Title from "Explain" by Sarah Blasko. If you've known me for a while you've heard this story already, and probably heard me use the phrase a fair few times.
One of the things I do in my jobs, frequently, is have what I think of as a 'hooker moment.' These are the times where I'm working--usually about three quarters of the way through a long, especially shitty shift--and I stop and think thoughts along the lines of, "I could be doing something else right now. I could be a stripper. I could be a drug dealer. I could be a street-walking junkie in a third-world country. And it would still be better than this." Then I realise I'm full of shit and regain my zen. This story is about the biggest hooker moment I have ever had.
When I was working at a fast food joint, I had minor hooker moments with alarming frequency. See, I worked at two different stores in the franchise, both at train stations. One was basically a direct link to nearly thirty pubs and clubs, and the other one was across the street from a twenty-four hour meth clinic. Most of my hours were night shifts, when, obviously, the meths and drunks were at their most active (and most inebriated.) I actually preferred serving meth heads to serving drunks, because the meth heads were at least fairly happy. The drunks ran the fucking gamut. Some of them were happy, some of them were delirious, some were sobbing, some were suicidal, some were projectile vomiting (just guess who got to clean that one up--in fact, almost all the jobs involving the dining room at night came to me, for various reasons,) and some were, of course, cranky sons of bitches.
Now, I don't hugely want to say which chain I worked for (I worked there for quite some time and didn't leave that long ago--in another couple of months it should be safe to say,) but all you really need to know for this story is that it was open 24-hours, and served, among other things, chicken burgers.
I'm lousy with remembering people's faces during a shift, but AngryDrunk stuck with me because he made a point of staying far, far too long while placing his order so he could call the black girl on the counter a nigga whore and the Asian boy working in the kitchen a job-stealing slant. For the record, that's a really, really good way to get unpleasant things added to your burger--spit, phlegm, and if the person making it is male and has enough time, well... We didn't, of course (there was a manager around who was very sensibly keeping a close eye on the food,) and in the end I served him with what I like to think of as composure. (Note: my brand of composure is largely based on the thought that if I'm nice, he'll go away faster. Usually it works. However...)
I give AngryDrunk his order and he goes away. The drink machine runs out of that foul black sugar-and-tar mix they use to make soft drinks in fast food stores, so I go out back and change it, as well as doing a couple other little maintenance-y things. This takes maybe twenty minutes total--when I come back, AngryDrunk is leaning on my register. I was later told that he'd come back about a minute after I'd left, and waited out the full twenty minutes for me in silence. I can tell already that he ain't here for a free refill. I go over to the register and take my sweet time setting it back up. Only when I have subliminated need to apply a preemptive punch to AngryDrunk's face do I look up, smile brightly, and say, "How can I help you, sir?"
AngryDrunk grabs me by the wrist and glares at me. For a guy who should probably be comatose by now, he sure can talk fast--though it's hard to pick out the words through the slur. "Thizzburgah," he proclaims, "tayzz lie SHIT."
Fortunately I have some experience in translating drunken-asshole-ese. I pry his fingers off my wrist with my free hand and say, "I'm sorry to hear that, sir. If you want, I can get my manager to re--"
He decided he didn't want to let me finish the sentence, and grabbed my wrists again. "Nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh, fex m'burgah, horrr!"
This next paragraph happened in a matter of about two and a half seconds: AngryDrunk threw the burger at me. I dodged. He grabbed me and twisted my wrist, hard. I yelled. My manager stuck his head out. The other counter bitch came over to try and pry his hands off. The manager ran into his office to call the train station's security. Several muted "crr-ack" sounds come from the inside of my wrist.
Security eventually arrive and haul the man off--they restrain him by sitting on him--and an ambulance is called. My co-worker and one of the security guys both heard the sounds of my wrist breaking--even if they hadn't, it's swollen to about five times it's normal size, and is rapidly shading through red and into purple. I'm given a bucket of ice to put it in and a free large fries. The ambulance turns up, and the nice paramedics give me a big 'ole shot of painkillers once they'd loaded me into the van. A trip to the ER and an x-ray later, it was found that my wrist was broken in four places. I got to wear a cast for about three weeks and a brace for some time after that. AngryDrunk got charged with assault (not specifically by me; the corporation that owned the fast food store did most of it, and took most of the payout from the civil case.)
Believe it or not, I didn't quit that job for another year after that. But I remember thinking grimly, as I sat in the back of an ambulance with my broken, distended wrist in my lap, "This would not have happened if I worked in a brothel."
No comments:
Post a Comment