Vanessa-Victor

May 11th: Victor

May 11th: Victor

Victor's day in the body...

I'm saving the word "hate". The single time I've used it in my entire life was when I was thirteen to describe the taste of mushrooms.

I was absolutely thrilled to learn that we were eating Sortino's Pizza for dinner. (It was my favorite diary covered carb pie in all of California until La Casa Pizzeria moved in my Sophomore year.) I craved that melted cheese on thick crust like it was candy. Only this time, my mother didn't order Hawaiian, my favorite, she ordered veggie. The disgusting fungi made me gag and spit out the bite of pizza. I exclaimed, "I hate this!"

"We do not use that word in this house." my mother taught me. Since then, I started correcting other kids not to say the "H-A" word. So I've "saved" my use for the word "hate" for when it applies to a situation or thing so horrendous, I genuinely hate it. Now that you know the weight of that word in my life, let me tell you that I almost hate my job.

All day I deal with idiot customers and even dumber co-workers. As if that weren't enough, I have to clean the entire store top to bottom nearly every night to satisfy my OCD boss. Even worse than that, the AC is broken today, but the refrigerators are fine so we can still sell products (unfortunately). Right as I start to restock the lettuce and tomatoes on the front bar, the front door rings and a family of five walk in. Now I have the wicked pleasure of serving two indecisive parents and their three annoying kin. Fantastic.

"What can I get started for you today?" I say with a tremendous effort not to sound irritated, which I most definitely was.

"Um, give me a second..." after what felt like an eternity of waiting, the father says, "Yeah, I'll get a sandwich." Really? At Steve's Sub Shop?

"A half or a full size?"

"Regular." What the is that supposed to mean? If people just listened to what I ask them, this whole process would go much smoother. Yet another reason I should just quit this stupid job. Unfortunately, my mother knows the owner's wife and it'd be a true mess if I quit without notice. So I soldier on and say,

"I'm sorry," although I'm definitely not sorry, "was that a half or a full size?"

"Full!" he barks.

"Alright, do you want that on white or wheat?"

"White."

"And what meats and cheeses?" As I start his sandwich, my coworkers finally get their lazy asses up front and help serve the rest of the family. "Is this going to be toasted?" I ask him.

"No," He responds. Slowly I stack on the lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, salt, and pickles.

"Is that everything?" I kindly ask him.

"Yep, looks good." He responds and I wrap his sandwich in our sub paper.

"Hold on just a second, was that toasted?"

"No, it's not, sir."

"I want it toasted." He says as he digs his wallet out of his pants. Especially irritated and losing patience, I say,

"Sir, I asked in the beginning if you wanted it toasted and you said no."

"No, you didn't!" He begins yelling at me, like a cranky child who reached his limit on candy. Some people can be so spoiled and self-righteous.

"Sir. I can take off the vegetables and toast it, so please don't yell at me. I was just informing you for next time."

"Yeah, alright." He sees me look down at his sandwich and start picking off the pieces of lettuce. He turns away from me and tries to whisper in his wife's ear, "What a dyke," but I can hear him perfectly clear.