Co Workers

When talking to people about work and life experiences I often express the idea that every person should work in a restaurant. Retail is ok, but if you skip all of these entry level working with the public jobs to have your first job be in an office building, you will have a very sheltered view of the world. As this conversation unfolds, as usually will, I make the point of how you get to know people, how dumb the general public is, how strangely demanding people can be, how masses of people are oddly consistent, but also periodically surprising. There is a wisdom to be found in learning to navigate these waters.

The other part of this work, which I often don't mention, but is an equally valuable part of having one of these jobs, is your coworkers. Such and interesting patchwork of people you end up spending large swaths of time with.

He drove the kind of van you would warn your children from getting too close to, but not as well kept. Large and white, but papers and cups were wedged between the dashboard and front glass. When the side doors were opened you could see the back was full of landscaping tools, an old chainsaw and rusty clippers, and logs, branches and brown, brittle leaves. The floor was covered in cardboard, but it was so dirty and tattered it was hard to recognize it. This was the vehicle Jim would drive to deliver your pizza. Now Jim was one of a kind as well, he was a thin, hard skinned man, aged by years in the sun, who had darting eyes and a face framed by long curly white hair. He took pride in his hard work and loved his hair, in fact he loved all long hair, like Jesus and Einstein he would say. It was his "antennae to the cosmos". He would talk about his time at Hilsdale, the folding boat company he once owned and how he wanted to meet one of the great Yogis. It should come as no surprise, he was one of the pot heads, a group you will find in every restaurant I have worked in. I have no idea what people must have thought when he showed up at their door, but he was always entertaining to work with.

Lenny was hard to figure out. He was a short, heavy guy who had no wrinkles, but his eyes looked old. He was a light skinned African American who I tried to talk to to, but he was always reserved. He acted tough, but was never goaded into action. Rumors swirled around him, about being in a gang, spending time in prison, not to mess with him. A gun in his car. It never made me shy away, it kept me interested. I remember one night he was scheduled to close with me and he told me he would have to call for a ride, I told him if he wanted I could give him a ride home. He tries to tell me no, that he lives in a rough neighborhood, that it will be out of my way. In the end, he couldn't get that ride and so I drove him home. We're talking about how dangerous Kalamazoo is and I'm telling him how I was from Detroit so this didn't scare me. As a note, in that conversation Detroit is much more impressive than Plymouth. Anyway, he can tell I don't really understand, but doesn't push. Suddenly a car, which had been following us speeds up, gets beside us and matches speed. Lenny looks over and then with a cross between a wave and sign language communicates to them and they pull off. Gang signs? Did he just? I'm thrilled and a little scared and feeling pretty cool. I act like I knew what had happened, you know playing it off. As I'm driving home I imagine my car is marked. Thug friendly.

"Fran, Fran, Fran... She's a man," my childish co-workers and I would say when we were sure she was not going to hear. This wasn't a statement or a fear because she was some big, muscle bound beast. Instead, she was a short woman, with short hair and what could best be described as a boyish figure. She had an appearance that, at first glance, had some people calling her sir. Add to this the fact she had a sharp tongue and personality which made you think she might cut you and you had all the makings of a legend. I stayed out of her way and tried to be friendly to her, not wanting to be a victim. I was also one of the people who sing the Wicked Witch of the West's "da da dee da da da" when I would see her on her bike, which she used to get back and forth from Arby's.

As I think about these people, these co workers it is strange to think about how much time I spent with them and how far they have sunk into the sands of time. It is also interesting to think about how they molded me, changed me in different ways. They were so different than me, than my experiences, but there is education in that gap. They are part of my restaurant experience and my guess is their doppelgängers are parts of yours.