One of the things they told us when I signed on with Amtrak was that passing your ninetieth day was a good thing. Here's why: every Amtrak employee has to pass a ninety-day probationary period. That's not too unlike other jobs, except for one thing--the great number of people who were predicting that we (the members of my training class and I) would not survive. Some said that the company had no intention of keeping us on. Other said that most of us would not survive the ninety days. I'd have taken the stories more seriously except for two things: first, the "experts" telling them didn't agree (Pinkosh's Law of Expertise: If the experts don't agree, they aren't really experts) and second, the old timers said if we just showed up and did the job we'd be fine, but the most dire reports were from those hired just four or five months before us. I put it down as a mild form of hazing.
Nevertheless, there were people who didn't make it. Two didn't finish training because they didn't want to cut their ponytails. One was injured on her day off. A couple quit because they just didn't like it. Two admitted their inability to get to work on time. One or two disappeared for unknown reasons, though there are wild and conflicting stories which I will not repeat. But as of this writing, shortly after the end of the ninety days, there are about twelve of the original twenty left, which means that the experts' tales of doom were both true and false--some of us didn't make it, but those of us who show up and do the job are fine.
So, those of us who made it all wanted to celebrate--if for no other reason than not ever having to listen to the dire predictions of unemployment again.
In my case, ninety days coincided with a layover in Reno, which is a nice town to celebrate in. Even better, my best buddy from training, Jane, was working with me that trip. So we decided that we would celebrate our ninety properly. Little did we know that someone was waiting to ruin our celebration.
One of the reasons I like Reno is that there are lots of nice places to eat--every price range and every type of food you can imagine. (Every buffet in Reno has been voted "Reno's Best Buffet." I don't know who's running those elections but Tammany Hall and the Democrats of Cook County have nothing on them. But I digress). Generally the food in Reno is all good--and generally well served, too. Except when Cory is your waiter.
Jane and I have a good time when we work together--we're pals. She used to live in Reno, and knows a lot of places to go and things to do, and I am generally game for anything. We eat inexpensive meals and have a drink or two. We have fun just hanging together. So we decided that we would go to the Tivoli Gardens, a coffee shop in the Eldorado Casino. Well, the food was only so-so (usually it's good) but the real highlight of the evening was our waiter.
His name tag said "Cory" but my guess is that the real Cory was probably unconscious and locked in the broom closet. Our guy must have been an impostor. He took forever to take our order, and as soon as we each named a dish he walked off We weren't finished ordering. I, for one, often like to have a beverage with my dinner. I was literally sitting there with my mouth open about to say "and a Coke.." but zoom--he was off. I've had this happen before. It's not unusual. But this was just the appetizer. When our dinner came, Cory appeared like a jack-in-the-box, placed each entree before us, and raced off again, even though I was in the midst of asking for a drink. He just wasn't listening. Each time he did this, Jane got more and more annoyed with him, but we were celebrating our ninety days, so we ended up laughing about it. nevertheless, the lad had to be dealt with. I decided to use one of the more powerful items in my dining-out arsenal: the justly dreaded Eternally Raised Hand.
The Eternally Raised Hand is something I use when the "waithelp" (I hate this new term) is seriously neglectful It's an aggressive technique, not fair to use on the merely overburdened or incompetent. In those cases sympathy and patience are called for. On those rare occasions when the service is just terribly, terribly wrong, I just raise my hand like in first grade. And I hold it up. And hold it up. And hold it up. Eventually, people at the surrounding tables notice. Then, every customer in the restaurant notices. Finally, even the most inattentive or neglectful "waithelp" (the term has no singular form, apparently) realizes that everyone is looking at him or her just to see when, if ever, he or she is going to do something about that weirdo who just sits there. I'll usually get action then. The only down side is that you end up with a room full of people who think that maybe you're on an outing from a home for the mentally ill or something. I don't let that bother me. I am very used to that sort of reaction. I could tell you stories. As long as I maintain my composure, it ends up that the waithelper (?) ends up embarrassed, not me.
But it did not work with our friend Cory. He eventually saw me, and nodded, indicating that he'd be right with me. This is, incidentally, the only successful way of dealing with The Eternally Raised Hand. Most waiters will rush over to stop this visual assault on their professional image. That's exactly what I want. Cory, probably without knowing, had countered my third most effective restaurant technique (you don't want to know what the first two are.)
When he was finished with his what he was doing--mostly rushing around the dining room to no apparent purpose--he came over and asked us what we wanted. We asked for two hot teas. He said "Certainly" and rushed off. After that we saw him several times--again, mostly rushing around the dining room to no apparent purpose--but we never got our tea, or any water, "nor any drop to drink."
Oh well.
Cory did come through beautifully (well, adequately) when it came to dessert, though. He actually asked us if we wanted any! And then he brought it! Jane ordered a fancy dessert, while I had a more basic treat--a root beer float. It was wonderful. (There's a tendency in America to develop ever more chocolate-laden, gooey, rich desserts. Often, these dishes have names like "Sin Pie" and "Chocolate Decadence," which sound just too Protestant to me. My take on dessert--there's nothing in the world better than a root beer float. Richer, yes. Creamier and sweeter, perhaps. Fancier, absolutely. But nothing is more satisfying to the soul than a good-sized root beer float. But I digress.)
I lifted my glass to Jane. "Congratulations, Jane!"
She lifted hers to me. "Woo! Ninety days!"
"And many more to come!"
I realized at that moment that I'm blessed. I have a job I love and people I love working with--Jane's my favorite buddy, but there are many others I like nearly as much. I have a wonderful family and the finest sweetheart a man could wish for. I am grateful.
May all workers everywhere--even Cory--make their ninety days, or the equivalent. And may we all have many more happy and safe working days to come.
And no, we did not leave Cory a tip.
Copyright © 1998, 2003 Paul C. Pinkosh
Revised --May 6, 2003
URL: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Station/1178
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