Just Say No to Drugs

Drugs are bad. Just say no. I wish I could say I’m currently working with the poster boy for the anti-drug campaign, but, unfortunately, you meet a lot of them working in the restaurant industry. They’re just more fun when they’re a short, aggressive Pennsylvanian and even more so when they’re your superior.

I give a lot of credit to people who quit using drugs, reconstruct their lives and move forward; however, methamphetamines leave a permanent trace. If you’ve met enough former meth addicts, you begin to notice a trend: certain mannerisms, body language, and oratorical patterns show up consistently. It’s more than a coincidence.

Of course, those are the former users. If you meet a current one, smile, speak slowly, and don’t let them near anything even half as sharp as a ball-point pen.  They’re like an ADD Jeffery Dauhmer after a week of fasting, on 16 cups of coffee. They’re real fun at parties.

But as I said, anyone who can kick a habit and move on gains a certain amount of respect in my book. This guy however is thoroughly unrepented. He will brag about his past indulgences if you guide him into it. Apparently he stopped for no other reason than he wanted to save some money to buy his, “three f***ing storey f***ing house with a big ‘ol f***ing mile of f***ing countryside,” after the statute of limitations expires on his (multiple) DUIs in Pennsylvania. And he wanted to be allowed near ball-point pens again.

A general day with him normally includes at least one instance of, “Ok, look guys - I know something’s up. I like to give the benefit of doubt, but as they say back home, the numbers don’t lie. I added them up three times to make sure, but our cash tips are half of what they should be (as a note, there are about 15 numbers to add and a calculator involved. he averages about 1 number every 2.4 minutes). I know we got some nice f***ing tables in here but this s*** isn’t what I f***ing saw on the tables tonight. I know we got a thief here, and as they say back home, when you find one thief, there are four you dont know about (as a note, there are technically only 3 servers). I know we got a thief, ‘cuz I’m a damn good one. I’ve ripped off more from corporations than anyone will find out, but when you start stealin’from this f***ing place, you’re stealing from a family joint. Back home when we find a thief, it’s all mob run out there. They just break the thief’s legs and the police don’t care, but all you liberal Californians out here just steal from everyone around you and f*** yourselves over. We gotta set this place up like Germany in WWII. We gotta be efficient like the Nazis, I swear on my dead mother’s grave. Stealin is puttin holes in our battleship and we’re gonna have to throw dead weight overboard or we sink. You think the law is gonna protect you? We ain’t gonna f***ing take none of this s***.”

I wish I was making this up, but we get this exact diatribe for fifteen to thirty-five minutes at least once per week and one almost identical to it every day. It generally ends by someone else adding the numbers and getting the correct results, or realizing, after the speech of course, that he forgot he had the $24 in his other pocket. As floor supervisor, he’s in charge of totaling the figures at the end of the night. This is a man that should not go near numbers. I’m not sure how he would manage, but I’m sure if he got too close to one, he could actually break a mathematical formula and render it useless for future generations.

I’ll give him some credit. He does have a large vocabulary. He has a command of more words than most and could probably even spell “perspicacity” although I’m almost undoubtedly certain it would be spelled “PIRSPicacsty”.  

He was ready to snap today. Someone stole all his forms and papers, and it was apparently me. I guess he had a bone to pick with me. He’s a very aggressive person with a bully-mentality; however, his self-esteem must be dirt. I’m not a very threatening person at all nor intimidating in the least, but I can actually bully him. I speak slowly and confidently to him, and I can make him change anything he says.  I’ve been having too much fun toying with him though: I can convince him that 21 + 21 = 18 in under 15 seconds but it takes me five minutes of hard work to make him realize again the number is 42.

I know he doesn’t realize what I do. I think he hits this large wall of confusion when confronting me and lashes out from the sheer lack of comprehension of the situation. I do try to be obvious that I toy with him sometimes, to let him know I’m joking with him, but he believes what I tell him to every time. I’m afraid now if he found out how much I spin him around for fun, it wouldn’t be a very safe shift. He has ball-point pens- granted they’re all mine that he ‘borrowed’, but he’s armed. After the 21+21=18 incident, I was afraid to re-correct the error for fear of life and limb.

His papers vanished during a meeting, the “goddam Californians” speech began, and I met rage boiled eyes with calm regard. He became very ... animate. It was the first time I saw the manager tell him to calm down and take a breath.  

He does have a sense of honesty though. He even came and apologized for yelling after he found his book up in the manager’s office where he left it. This wasn’t the first time that this happened.

I always tell the hostess, never seat him a table with small children. He might make them cry.

Being at the restaurant since it opened, kitchen staff and the nightclub managers look at me to do something about his voice that you can hear through a solid, two foot thick concrete wall, or his rampant cussing while standing next to customers in that same voice that can be heard through a solid, two foot thick concrete wall. They want me to do something about him, but I’m the only one to realize he’s rather untouchable. Knowing the manager for the past five years, and being his roommate is what I call job security. 

He’s an interesting sort. In spite of his bipolar aggression, his insisting that Hitler is the pinnacle of organization and high-morals involves beating women and children, and his anger-strewn rants, there are some moments I actually get along with him. The meth he used has taken quite a toll, but an old glimmer of honesty still lingers. It’s moments like these where I calmly face him and say, “We never serve ice with sodas at that table because the sudden temperature shock will damage the carbonation when it’s that close to the window.”

He blinks a few times, jaw slightly agape. “Yeah, yeah. That’s just what I was saying. It’s good to work with someone who thinks alike.”