On the Clock

The food industry is so much more than just pressing buttons, calling out orders, and making coffee.

Growing up, I never thought twice about food. I didn't think about cooking food. I didn't think about eating food. I didn't think about where food came from, and I'll even go as far to say that I was discouraged from the word all together.

"Some people live to eat, I eat to live," was a phrase that escaped my mother's mouth on a near day-to-day basis.

I don't blame her for her food ignorance - she was raising one hell of an eclectic, pain-in-the-ass kid; there were more important things to worry about.

In an effort to make myself less of a pain-in-the-ass, I signed a contract to work as a highly esteemed staff member at Tutti Frutti - a frozen yogurt shop in the Auburn Mall, Auburn Massachusetts in September of 2014. Those papers were the first out of five I’d initial within the following years selling my part-time soul to various bars, coffee shops, and now finally a Chinese restaurant.

“Yikes" - Everyone.

Despite mostly holding only low level positions in most of the fine establishments I worked for, every single job I’ve held has been a wildly different experience. The job at the frozen yogurt shop was less than glamorous. I worked far too hard for a 15-year-old, was taken advantage of by my employers, and fired after a two-year marathon via text due to the fact that I “left the floor sticky,” one night when I was closing up the shop. To this day I attribute my nicotine addiction to Tutti Frutti.

I didn’t experience any true revelations in the industry until I moved to Concord, New Hampshire, the summer after my freshman year of college when I was 19.

I worked three jobs simultaneously: I functioned as floor member at Dunkin Donuts, a bartender at Chi-Chas Hookah Cigar Bar Lounge (yes, that is actually it’s name), and a cashier at Five Guys.

On this schedule I was sleeping roughly 2 hours a day, had no days off, and yet could barely afford my $450 monthly rent. My day’s started at 4 am when I would hurl myself out of bed to make it to Dunks for 4:30. I’d work until generally 11 or 12, go back to my apartment, sleep for about 30 minutes, then change and floor it to Dover to press buttons and yell out orders to the line behind me at Five Guys.

After, change in the bathroom, cruise to Chi-Chas to serve hookah and spirits to Concord’s finest until 3 am, go home, sleep for an hour, repeat. My body thanks me that routine only lasted for 2 months.

The Dunks I worked at had a program that was partnered with a halfway house up the road. Despite being legitimately the only individual who was not employed under this program, I forged friendships with humans I would never have the opportunity to cross paths with.

Denise started working two weeks after I did in June of 2017. She was only thirty but the lines in brow and her melting blackout star tattoos told her to be much older.

“ I got caught with drugs too many times, I have to be more careful next time.” She told me once I mustered up the courage to ask her what she was in for.

We were both on register for the entirety of the few weeks we worked together. We bonded over music and our love for nature resulting in a near mother and daughter-like relationship.

“ I can’t see my son anymore.” She expressed one day on the brink of tears.

I gave her a hug and retorted back, “I know it’s not the same but I haven’t seen my mom in about 3 years, except she chooses not to see me.”

“I can be your mom while you’re up here for the summer Andy! When I’m out, you and I are going to be drinking Margaritas like we should be right now.”

Nobody I worked with understood Denise like I did. Our manager, Sue, who set up the partnership with the halfway house would always turn to me as if we were one in the same because I wasn’t struggling like those enrolled in the program.

“ She’s a mess. She’s clearly using. She can’t be crying all the time at work and act like that’s normal. She’s a f******adult.” Sue would repeat over and over again to me about Denise.

Truth be told, Denise was a mess, and definitely using. Occasionally she would get her hands on adderall or some other form of speed and leave it under the toilet paper roll in a dixie cup for me. She told me they didn’t show up on her weekly tests.

“Energy pills in the bathroom!” She wrote one day on a sticky note.

I would tell her I took them and then flush them down the toilet. I didn’t know how to properly handle that situation ever, but I felt as though if I told her I took them, she couldn’t have them, and if I told no one else, she wouldn’t get fired or maybe even sent back to prison.

During the middle of the summer I had to quit because the three job grind was getting too much for me to handle. I haven’t spoken to Denise since, but despite being agnostic and perhaps borderline atheist, I pray for her, because she told me she prayed for me. It’s the least I can do.

As of now I supervise and bartend at a local Chinese restaurant in Amherst. I got the gig in September of my sophomore year, worked full time over the summer, and slowly but surely, made my way up the hierarchy to my current position. I fell in love with the first job I saw was hiring in the area. Of course, I have countless laughs, screams and tears all shed at Ginger Garden, but that story is still in progress and I think it would be unfair to close the book mid-sentence.