September 02, 2009
Wenchie's Resume 1987-1994, Part I
Earlier this year, I started telling you about my initial foray into the work-a-day world, circa 1984-87. At the time of that post, I thought I was soon headed to a permanant position in the department of my choice.
Alas, it was not to be. I am now in an endless temporary limbo in a new department, with no end -- or payraise, or permanant job offer -- in sight. Seriously, I could make more money if I went back to waiting tables. And I'd do it, too, if I wasn't so damn lazy. Also, as I've gotten older, my ability to tolerate crap from people has seriously deteriorated.
After quitting Pizza Hut and moving out of my parents' house, I pretty much had a whole new life just waiting for me. I moved in with my boyfriend's best friend's girlfriend (and her toddler), and I started working where said boyfriend, best friend and girl friend had all worked before me. The Main Cafe in Evanston. It's easy to score a job when you have three previous employees vouching for you!
I must admit, I loved the Main Cafe. It was on Main St. and Chicago Ave. in Evanston, right across from the Metra stop. It was one of those diners that had been in the neighborhood forever and really belonged to the people who frequented the place. It was like an extension of everyone's home. "Here's the kitchen, here's the master bedroom. Oh, and here's The Main Cafe."
I swear, if you took off a chunk of that ancient wood paneling, you'd find veins and flesh and bones. Okay, kind of a gruesome analogy, but you get my point -- that place was an entity in and of itself.
I normally worked the counter for breakfast and lunch and saw the same exact people eating the same exact thing every day. There was Tom, the 70 year old manic-depressive who told a great story. There was Tex, the hundred year old cowboy who often tipped me with jewelry he had made.
And there was John, that GORGEOUS, blue-eyed, coffee-slugging artist who loaned me books and tipped me $5 on a cup of coffee every day. *sigh* Totally should've been with him instead of the caveman I was with, but that's a whoooooole other blog.
There was also an old guy -- can't remember his name -- who had numbers tattooed on his forearm. Never having seen that before, I thought it was a really bad decision he'd made while docked in Singapore or something. But one of the other waitresses told me that he'd been in one of the Nazi concentration camps during WWII, and made it out alive. Marked forever with an identification number. I kinda wish I'd asked him about it. I mean, how often does anyone get the opportunity to talk to living history like him? But I never did. I don't think I'd want to talk about it, if it were me, so I never brought it up, and neither did he.
Anyhoo, I had to quit that gig when I just couldn't take my caveman boyfriend's jealousy shit anymore. And since I moved out on the spur-of-the-moment -- at seven in the morning -- I was forced to move back in with the Ps and find a new job.
I didn't have a car, but luckily for me, my parents house was mere blocks from a bustling, suburban business district. So I applied for a job at the local LePeep. It wasn't much of an interview, considering I had a pulse and experience, and the rest of the wait staff consisted one hardened lifer and three cheerleaders from the local high school.
Now, I've already told you how I gave my boss his nickname, Spud, and I don't have time to tell you about all the co-workers I dated there. So I'll just tell you about Kent. He was my favorite, anyway. Probably because I didn't date him.
Our little LeFamily grew to include, in the front of the house, a couple students from the local community college, and a closted queen to serve as host -- Kent. Ah, Kent. Kent of the slicked-back, bleach-blond hair, long before Draco Malfoy made it popular. Kent, who used to tell me stories of how he'd balance his ashtray on his girlfriend's ass while he did her doggie-style. God, he was mean to his girlfriends.
My favorite times were on weekends when Spud would put both Kent and I at the front desk to seat people and take money and whatnot. It was a nice break from having to wear an apron, but my favorite thing was the game Kent and I would play -- Guess What Faces That Person Makes During Sex. A game difficult to describe in mere words, but I'm sure you have the imagination necessary to do it justice.
*sigh* How I miss evil, nasty, embittered, gay Kent. I'm going to have to revive that game. Who wants to come out and play?