Story_MB

A world swarming with yuppies and high finance, like ants to their hill, the �upper class� assembles at the country club. Rising at eight am, the staff of Middle Bay Country Club gets ready for a new day of facilitating to those of opulence. Especially during the summer, golf season, when hundreds of people fill the courses and the pool area. In their own private domain, where they rein supreme, and they might as well be royalty by their atitude, but at closer observation one sees they are nothing more than people who have nothing better to do with their money than throw it into insignificant, meaningless institutions.
Theres no real way to prepare for the turbulence of the coming day. Kathryn braces herself, as usual, it�s another sticky summer day that should be spent relaxing by her pool, or lounging on the beach. Instead, on goes the polyester shirt, her skirt that�s way above the regulation length in the employee guidelines. But she knew since she had been an employee for two years now, the guidelines meant nothing.
�Mom have you seen my shoes?� Kathryn moaned. She could never find those damn ugly things, she wondered how they could ever go missing, it�s not like anyone would want to borrow them.
�Kathyrn, they�re right here. You have a big hole in your stockings, I just bought those for you two days ago! How could you have ruined them already? Sometimes, I just want to trade you in.� Kat frowned. Her mom was always dissaproving of something, She was never good enough. She sighed, than slammed the door behind her. It was nine-fifteen, just enough time to get to work. She was obsessed with being on time. It came along with the waitressing, and the sense of urgency that had been beat into her head.
Pulling down the long road, over each of the speed bumps carefully Kathryn took her parking spot in Guam. It might as well have been Guam. Members got priority parking spots, though they didn�t park their own cars. Really valets got priority spots. She had to park right up next to the bay, where there was a risk of her car getting flooded if the tide came up. As usual her car would be covered in bird crap at the end of her twelve hour shift. Sometimes she wondered if the employees were cattle or people?
Nine twenty-five, Kathryn enters through the back door by the dumpsters, steaming with garbage from the fiery summer air. She certainly was admirable for her uncanny ability to be punctual.
The pack of foreigners were smoking their first of thirty some-odd cigarettes of the day. They were all horrible chain smokers. In fact, Kathryn was the only employee out of whole lot who didn�t smoke. Although, she had seriously been considering it. She punched in her time card and put it back in the slot.
More than anything else Kathryn hated how routine her job had become over the two years. She could tell anyone exactly how her day would be executed. Nothing was ever by her own volition. Like a machine, everything was by number. �Go get ten sixties, thirty forties and eight one-sixties.� (These were table clothes of course). No emotion was ever involved just go get, go do, be busy, look happy and of course the sense of urgency.
Break time was such bullshit Kathryn thought. Break was taken before the day commences. The reason for coming in at nine-thirty was to begin at ten. And many people didn�t come in until ten, because they saw no purpose of being there before than, and they were really quite right. It was the club�s way of getting around the law. All you could do was deal with it, and grab some breakfast. Hmm, what to eat Kathyrn pondered. She entered the kitchen, and greeted Patrichio, one of the only Spanish chefs who wasn�t perverted. In through the automatic doors, Kathryn slipped on a spot of water on the floor. Would that be time number one-million and six she�s done that? She blushed, and got herself up and over to the counter. The tile floors were always wet. Searching for a type of bread she�d have for breakfast today, Kathryn decided to skip breakfast all together. At nine thirty promptly, not a minute more, not a minute less, Doreen�s cry pierces the stagnent air of the corridor.
�Kiddies, Fluff�s Chickadee�s!� She roars.
Everyone scrambles out of their seats. All suited up in our middle bay shirts emblazon with Middle Bay emblems. Everyone shoves in their chairs, picks up their plates with haste. This is all in the mission to avoid Doreen�s good morning kiss�the last thing you want at nine thirty in the morning, is one of her slobbery kisses on your cheek.
She was a dreadful woman, if a woman you could even call her. When she was younger, she was quite beautiful, but since she and her husband stopped getting along she let herself go. She walked sticking her pelvis out, knees bent, for an unknown reason. Doreen�s hair was long, slightly curly, she had an unhealthy affair with her multitude of hair clips. Her lips were always smothered in some bright, overdone color. Just another middle aged woman consumed by time.
The list is up. The dreaded side work list, it basically hinges how the rest of your day will be. If the boss gods decide to be kind, they give you something easy, like the numbers nine, seven, two, and twenty-one. These are the jobs you want, refilling salt and pepper shakers, sugar bowls, getting soapy water and setting up and restocking the podium. Most of the stuff will already be done for you, so your lucky. Unfortunately with these jobs usually comes number fourteen, watching breakfast. This is so the people who have been there since six am can take their half-hour break. You stand in the cold, uninhabited room praying that no customers will enter, as you pretend to be filling the sugar bowls with Sweet and Low, equal, and regular sugar respectivly.
The number you never want to get is number eighteen. Sounds innocent enough, but this is the real demonic number. It�s always the only person with one number of sidework next to their name who had eighteen. This number stood for cole slaw station. In the summer, this entails setting it up in three rooms. That means, you have to prepare six giant bowls of cole slaw, eighteen bread baskets�one for rolls, bagels and flagels (Flagels are basically bagels that look like they got run over by a car) in each room. Eighteen baskets of muffins, and fifteen bowls of pickles and such.
Kathryn got off easy today, Doreen sent she and Noah to the cage to clean up. For some reason the cage was always a mess. It was called the cage because there was a little ten by three foot area caged off where all the chaffing dishes were stored, these were dishes for hot food. It was awkward of course, the previous year Kat had had a little crush on Noah, but now that he liked her she no longer desired him. For the most part she just enjoyed teasing him. He was stereotypically perfect, blue eyes, neat blonde hair, tall, although he was a little plump, he was a lovable goon, and still a good friend.
�Remember that time we snuck out and hung out all night?� He recalled. Kathryn was standing on a chair balencing on her toe gripping onto the metal shelves trying to put an overfilled box of lobster bibs.
�Can you help me here?�
�Wow, that was really great we should do that again sometime.� The chair began to wobble.
�Noah I�m really going to fall, I�m too short for this!� He was sitting on a chair inside the cage weaving napkins through the cage bars.
�You don�t like me anymore do you? It�s my hair cut isn�t it, is it because of Jesse? Because, if it�s her I never really liked her, she�s just obsessed with me.� Kat, got the box up and both relieved and frustrated barked at Noah.
�How about you start helping me before I kill myself here?� He picked up random boxes feverishly, knowing that he made her mad, trying to redeem himself.
�No no, it doesn�t go there, what are you doing? God, I wish I could trade you in� She giggled.
�I have an idea� he snicked. �Gimme your pen!� He scribbled a �DO NOT DISTURB knock before you enter� on a doily.
�Obviously some subliminal maifestation of what you wish exsisted.� Kat snapped, as she tapped it to the door any way, if not for Noah for comical effect. She locked him in the cage, she had no patience for him, because he had no clue what he was doing and was getting in the way.
�You don�t love me?� He whined.Kathryn strolled over to the cage.
�If I didn�t love you would I do this?� She slowly opened the lock and went over to him and kissed him on the cheek. �I�m such a tease it�s almost unfair� she thought.
�C�mon� She whispered into his ear. �Let�s go back to the little kitchen, our, well my work is done here.� Taking him by the hand they exited past the giant vats of food, through the dining room and into the little kitchen where the pungent aroma�s of cabbage�cole slaw permeated their nasal passages.
Middle Bay is infamous for it�s �slaw. Ramone makes it. He�s a big dirty Spanish guys, with a lazy eye and a bad disposition.
There�s method to making cole slaw. There�s actually a lot ingredients involved, and watching Ramone put it together is a feat in itself. First, the cabbage. There�s a special machine made strictly for shreading cabbage. Ramone gets a trash bag, throws in heads of cabage�he never really washes them. And catches the cabbage that comes through in the trash bag. Once a sufficent amount of cabbage has been butchered... It�s time for the sauce. The giant stainless steel bowl comes into play, as well as 12 cups of sugar, two can of pineapple juice and two bulk-size mayonaise tubs. Than it�s time to get out the trash can--- the best part. He takes the bag of garbage out and throws it in the dumpster, than emptys the cabage into the pail. And if your stomach isn�t turned enough by now, he throws in the �slaw sauce.. No no, it�s not quite done yet it�s not done until Ramone slides wrist high medical gloves on, pulls up his sleeves, and sticks his massive, hairy arms into the can. Than begins to mix, thoroughly. My eyes widen with disgust.
�Ramone what are you doing!?!?! Your going to get your filthy spanish germs in there�AHH and the hair on your arms!�He takes off his glove and snickers. Than he sticks his finger into the mixture, takes it out and sticks it in his mouth..
�I�m giving it my flavor� he smiles, mayo on his lips.
If the antics of the morning aren�t enough. The people are often worse than the revolting spanish chefs. It�s easy to to let Ramone�s methods of �slaw making be forgotten. Or his yelling of �MOMMY!�
everytime you walk through the kitchen be forgotten. Even Caesar�s constant repetition of �Fucking Asshole� Everytime someone passes by him, is a bit humorous. But being treated like you�re a lower life form is the worst kind of treatment. And the profusity of the pedaphilia or just the blatant rudness are often too much.
For example your average lady�no no not women�LADIES is how they are to be addressed will order something like this.
�I�ll have a chopped cobb salad�but not too chopped�and I want romaine lettuce, not iceberg. Oh and honey, instead of the bree cheese that it comes with I want american. Forget the avacado too, but could you throw some diced tomato�s in there? Thanks darling�
I scramble to get it all down�it doesn�t matter because the chefs with screw it up anyway.
�---- And what type of dressed with that?�
Well I want russian, but I don�t like the herbs they put in it, can you get a little monkey dish {Which is really called a ramiken} of mayo, and a little bit of ketchup, and just mix that together for me�Low fat mayo of course!�
I scribble feverishly�She doesn�t even take a breath through all that!
��And will that be all?�
�Actually, throw in a toasted scooped out poppy seed bad. VERY toasted. And a diet caffiene free coke from a can with a lemon, and don�t forget a straw, thanks.�
I take a deep breath, And hope I got that all down. I often think theyre subhuman.
That will be just one lady, at a table of six. They never sit in groups smaller than six. I wonder if they didn�t sit in sixes, they�d die or something.
I�ll go through about 50 of these tables a day. If you figure, five tables to myself, and a five hour rush. On top of that, there are no tips. Country club memebers can�t be expected to do something as ludacrious as the exchange of cash.
Some call it work, some call it hell, me, I call it middle Bay.