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Fortune
Cookie Say: Read Article. Live Longer.
There's nothing like reminiscing about your teenage years. Well, except
blocking them out all together. I guess that's much better. But anyway,
lately I've been thinking back to when I was a sweet sixteen lass who
decided pocket change was A-OK and I joined the work force.
My
parents told me not to get a job so young, believe it or not. My father
tried to convince me to spend my energy on school work telling me I would
have the rest of my life to slave away on a time clock. I didn't listen and
decided to work at a Chinese restaurant with my best friend, Angela. Yep,
two Angela's for the price of one. I thought it would be fun, two pals
hanging out together and making some sweet cash. Once again, I wish I had
listened to my father and spent those days chasing boys and… well, chasing
boys.
The
restaurant was a dive. There is no better way to explain it. It used to be
a pizza shop in the 70's and still had the motif, except for some crudely
strewn Chinese lanterns and an oddly placed Buddha here and there. It
looked as if a culture clash had taken place, the Italians ahead by a nose
when the city decided to make it a historical site, thus banning any further
renovations. It was one room only, yet the owner had the foresight, and the
knack of a serious designer, to add a full wall mirror along one side to add
depth. Basically, you walked by it and saw about three dozen of yourself in
tunnel vision like some crudely made B movie about a funhouse. The ceiling
was in threatening abandon. The city inspectors would come in, issue a
citation and as they pulled away the owner would whip out his trusty can of
white spray paint and "erase" all those troublesome water marks. The
sagging, I guess, he figured would correct itself with lots of Buddhist
prayers and luck; rub Buddha's belly and all that jazz. The bathroom,
co-ed, was horrific. It could have been an outhouse privy and would have
been more sanitary. My first night on, I walked back to use it, pushed
aside the mop being used as a door stop and tilted my head at the
curiousness before me. There was the john, the sink was barely clinging to
the wall, and in the corner, a giant green outdoor garbage can with a
handwritten note taped on it reading "Plumbing no good for paper. Do not
flush. Place used in here." Cryptic? Hell yes, but still it says oh
so much. I decided I could "hold it".
Now
Angela had told me the boss was a bit of a character. She had been working
for him since she was 14 and understood his broken English. His name wasn't
Mike, but that's what he went by. All 5 foot of him. He slicked his hair
back and wore goofy polyester suits, probably another remnant he found in a
closet from the 70's pizza shop. He never interviewed me, or anyone for
that matter. He'd let the employees just bring in their friends and add
them to the schedule. He had a habit of staring. Not here (points to
eyes), but here (points to breasts) when he'd talk to you. The more I
worked with him, the more I found out about him. He was born in China and
just recently emigrated to the States at the age of 40. In China, he said,
he had been a great artist. He arrived in New York, couldn't find work as a
Picasso or Van Gogh, so joined a brother here in Ohio and opened a
restaurant. He could cook. God could he cook. For as crappy a place he
ran the food was cherry. He'd love to hear compliments about it, and
compliments got us free food, so consider me an ass kisser.
I had
mentioned how Mike stared a bit, ogling the girls. Well, he also became
vocal the longer you were there. He used to call to me, and I'd come
through the saloon style doors to the kitchen and all he'd say was "I paint
you naked sometime." Lovely. Me, 16; him, 40. YUM. Where do I sign up??
It is also rumoured, though I wasn't subjected to this to confirm, that he
was caught masturbating in the walk-in cooler. Not once, but three times.
Separate days, of course, I mean he had to rest and all. That was about the
time I stopped eating there. Also about the time I started using the "buddy
system" to go to the walk-in. Mike wasn't the only mister making the
moves. The dishwasher, Jeff, with his three teeth and happenin' mullet
always had a few things to say, too, but Jeff bought us beer and smokes, so
I'm not going to bad mouth him here. I kind of just did, but… crap.
I
can't talk about Mike, Jeff and Little Peking Cicely (not the real name)
without mentioning Sam. Sam was two years older than me and rather good
looking for a "bad boy". Okay, he was an out and out "hood" complete with
Harley Davidson tattoos. Just like "Rebel Without a Cause" he fell for me,
the goody-two-shoed princess. Unlike "Rebel Without a Cause", I didn't fall
for him. Mainly because he introduced himself by asking, and holding up his
two fingers, why women masturbate with those two fingers. The answer:
because they were his. [High hat inserted here.] Sure he had deep black
eyes and even blacker hair, and was golden brown from his summer as a, I
don't know, something sun-involved, but he wasn't my cup o' tea. I can't
have him pulling that ol' finger joke around my dear ol' maw and paw now.
Well,
Sammy Boy decided to "impress" me in a way no man has ever done before, or
ever will again. He waited 'til after closing one night, gave me flowers he
picked off a wild rose bush in the alley, then after I left, he broke into
the restaurant by ways of the Italian stained glass window in the front,
jacked the safe, called the police and Mike and told them he'd rather rot in
jail then be denied my lovin'. He actually waited on the steps to the
place, money on lap and wrists outstretched to take the cuffs. Hell yes!
Now, can any one of you say a man ever went to the Big House to profess
their love for you? No? Then step off me, Bitches!
Yet
here's the clincher. Due to Sam's antics, I was fired. Mhmm… sacked.
Three days later, as I arrived for my shift, a rather large American woman
in a paisley house dress and thick sausage fingers handed me my pay check
and informed me she was Mike's girlfriend from New York. He had told us he
had a girlfriend there, but we took that to mean diddley-squat. That's what
all lonely men say, "Yeah, I have this hot piece of ass… but, umm she lives
far, far away and you don't know her." Well, she was very real and very
ready to have me canned. She did have me canned, what am I saying? When I
asked why, she replied with, "We don't need any further break-ins and
disturbances." Which leads me to believe NOW, not then, but NOW, that I
should have used my siren powers for good instead of evil. All the good I
could have done as a sixteen year old. Oh, how many criminals I could have
sent away. Crime in Ohio would have plummeted and all would have been well
in the world. Sadly, my powers have diminished for lack of use and I'm
lucky if a fellow doesn't sit on me thinking I'm an empty chair.
After
that, I took my father's advice and waited 'til college to work again.
Obviously, I waitressed again to pay tuition, but this time picked an
upscale eatery downtown with choice plumbing and a rather safe ceiling. Of
course, the boss weighed three hundred pounds and threw dishes at us when
guests complained of his cooking, but that, my friends, is a different
story. Maybe another time. |
