Well, friends, it has been some time since we last met. And boy oh boy, do I have a few things to say about the time in between.
I believe when we last spoke, things were rolling along at the Ground Round. The summer contest had ended with me re-asserting my dominance in the realm of all things Ground and all things Round. Tips were good, shifts were good, customers were good. "It's all good," as the kids might say.
No more. Reality has set back in. Things are nowhere close to being good.
Two weekends before the fall semester started at Shippensburg (my "real" job for those of you keeping score at home), I notified the powers that be at the GR that my schedule would need to be changed around a little bit. I clearly stated when I could and when I could not work and my reasons why. I even observed as the manager wrote said information down on a piece of somewhat official looking paper. He grumbled and moaned a little bit about seeing what he could do, how he hired me to work certain shifts, blah blah blah, whatever. I leave. Life goes on. The next week when the new schedule is posted, I see that it does not reflect anything that I had said about needing to change around my hours. Pop quiz hotshot, what do you do?! (bonus for those of you who get the "Speed" reference there) I tell another manager that I cannot be in to work on Tuesday as I will be teaching, and I cannot be at work until 5:00 on Wednesday for the same reason. Fine, he says, and he also appears to write this information down in a somewhat official looking notebook. Monday goes by. Tuesday goes by. Wednesday comes, and I roll in to the GR a little before 5:00. I'm greeted with hails of "James, no show, no call. You're fired, man." This news of course would be too good to be true. Turns out that word did not reach the appropriate person regarding the schedule change, and the manager on duty Tuesday did not know that I would not be there. Everything turned out fine--if by fine we mean that I still have my job. If by fine we mean that I truly was fired and thus put out of my misery, then no, things aren't fine. But we'll go with the former operationalization.
So Wednesday night was the first night I was at the GR since resuming my role at Shippensburg. Now, let's clarify a few things. At Shippensburg, I have a certain degree of respect and authority in my position. Ground Round? Not. At Shippensburg, I make a very good wage for what I do. Ground Round? Not. At Shippensburg, I give the orders. At the Ground Round, I specialize in taking orders.
What does this all mean? Simply put, over the course of the summer, I had to convince myself that the situation at the Ground Round really wasn't that bad. "Hey, the people I work with are pretty cool." "The managers are pretty nice." "Most of the customers aren't too bad to deal with." "I'm making alright money." "So what if this is the 300th time I've heard [insert overplayed Top 40 song here], at least I haven't heard 'N Sync today." Conversations like these with myself helped to dull the pain and make life bearable. But after shifting from my role at Shippensburg to my role at the GR in a matter of hours, reality once again set in. Life at the Ground Round is Hell.
With the waves of despair and utter hopelessness washing over me, I proceeded to deliver the worst possible service that night. I didn't notice when people had been sitting in my section for 10 minutes, even though I had walked right by them numerous times. I rang in orders too late, causing ticket time to be incredibly long. I even had a couple of old women walk out because I never noticed they were sitting in my section. I was the closest I have ever come to just saying, "You know, I don't need this any more. See y'all later, I'm going home." But I stuck it out. Why? Because I'm a team player. I wouldn't want to let the GR team down. James Noon is not a quitter. Unless you count grad school. Or the last four weeks where I didn't maintain this page. Or piano lessons when I was 11. Or baseball when I was 15. Or personal hygiene for various periods of time while at Arizona.
Since then, it has gotten a little better. I have set a work stoppage date for myself, and I know that in the time between now and then, should any manager get surly with me, or should any customer treat me unnecessarily rude, I can simply walk out and be fine. Some have suggested that rather than leave quietly, I try to get myself fired. While I like the creative opportunities that this would present, it probably would not be the most prudent decision. But I haven't completely ruled out the idea yet. Either way, there is some light at the end of the tunnel.
In other news, it appears that I might actually get a nametag later this week. Not because management ever ordered one for me, but simply because someone else has a blank nametag and has agreed to write my name on it (me handwriting isn't the best, okay?). There is a part of me though that is slightly disappointed that I will have a nametag. I like the idea that I could have worked there for several months yet never be issued a nametag. Some kind of small victory, maybe. And when you work at the GR, that's the only kind of victory there is.
So, I'll continue to plod my way through work for a little bit longer, praying that none of my students take a trip down Frederick way and happen to enter into my other world. One student after the first day of class told me that I looked familiar. I explained this as simply me having a generic guy look about me. No, he said, he has seen me several times down in Frederick (I had mentioned that I commute from there). I asked if he ever went out to eat down there. Yes, he said, he does. I ask if he ever frequents the Ground Round. Another affirmative. That's it, I tell him. Real nice. That should deep-six any sort of respect I might have conjured up on the first day. Good times.
I will do my best to add on here as it becomes necessary. If nothing else, I will have one last entry to sum up the GR experience. Until then, "Thankyou for calling the Frederick Ground Round. Come join us for our new summer menu. This is James speaking, how may I help you?"
September
I quit. Last day of work: September 14th.
Post-Script
With a month now passed since quitting the Grizzo Rizzo, I've had some time to reflect on my experiences and put everything in perspective.
First, though, let me recount how things ended rather abruptly. I managed to continue work for three weeks into the fall semester. And I finally got a nametag, but again, it was only because someone hired a month *after* me had an extra blank one. On the days where I had to go in to the GR, I would get up at 7 in the a.m. for the hour commute to Shippensburg, do my thing up there, and then drive the hour back home, placing me back in Frederick at 4 or 4:30. I would then change and be at the GR for my 5:00 shift, then get home at 10 or 11 and want to do nothing but go to bed. Fun as this may sound, it really wasn't.
So high-strung manager continued to foul up my schedule, putting me down for days when I had said I couldn't work and then getting angry and telling me how accommodating he has been with my "other job" when I point this out to him. On Friday, September 13th, he asks me if on Saturday I could just work the night shift rather than the double I had been scheduled for. Sure, whatever, I say. The thing is, I had plans to go out of town on Saturday night, and these plans had been based on getting out of work at a certain time because of the double shift. On Saturday night, I ask another server if he would stay for me so that I could be cut earlier. He asks the manager, and of course this creates all types of complications and apocalyptic scenarios. At pre-meal, the manager says, "We're starting to have a problem with people changing schedules and switching shifts. I know some of you have second jobs, but when you are here, this is your job. And if people have a problem with this, let me know, and I'll take you off the schedule."
Now, this would have been the opportune time to stand up and say, "Screw you guys, I'm going home." Instead, I take the more mature approach and explain to him after pre-meal that I had made plans based on the schedule, and when he changed it, this affected my plans, so that's why I wanted to get out early. This was a mistake because he tells me I should never make plans based on the idea of getting out at a certain time. Silly me. I should have known better than to have a life outside the G.R. So, I placate him, and then he says, "I just want to make sure that you're not getting too comfortable with your other job."
It was then that I realized I *am* very comfortable with my other job. I worked through my shift, 4-star service as always, giving every single customer a "wow" experience. Went home to bed. Woke up. Decided that I was finished with the Ground Round. The next morning, I called up and told the GM, "Hey Steven, what's happening. Yeah, I'm not going to be able to work there anymore. It's just not working out for me, blah blah, sorry to be leaving like this because you all were good to me and I appreciated being able to work there, so, yeah." I hung up the phone and felt better than I had felt in over three months. All that was left to do was pick up my last paycheck which I finally got around to doing. Another $28. When I went by to pick up my check, I gave the manager the same crap I gave the GM, "Sorry for just leaving like that, I appreciated being able to work here, but other things have higher priority....so, like, is there a paycheck here for me?" Good times, my friends, good times. (Note: I was neither sorry for leaving in the way that I did nor did I really feel like they had treated me well)
Looking back on all the good times that we've had, a few things come to mind. First, I never addressed a question posed early on regarding whether I really truly hated working at the GR or if it was just so ridiculous. The answer is, yes, I did truly loathe working at that place. Granted, there are many worse jobs that I could have had. I could have been mopping up bathroom floors or digging ditches in 90 degree heat. But at least with either of those jobs, chances are that I wouldn't have been subjected to Avril Lavigne's "Complicated" all summer long to the point where I know all the lyrics...and once you know the lyrics, it becomes that much more ludicrous (however, Avril won the MTV "best new artist" award at the VMAs, and that's often a good sign for the chances of someone's career having a short shelf-life...when was the last time you heard anything from Crowded House, Jesus Jones, Fiona Apple, or Hootie and the Blowfish?...I miss Hootie). Also at one point, I said that working at the GR wasn't as bad as working at IHOP. I would now like to rescind that statement. This was a much worse experience. When I worked at IHOP, I didn't know any better. But now I'm a little bit older, a little bit wiser, a little bit more tired, and a little bit more prone to flipping out on a customer complaining that their food is too spicy. In my GR job interview, I was asked where I saw myself in a year. My response was, "Living in Frederick, working here at the Ground Round...I'm not really very ambitious." And while not entirely true, that's certainly the type of worker they're looking for. Now, had they ever told me I might be management material, I can assure you that I would have called up Shippensburg and said, "I'm sorry, I can't teach there anymore. The Ground Round needs me. And I need the Ground Round." Don't get me wrong, I respect the work that the cooks, servers, and bussers do, but the work is structured in such a way that it disempowers the workers and inevitably leads to alienation. Plus, there are only so many days in a row that you can eat chicken tenders or cheese sticks for an employee meal.
So, all the second degree burns have healed and the nightmares have subsided. Actually, let me re-phrase that--the nightmares about the Ground Round have subsided, the other nightmares haven't. The air smells a little fresher, food tastes a little better, and my hands have significantly less contact with sour cream, salad dressing, and other people's food. I never did get paid for that 3-hour alcohol training class. But I imagine that the amusement provided by all this makes for a little more than even trade-off.
So, just remember...when you go out to eat at a restaurant, chances are that by the time your food reaches the table, three sets of hands have touched your food.
That's 30 fingers.
Rock over London, Rock on Chicago. Wheaties: Breakfast of Champions.
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