The other day we had a delivery driver drop off a load of something or other who was apparently the South American Brad Pitt from the way one of our servers fawned over him, and it was hilarious.
I was too busy prepping salads and talking about race cars or titties or what have you to notice how absolutely fabulous senor Peett must have been, but it was impossible to not notice Jen’s reaction to this guy’s presence. Her flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, dimpled smile, and predator-like gaze were plenty of tells that would let you know what she was thinking, but her awkward game really got behind the wheel and drove the point home.
‘Oh Heeyyy! It’s so . . . hot. You must be thirsty using those big muscles like that. You want something . . . to drink?. What’s your name? You get along with your mama real good? You’ve got pretty eyes.’ And so on and so on.
You almost get the idea.
I almost got the hose.
Don’t get me wrong–guys are just as bad at lusting over chicks, maybe even a little worse. We even have codes for it when we want to tell our coworkers to do a flyby to check out the scenery. The codes are different at different places, for instance at Chili’s it was Problem, at other places Issue. As in ‘Hey man there’s a serious problem at table 32.’ At The Sushi Joint we use a double encrypted code, much like Cockney rhyming slang, and you would damn near need a degree in food science to crack it.
But at least we don’t go in to full on Piece Negotiations at work. If the poor bastard didn’t have a delivery schedule to keep he probably would have found himself ten minutes later getting random stranger head in the walk-in while thinking to himself man these people really take hospitality to a whole new level. Fortunately for the other stops on his route (and the health inspection scores of our walk-in), he departed shortly afterwards.
I asked Jen if she needed a mop or a towel or just some time alone and then promptly put the incident out of my mind. Maybe thirty minutes later I went back to the BOH and I saw Jen cleaning the ever loving shit out of the beer cooler. Jen is always real good about cleaning this beer cooler, but on this day she was just loading the kids up in the buggy and Going To Town on this motherfucker. Scrubbing, rinsing, scrubbing again, she was going about it with a manic intensity that could be considered either slightly comical or very, very scary.
When I walked back there she was cleaning the lower part of the cooler, bent over at the waist sideways and kinda resting her head on her shoulder that wasn’t jerking back and forth. As I got closer I could hear her talking:
‘Girl you so Nasty!’
scrub scrub scrub
‘How’d you let yourself get so dirty?’
rinse rinse rinse
‘Girl you are just filthy!’
‘What would your mama say?’
I figured she was on the phone. She hadto be on the phone.
But then I noticed she didn’t have a phone or any bluetooth device in her ear. So, standing behind her, I asked ‘Jen are you on the phone?’
All maniacal scrubbing stopped instantly as her arm hung in place, suds slowly bubbling down from the now ragged scouring pad. Ever so slowly, ever so timidly, ever so sheepishly her head swiveled up until our eyes met.
There was this moment of recognition and telepathic communication where I realized that she was not in fact on the phone and she knew I knew she wasn’t on the phone. She also knew what she had been saying and she knew I had heard at least some of it. I had no idea what she had been saying before I got there, but I knew that she knew that I would naturally think that she was talking to herself about her encounter with senor Peett, since he was all she could talk about after he left. She asked me with her eyes How much did you hear? Did you hear the bad stuff? You’re going to give me shit, aren’t you? It’s going to be bad, isn’t it? To which my psychic eyebeams shot back I heard enough and oh yeah I’m going to have to give you hell for this for at least a week.
After I asked Jen if she was on the phone, we had that three count of telepathic eye-phoning, and then she meekly whispered an unsteady ‘n-n-n-no’.
‘So who were you talking to?’ I asked gleefully. For me there were no wrong answers to this question. I knew any answer would lead to comedy gold.
She pondered her answer for a moment, weighing her choices carefully. For her there were no right answers to this question. She knew that any answer would lead to comedy gold.
‘Umm . . . I was talking to the cooler. You know–the way you talk to something that you’re cleaning.’
Okay. Sure. Go with the Private Pyle from Full Metal Jacket defense. Yeah. Whatever you say.
‘JerBear you aren’t going to put this in your blog, are you?’ she pleaded.
‘No worries, love’ I assured her, ‘Fucking Hemmingway couldn’t put this little incident into printed words and accurately convey how funny it is.’
‘Oh thank god!’
‘Yeah I’m going to have to turn this into a bit for the standup act.’
Love ya Jen. Don’t be mad:)
Dignity and Respect
Me, The JerBear