This is the first post, and probably the last, that does talk about work, yet does not break rule number 1.
This happened a long time ago, in a town, well, right here. It was summer and I landed a job at a local restaurant. I’m not gonna say the name, but it is a sail on a boat. I had applied for a waiter position, but ended up in the pantry fry section, right next to the grill. PF sucked. Half the bus staff was on crack, and the other didn’t really give a shit. I could write a couple posts about this, but I’ll focus on Earl for now.
Earl was thirty something at the time, but he was’nt quite right. I think it had something to do with a childhood accident, at least that’s what the word was on the mean streets of pantry fryland. He always said the same creepy shit near the end of a shift. “Gone go home drink me ah beeah.” Sometimes the word hooker would just come right out of his mouth without a care for who was arround at the time. We pretty much just accepted Earl for himself and tried not to piss him off. Before I quit, I heard “first hand” account of the picture book of, well, trophies (lets just leave it at that).
Anyway, we’ll get to the punchline here in a minute, so I have to stay focused. I’m not sure why, but some regional manager showed up one day and pretty much took over the place. The young gun that had been running the show till then always looked a bit uptight. Anyway, the upper management guy, I forget his name now, was ok. If you put effort into the team, he was cool. But hey, this isn’t about him, it’s about Earl.
Earl didn’t drive, he rode his bike. You could always spot Earl’s bike, it was the one with the red milk crate strapped to the back, and the flags, and horn, and I think it had a light. Earl’s helmet consisted of a company baseball hat with the brim trimmed to about an inch. God damn he was a crazy sob too.
So, after a month or so we had this big walk through inspection thing. The only thing missing was the white glove, but I knew that he knew that that was asking just a little too much. The regional manager dude started off in the dish area, mosied down and past pantry fry, pausing at the grill. Everything passed, save one last area, the cooler. That cold dark place where the fish filets lie in cold aluminum pans, and crates of lettice and other vegitables can still be smelled as if in a market in alaska. We had all chipped in and had that cooler spotless. Then the boss man opened the cooler door and there was Earl, in all his glory, standing there with a gallon jug of whole milk turned up hillbilly style just a glugging away. Earl stops, puts the cap back on the jug, puts the jug back on the rack and walks past the regional manager mumbling something about hookers and beer.
That’s about the time I decided that I would not eat there again, ever. Earl never got fired, or even talked to about that incident.
1 Comment to “Earl”
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Man, Thank God they closed down… And to think I used to love their flower pot bread…..Nasty