot act, something about stealing tips.
The little man was Jimmy the Weasel, owner of The Whistle Stop. The kid was the ex-busboy. I was the new busboy, a very concerned busboy.
Jimmy the Weasel was nice to me. He quickly showed me the ropes. “Clean the tables. Clean the dishes. Do what the waitresses and cooks tell you to do. Don’t steal tips.” Got it.
I only saw Jimmy the Weasel once after that. He was paying off a health inspector.
I had a lot of adventures there:
- I won the egg cracking contest by climbing to the roof of the building and cracking an egg on the sign that was perched up there.
- Orca the Killer Waitress chased me for a quarter of a mile while waving a tire iron at my head, just because I let air out of two of her tires. She was trying to kill me.
- Kelly, a very pretty waitress, used to sing “Lick Me All Over” when things got stressful and busy. Kelly didn’t know my name and probably wouldn’t have been able to pick me out of a police lineup. “Okay, Kelly. Which one is the busboy from The Whistle Stop?” “Who gives a crap?”
- The cops drew guns on us once. They thought we were hoodlums. We were just employees decompressing after work.
- Seaside Liquors, just down the road, seemed to have no problems selling cheap beer to 16-year-olds.
- I didn’t steal any of the waitress’s tips. I didn’t even look directly at their money.
:::
My next real employer (I don’t count under-the-table jobs) was Community Medical Center. I had several jobs there: Dietary Worker, Transport Orderly, and Traction Orderly.
In Dietary, I built up my skill set: I learned to clear trays, mop floors, deliver food trucks, pour hot beverages, all sorts of cool things. But the pinnacle of my dietary career was when I started working Late Pots.
Late Pots.
In order to be chosen for Late Pots, you had to prove yourself to the Gods of the Dietary Department. You had to, over the course of time, show that you were able and worthy. Even the young dietary hens looked up to the boy, nay! the Man!, who worked Late Pots.
This was the most hellacious job in the whole hospital — next to the guy who had to clean the goo that fell onto the surgical suite floors. You had exactly 4 hours to complete 6+ hours worth of work. Go!
There was no time for adventure. Or even a break. Or even time to ask for help. Night Pots had to hand-clean every cooking vessel and utensil used by the myriad of cooks that day, and he had to clean the slicers. And the fucking cooks hoarded every fucking pot until the end of the day releasing them in one cavalcade of tin, copper, and stainless steel (as such, Early Pots may have been the easiest post in the department - as there were precious few things to clean).
This was what night pots did for four hours: Beg cooks for pots. Soak pots. Scrub pots. Rinse pots. Soak pots in special solution that killed bacteria and turned the dirty, not-quite-clean areas of said pots purple. Re-scrub not-quite-clean pots. Repeat.
Just when you thought you were done, a cook would grab several just cleaned pots to cook something else. Repeat.
Repeat.
Clean slicers.
Repeat.
If you were very lucky (and very far behind), the Late Cleaner (he of the having four hours to complete two hours worth of work) would come help. However, the Code of Late Pots declared that you were not allowed to directly ask for assistance. Nor could you cry about being behind.
About all you could do was publicly curse the cooks using the most profane language. This was nearly the only respite of Late Pots. I say “nearly” because there was also the DuoFoam Bomb.
The DuoFoam Bomb.
The Dietary Department had an industrial line-type dishwasher to clean cups, dishes, and eating utensils. A loader would load dirty dishes on one end, 15-feet later, sparkling clean dishes would come out the other end. The Loader ran this assembly line operation with orchestrated precision. He was King.
Late Pots doesn’t have time for Kings.
Late Pots had a concentrated foaming agent at his disposal: DuoFoam. A single drop of DuoFoam could create a boat-load of white cleaning foam in a properly agitated sink. Imagine what a cup full could do in an industrial dishwasher.
This was the DuoFoam Bomb. When pulled off, it was beautiful. I’ve seen the dishwasher room fill four-feet high with foam. I’m choked up just thinking about it.
The trick was to get the Bomb in the beginning of the line without the Loader noticing. This way the Bomb would run the entire length of the machine, spilling massive amounts of foam everywhere.
The only person who could pull off the DuoFoam Bomb with no repercussions was Late Pots. The Loader had utmost respect for Late Pots and understood the need for the occasional DuoFoam Bomb — it kept the Late Pots guy from snapping and using slicer blades on the cooks.
I’ve seen one Late Cleaner try a DuoFoam Bomb. That Late Cleaner was taken out by the compactor and, well, threatened with compaction. He was dutifully terminated as a show of respect to the Loader and Late Pots.
The Late Cleaner played a pivotal role in the DuoFoam Bomb operation though. Generally, he was the distraction. In the best plans it was he that diverted the Loaders attention so that Late Pots could toss the Bomb.
The DuoFoam Bomb is silent. Pressure causes foam to weep slowly through the side door joints. The Loader, concentrating on his precision task, does not see this weeping. Late Pots knowingly giggles.
The weeping suddenly becomes a rage of foam as the Bomb is hit hard by a sprayer. Foam pours from both ends of the machine. The Loader quickly jumps from his seat, hits the big red emergency off button, and opens all the doors.
Too late. The damage is done.
Cascading. Beautiful. Foam.
:::
Postscript: You would think the Loader would be angry. Generally, it was the opposite. You didn’t become the Loader without graduating through Late Pots. Every Loader has thrown a DuoFoam Bomb. The Loader understands.
An hour after everyone has left, in the murky silence, you can sometimes see the recently DouFoamed Loader standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Late Pots as they soak, scrub, and rinse the very last slicer.
If you liked that, maybe you will like this:
- 6 Places I Have Worked, Part II
- 6 Places I Have Worked, Part III
- Nonsequitors for 2008-05-31
- The Idiocy of Boyhood
- It’s Amazing I Have Any Friends At All
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