I'm Too Old and Too Expensive. Slow, too

Well, now I shall speak of my firing (the third job in my life, ever) from SuperMac, a place I will never walk into again. And Girly Boy, the wimp who hired me, will have to deal with the consequences.

Let's review. The head chef, really liked me. In fact, he was the one who recommended me. He was the one who got me the job, not the 27-28-29 year old "owner" who is afraid to say he's the owner because (as I was told by other workers) he is insecure about having a business so young. He is also flippant, can't make decisions, can't spell nor remember anyone's name correctly, and basically is rude, thoughtless and a real dick (that word came up at least 10 times in the three weeks that I was there.)

So, I witness three things: 1) he's not letting us have tips from an online service called seamless web. That's illegal. I make mention of it, he immediately has a blank look on his face. 2) I cannot handle 35 lunch customers by myself with the degree of 'finesse' he requires --which is really perfection, a concept that humanly does not exist--and this pisses him off. Meanwhile, there is another worker there who regularly barks orders at people, is defensive, and completely ADHD. But! As long as the work gets done, who cares, right? I realize I am working for Sad Sack and Baldo's younger prodigy. Not pretty, but I need the tips. 3) Everyone and anyone, with the exception of the chef I like, is younger and in the dark about these things.

I get along with the customers, a few mistakes here and there, hey? It's a learning curve, I'll get it.

So, payday comes along, I get "summoned" up to the office, which is a roach-infested, dark storeroom. It looks like a chamber out of a Dickens novel. I get the speech about "If you're not up to speed, I can't keep you. You're older than me anyway, you can find anything." So, I'm old--discrimination, anyone? Illegal comment #1. "I'm paying you more than the others." Illegal comment #2. If this boy had a problem with my agreed-upon salary, then why didn't he say so at the interview? It's called negotiation. Then, to top it off, I get a check without the taxes taken out. More money for me to worry about at the end of the year. Get in line, people, IRS, Uncle Sam, everyone! I'm fucking broke. I'm at -12 and it's going to take me at least another year to get to zero. Not even a positive, but just zero as a basic balance. Girly Boy had my paperwork, but didn't have "time" to put it in. He had three weeks, but his life is more important than mine.

What do I do with a so-called boss who hires me with a smile on his face, tells me I'm doing a good job, refuses to train me properly, accidentally throws out all the paperwork I had on top of the register--which my welfare caseworker got me into hot water about--and then turns on me as if I'm the plague? Are we talking narcissist, Gemini or simply young, rich, trust fund bastard who simply doesn't give a fuck about my outcome. YUP! That's the answer.

So, I work out my last four hours. The last four hours of which I don't even know if I'll get paid. But, I'm nice to all the customers, I clean up (relatively speaking), and I have a knot in my stomach that had me so angry and so upset that I couldn't even count the drawer. I know how to count a drawer. It's pretty easy. I did it with great aplomb when I was 16 and I did it again for all these weeks and at Virgin, but I swear to you the math didn't make sense. I walked out at 10:04 pm and wanted to vomit. I stood outside the gates of St. John the Baptist church on 31st street doubled over, waiting to vomit, but it didn't happen. A total stranger asked me if I was ok. I said no, I just lost my job in the most underhanded way possible and that I was feeling sick. Do you want me to get help, he asked. No, I said, this will pass. It will always pass. Thank you for being a human being.

And how will this pass. I will tell you.

1) Those tips withheld are illegal. I am going to the Dept of Taxation and Finance on this little wussy twit.

2)Then, the EEOC, since I was told this is more fitting to a college student. Translation? You've graduated. What are you doing here. Um, you hired me, you stupid asshole. That's why I'm here. I need a job, dickhead.

3) I'm sure the Attorney General would like to know--as well as the better business bureau--that he's abusing immigrants (he made one chef CRY last week, I was there and I have two witnesses. Overworked and underpaid. How Tom Curley of him!) and that he's fucking teenagers out of their tips.

So, now I'm begging Virgin MegaStore to give me an extra day to hit 32 hours per week. I will also have to go back to craigslist to see if I can pick up another job, and start listing Roxxlander's vinyl that he gave to me last week. All 7 boxes of collectibles, goodies, and whatnot.

Right now, in the distance, I hear church bells playing what sounds like Debussy. Perhaps this is a sign. So much for trying to save my ass with 6 day a week work. Always, as always, I get screwed.

But those that are still at that place will not. I want my last four hours and then I will bury that bastard.

There are three things you do NOT do in this life.

1) you never hit your mother.

2) you don't rat out your friends.

3) you NEVER, EVER fuck with an Irish woman. We will come after you. Blood, guts, and glory. For us, not you.

Yes, kiddies....the bitch is back!