tremendous odor

There is a tremendous odor coming from a drain in the back of the store. It smells like a dead skunk in a pile of throw-up. The Buddha Baker cleans the drain every time that she works, but the tremendous odor always comes back within a couple hours.

I hope that there is a sewage problem, then the health inspector shuts the store, then I don't have to work anymore, then I can run away to California and build creepy puppets for B-horror movies like I have always wanted.

fake bum, per maybe

Maybe I was a little harsh, or maybe I was a bit too cold-hearted - especially during the holiday season - but I'm still proud of my words and my actions because I stayed strong. Let me explain, as per usual:

Some time last week, in the wee hours of the morning, I per chanced to notice that some of the customers in the drive-thru line looked a little uncomfortable. The source of annoyance wasn't from my service, either (which is usually the case). This time, the source of their discomfort seemed to be something, or some person directly in front of them in line.

When the drive-thru line died down a bit I decided to investigate - Kolchak-style.

There was a man - a Caucasian male, about six foot, nicely dressed, with a blue coat and a white ball cap - standing just outside the door. He appeared to be asking the customers for money.

I swung open the door. "What's the deal home-skillet?"

My smooth deliver and outrageous diction threw off the Caucasian male for a moment. He collected himself.

"I only have two dollars and my car ran out of gas and I live in Dearborn Heights and..."

"Whoa, whoa, I understand that we all hit low points, buddy, you don't have to remind me of that, I've seen my share, but why don't you use some of that money to call someone, or use a credit card, or debit card for gas."

"Can you just give me some money."

"You're not listening to me. Use your credit card. Use your cell phone. Call someone. I don't have any money. I don't even have any pockets in my uniform."

He didn't tell me that he didn't have a cell phone, or a credit card; instead, he said, again: "Can you just give me some money."

Yes, I was mean, and I told him to leave, but I have been scammed too many times trying to be George Bailey. And maybe, if this Caucasian male, about six foot, would have caught me at the beginning of my shift maybe I would have been George Bailey, but it was the end, and by the end I am almost always morphed into: Kolchak: The Night Stalker.

I am sorry, that's just the way it goes sometimes.

like michael scott, i couldn't help it

We just started selling hash browns over at Timmies. They taste like heaven, but they are kind of small - about three-quarters of the size of what McDonalds has.

Well, around 5:30 a.m. one of our regulars pulls-up and notices the hash brown addition to the old order board.

"Hash browns, huh? Well, by golly, I think I'll have one."

"Sounds like a plan, a good one," I say.

My fingers scramble around the cash register like a cat after a mouse. I find the button, tell the regular to pull up, and type the whole order in.

I hand over the goods, give a fake smile and the regular pulls off toward the icy, snowy roads. But wait. That's not the end of the story.

About 10 minutes later the regular is back in the lobby. He doesn't look happy. His face is all scrunched up like an old catcher's mitt. This particular regular has had problems before. He's kind of a douche-bag.

"I didn't get my hash brown. Where's my hash brown?"

Buddha Baker rushes over to him. She inspects his bag. Low and behold, it's in the bag, at the bottom; but of course, it wasn't the regular's fault for not seeing it. It's our fault.

"Looking there," he says. "I thought it would be thicker."

"That's what she said," I say without missing a beat. Buddha Baker starts cracking up. One of other girls tells me to stop it.

I'm not sure if the regular heard me, but I kind of hope he did because big-baby complainers deserve a bit of lip if you ask me - Doctor Donut.

mundane manager is a moron

A couple weeks back most to the Tim Horton's employees - not me - put up all these Christmas decorations around the store. Wipe-off paint on the windows - Snowmen, Merry Christmas, all that jazz, as they say. We have a plastic tree, too.

Well,the problem is the fake fuckin' snow. You know how hard it is to sweep up fake fuckin' snow? Well, harder than getting the Buddha Baker to do work, which is tough as hell.

Of course, My Mundane Manager thinks that the fake fuckin' snow is "very cute" and "is a nice holiday touch." The kiddies like to throw it around all day in the lobby. The fake fuckin' snow mixes nicely with all the salt, melted snow and smashed Timbits, too. So nice, that I want to throw the broom through Frosty The Snowman on window every time it's time to sweep.

sensible skinhead (not so sensible, lately)

I was working with The Sensible Skinhead when we got really busy around 11 p.m. I turned to The Sensible Skinhead and asked him to make a turkey bacon club for me.

"No fuckin' way. I'm going to walk out of this hellhole," he says to me, then returns to his cell phone with more foul language.

"All right, I'm not going to make that turkey bacon club and somebody is going to have to. And if you walk out, so will I."

Apparently, The Mundane Manager cut down The Sensible Skinhead's hours, so he decided to throw a little fit to me - not The Mundane Manager - but the problem with his little temper tantrum was it had no bite to it.

He can't quit. The Sensible Skinhead is on parole and one of the only ways to get off of parole is to hold a job.

He made the sandwich. He didn't walk out, but he kept talking about walking out all night. If we were in jail together I would of had to of kicked his ass.

the muffin man is in the building (or at least the drive-thru)

After a three week hiatus the Muffin Man has returned and I'm not really sure if it is a good thing, or bad - maybe a bit of both.

"Welcome to Tim Hortons would you like to try an Ice Cap?" I say, right at 4:30 a.m.

"Are you crazy? It's freezing out here," I hear a man's voice say through the intercom. He sounds grumpy, and just perhaps maybe, he has a Marlboro Red 100 hanging out of his mouth. "Geeze! Why can't you offer people something hot? Like a hot chocolate? What's a matter with you?"

"You're back!" For some reason, I couldn't hold it in. I sort of missed that old piece of shit old man - yep, he's old - that always orders 3 blueberry muffins at 4:30 a.m. "Where have you been?"

"I was going to the Springfield store, but they started to muck up just like you guys were, so I decided to come back."

"All right, would you like a not chocolate with your three blueberry muffins?"

"Don't muck this up, already. Just the three blueberry muffins, Geeze!"

$15.49

Here and there somebody gives me a tip. A quarter here. A dollar there. Nothing big, but a dollar is still a dollar - not a loonie, or a euro, but what can you do? - and change adds up.

This off-the-wall, scattered-brain chick pulls up the other night. Her total came to $4.51. I think that she ordered a small French vanilla cappuccino and maybe a turkey sandwich - whatever.

She arrives at the window and hands me a twenty. Before I have time to grab her change she pulls out into the darkness like a vampire bat after a giraffe - that's a lot of neck, you know? - and I'm standing there with $15.49 in my mitts.

I know that I'm good, but $15. 49 good? I'm not so sure.

The Sensible Skinhead tells me that I should hand it over to the police department and if no one claims it in 48 hours then it's rightfully mine.

"Do people do that?" I ask him.

"I think so," he answers.

"I'll split it with you," I say. "And then forget about it."

"Sounds good to me," he says.

I give him a five and keep the rest.

fat moe! fat moe! where are you?

The last couple of times that I have worked with Zen Buddha there has been no sign of Fat Moe - her nincompoop boyfriend that sleeps in her car. Well, last night I figured out the mystery.

"Oh, you know, Fat Moe got arrested," Zen Buddha said to me. "He had like five warrants out for his arrest, but I'm going to pick him up from jail today."

I didn't ask Zen Buddha what the warrants were for because I already knew.

Two for being a douche bag in Ohio.

One for intent to sell dirt weed in New York.

And two more warrants for giving senior citizens wet-willies in Florida.

sex offer?

This lady's voice comes through the intercom around 2 a.m. She sounds British. She orders a tea. Yep, she is.

"Any sugar with that, lady?" I ask her.

She takes the hot tea from my hand, pauses, and looks me over. I feel like an object. "No, thanks, honey," she says. "I'm already too sweet."

I take her money, close the window and gather up her change. I can feel her stare. I hand her back a couple pennies and a quarter.

"But I'm not always sweet," she says.

The Sensible Skinhead walks behind me. The British chick, who looks to be about 40, notices him. "Oh, you aren't alone," she says. "I thought you might have been alone."

She drives off.

my truck's still running good

I complain about the Zen Buddha and, in turn, she is constantly complaining while we work together, but there is one thing that bonds us: country music.

There isn't a better genre for two complainers. Not only can we both empathize with the problems in the twangy tunes, but most of the songs have a basic, semi-optimistic theme that boils down to: Yeah, my baby left me, but at least my truck's still running good (and my tickers still ticking like the doctor says it should.)

I mean, sometimes the donuts turn out looking lousy. What do we do? Listen to some more country and put another lousy batch in the that old two-timing oven.

the muffin man

The Muffin Man. He exists. He's crazy about his blueberry muffins. He comes in every morning at 4:30 a.m and orders three blueberry muffins - nothing more, nothing less, never anything different.

And for a guy that orders something so cute, The Muffin Man actually tries to play it tough. He's always smoking a Marlboro Red 100 when he comes to the window and he doesn't mess around. Once, I gave him the wrong total just to screw with him - just cus.

"Three muffins," I said, "that will be $5.27."

"What? No way!" he yelled into the intercom.

"Sorry, sir, but with the economy in such a terrible state and the price of gas rising everyday, we had to raise our muffin prices."

"I have to pay two dollars extra on my muffins? Bullshit! I won't pay!" he yelled.

"Ok, I will let you slide this time. Go ahead and pull up."

"You better," he replied.

Well, the other night around 2 a.m. The Sensible Skinhead told me that we were out of blueberry muffin mix.

"Shit," I said. "Zen Buddha is already trying to kill me. Now, The Muffin Man is going to want to take me out."

After much persuading, I talked The Sensible Skinhead into telling The Muffin Man the bad muffin news. I figured that The Sensible Skinhead had already been to jail. If he could handle dropping the soap, then he could handle telling The Muffin Man that we were out of his favorite muffins.

The time came: 4:30 a.m. - on the dot.

"I'm really sorry, sir, but we are out of blueberry muffins," said TSS.

The Muffin Man made some sort of corny joke. He was in denial. TSS repeated the bad muffin news. Still, The Muffin Man tried to laugh it off like this wasn't really happening to him. TSS offered The Muffin Man some low fat blueberry muffins, or some blueberry bran.

"I can't believe this," said The Muffin Man. "No, I don't want anything. Nothing!" And with that, he peeled off into the foggy morning.

"I bet he is going to kill himself," I said to TSS.

"Sounds about right," said TSS.

I may need to change my schedule

I'm not sure I can work with Zen Buddha any more. Yes, I think that she is trying to kill me, but besides that I can't handle her boyfriend calling her every five minutes from the parking lot. Oh yeah, Fat Moe is still sleeping in Zen Buddha's car in the Tim Hortons' parking lot even though he apparently got a job working the late shift at Taco Bell.

"I am really aggravated and I don't know why," Zen Buddha said to me last night.

"Well, it might because your boyfriend calls every five minutes and you yell at him every time," I said, which seemed logical to me. "Maybe you shouldn't answer next time."

She discounted my answer immediately.

I understand that people have problems - I make weird, unnecessary noises when I speak and I can't seem to quit smoking - but answering the phone just to say, "No! Why do you keep asking me that? No! I said, 'No!' Bye!" every couple of minutes seems like an avoidable problem to me.

The other thing that scares me about working with Zen Buddha is that she is diabetic and she only eats breakfast sandwiches and drinks bottled water all night. I don't think that there is too much sugar in either one of those items, but I am only a doctor of donuts. The only thing that I prescribe are sprinkles and custard filling. Still, I don't think that the Zen Buddha is eating right for a diabetic and I don't want to be the one that has to inject her with insulin.

I just know that her family will sue the Tim Hortons pants - with no pockets - right off me if I don't inject it properly. I need to change my schedule, so that I'm not working with Zen Buddha. I need to change my schedule.

near death experience

The other night I was taking out the trash when, all of a sudden, this car squealed into the parking lot with its brights on. The car was really moving. I mean, like, zoom all over the place. I was standing there like a putz with a bag filled with old soup in my hands.

I realized that the car was coming straight for me. Was I going to die in a Tim Hortons' outfit? It seemed likely. The bright lights blinded me. I raised the bag of soup and prepared to fling it at the windshield. The car was still coming toward me. I let the bag fly; I missed big time; it bounced off the pavement - thank goodness I double bagged that bitch.

After the car avoided the old soup bag it pulled off some sort of Love Bug move into the drive-thru line. I grabbed out a cigarette and lit it. I walked over to pick up the bag of soup and thought about quiting.

I took my time going back into the store, but when I did I asked The Sensible Skinhead if got a good look at the last customer.

"Oh, yeah. That was The Zen Buddha and her boyfriend, Fat Moe. They wanted some hot chocolates."

"Assholes," I said under my breath.

"You have a problem with The Zen Buddha?" asked TSS.

"No, I guess not, but I think she is trying to kill me and I have to work with her Wednesday night."

pull your pants up

I've made an observation. What? Me? Yes; I've gone and done it. Bare with me, people (perhaps, person).

You know how bugs are magically drawn in by the bright lights of a bug zapper? Well, for some reason, jackasses are drawn in by that large B.E.L.T. sandwich poster in the drive-thru line. They can't resist it. They must order it. It's strange because the folks with normal intelligence don't order the B.E.L.T. - which is a bagel with B. (Bacon) E. (Egg) L. (Lettuce) and T (Tomato). There is nothing wrong with the B.E.L.T. It's a good sandwich, but for some reason the only people that order it have a second-grade education.

It always starts the same way, "Can I get one of those, um, um, ah," and right there, I know: The moron is going to order a B.E.L.T. They always pause, and stumble over their words after saying, "those," because they get confused. They aren't quite sure if B.E.L.T spells something, or if they should just say the letters. It really throws the nitwit customer off.

They start with the letters: "Um, on of those B, uh, E, um, oh" - eureka, they figured out the puzzle - "Belt! Yeah, I want a Belt!" Now, the jackass is overjoyed.

And every time I am tempted to say, "Why don't you just pull up our britches and get the hell out of here," but I don't; instead, I ask, "What favor bagel would you like that on?"

And because they are still so overjoyed that they figured out the puzzle of the B.E.L.T., they don't really comprehend my question. They say, "A Belt! I want Belt!"

Again, I am tempted to tell them, "Pull up our britches and make like a tree," but I don't; instead, I say, "I know you want a Belt!, but on what kind of bagel? Like maybe an everything bagel, or a salt one, perhaps cinnamon raisin."

"Oh, I get to pick?"

"Oh, yeah, here at Tim Hortons we have all kinds of options, baby."

"Just put it on a plain bagel, then."

tastes so good, wait, no, i mean bad

Every night it's my job to throw out the old baked goods. This puts me in a peculiar situation. If I decide to do my job I'm wasting food; and if I throw the baked goods into the trunk of my car I'm stealing on camera.

Would The Mundane Manger really fire me over some food that Tim Hortons considers trash? Does management ever look over the security camera's footage? Would my life be better if they just fired me?

I don't think that I have the answers to these questions just yet because it's difficult to tackle moral dilemmas on an empty stomach. Luckily, I have a couple dozen donuts, a few fruit explosion muffins, a bunch of bagels and a cheese croissant within arms length that will help me think it over.

all right, baby

We have this really cool, old black guy that comes in all the time during the night. He's always driving a different car and he likes to call me, "baby." It's always, "Can I get large coffee with one and one half cream and two sugars, baby." And I always say, "you got it, man," because I like the guy. When other people try to order in halves I get pissed, but not with this guy. He's too smooth for me to hate. (Oh, if you are wondering how I do the one and one half cream, I'll tell ya: We have a cream dispenser and I just hit the large cream button once, and then over to the small one, one time - easy enough.)

Last night he - let's call him Smooth Operator - came in around 10:30 p.m. and got his regular order. Smooth Operator was driving a nice Ford Mustang, but the window didn't roll down, so he had to open the door to make the exchange, but he was cool about it. Usually, other customers that have screwed-up windows explain to me some lame excuse like they have been meaning to get it fixed, or their brother messed up the window. Not Smooth Operator though, he just opened up the door with no explanation. Smooth Operator knows that I don't need any explanation, so he didn't waste my time with it - cool.

Well, around 4:30 a.m. I hear through my headset - "You made that last cup of coffee so good, baby, that I just need another one. One and one half cream with two sugars, baby," said Smooth Operator. "Just like last time."

Smooth Operator pulled up in some junky old brown car and as I was handing him his coffee he asked me, "Why doesn't the coffee taste as good when the girls' make it for me? How you do you make such a good cup?"

"Well, I'll tell ya," I said. "These girls that work here don't drink coffee, so they have no idea about freshness. I do, baby."

"I like it, baby," said Smooth Operator as he handed me a dollar tip.

style'n & profile'n

The Sensible Skinhead brought in this black leather coat with big fluffy fake fur coming out of neck and arm holes about a week ago. He uses it for when he goes into the freezer for the donuts, muffins, bagels, etc. The coat is off the chain in all the right ways. It kind of smells like a Black and Mild and screams, "You got a problem with me? Well, what are you going to do about it?"

I have a new found respect for The Sensible Skinhead. All the other bakers are walking into the freezer with some lame ass Tim Hortons' windbreaker; whereas, The Sensible Skinhead looks like Ali strutting into the ring when he goes into the freezer. I am actually thinking about learning how to bake if I can wear the coat.

the weather has turned

My normal greeting is, "Welcome to Tim Hortons' would you like to try an Ice Cap?" And that worked just fine, up until last night. Why? It was snowing. The wind was whipping around, knocking stuff all over the place. Mama kitty just stayed in her cardboard box behind the dumpster and didn't come out. It was cold and whenever I asked the customers if they wanted an Ice Cap they morphed into some sort of bitchy meteorologist.

"Come on, buddy, it's 30 degrees out here. An Ice Cap? With the wind chill it's got to be at least 10 degrees colder. At least. And you've got the nerve to ask me if I want an Ice Cap," said one old dude. "It's supposed to be colder tomorrow, you know."

"It was just a suggestion," I said. "Personally, I like the Ice Cap during all seasons, though."

"Fine," said the old dude, "but I still think that you suggest something hot when it's this cold."

"Ok, I know for certain that you don't want an Ice Cap. How about you tell me what you do want?" I said.

"Are you getting smart with me, young man," he said.

"No, never, sir."

labels

While I was going about my business last night I noticed that some of the items in the front of the store had been labeled. The microwave was labeled, "microwave." The hot water dispenser was labeled, "hot water." And both the cream and sugar dispensers were both respectively labeled, "sugar," and "cream."

Somehow, in the midst of my exhaustion and confusion and boredom, I came up with a plan to explain to The Sensible Skinhead how/why the rest of the items in the store needed to be labeled.

"Place where I sat down and did nothing for two hours, that should be labeled," I said. "Dirty dishes, those should be labeled. Poop stain in the bathroom. How are we going to know about that if it isn't labeled?"

"Maybe," said The Sensible Skinhead, "we should have been more focused on the labeling and less so on the cleaning, stocking and baking."

"I think you are right," I said. "Next time we shouldn't make the donuts, just label the spot where the fresh donuts should be. Mundane Manager would be proud."

"Right," said TSS. "And what about all the buttons on the register? Those should be labeled. Button. Button. Button. Button. Button."

"We really need some more sticky notes around here," I mentioned. "Medium Cup. Medium Cup. Medium Cup. Medium Cup. We have a ton of those and they should be labeled."

"Every cup has a lid, too, you know."

"And a sleeve," I said. "How have we made it this far without more stickies?"

"How do I even know that you are who you say you are?"

"Give me the sharpie," I announced. "I'll write, 'you' on your forehead and 'me' on mine."

hit my peak

While working the other night, I realized something: I have hit my peak of knowledge concerning Tim Hortons' worker skills. I will never, or have had any desire to, learn how to type in a meal combo on the register. It's too much work. I just give customers the senior discount when they order a combo because it is easier to type in. Does it work out price wise? I have no idea.

I don't think that I have or ever will give the bathrooms the proper scrub down that they desire. I was taught how to scrub the insides of toilets and urinals properly, but I figure that after enough flushes the nastiness will eventually go away without proper cleaning. Right? Ah, who cares?

Also, I don't ever want to bake, or learn how. I work the front, period. I have never baked on my own for muliple reasons. One: all of the donut, bagel, mufflin, etc. boxes are color coded. I'm colorblind. Two: Every time I walk into the freezer, which is usually set around 15 below zero, I feel like I am going to throw-up. All that super cold air rushes into my lungs and makes me feel ill. You might call me a pansy because I hate the super cold air in the freezer - whatever. Judge me. That's why I write this blog.

stomach problems

It felt like there was a mini roller coaster in my stomach and all of the mini people on the ride were throwing up, constantly. Due to the festivities going on in my stomach I was forced to use the bathroom quite a few times the other night when I worked. This posed a problem. To wear the headset? Or not to wear the headset? while on the toilet.

The first few times I decided not to because Zen Buddha could handle the orders if anyone pulled through, which she did, and everything seemed copacetic. Around 2 a.m. Zen Buddha had to start her bake, which meant that she had to go into the freezer to grab all the donuts. Well, our headsets don't work in the freezer.

The next time I had to go to the bathroom I wore my headset. I sat there praying to the donut gods that no one would pull up. Please. Please, don't order now. It didn't work. The donut gods somehow knew that I'm an atheist.

Beep. Someone was in the drive-thru line ready to order. I sat there, frozen.

"Thank you for choosing Tim Hortons. Can you hold on for a second?" I said, sounding like a middle school boy hitting puberty.

The customer agreed to wait. I frantically tried to contact Zen Buddha through my headset. No answer. She must be in the freezer. Damn it. I set my headset on the toilet paper dispenser. I tried to forget about the customer and focus on finishing up my business. It was difficult. I could still faintly hear, "Hello, hello, is anyone there? You guys are open, right?" Damn it. My life really sucks.

Finally, I was wiped and washed. I picked up my headset and to my relief the Zen Buddha was taking the dude's order. She finished and I thanked her for taking the order through my headset as I walked toward the front.

"What the shit?" she replied. "I can't do everything around here. You need to make this order because I have to get going on the bake. Damn."

I made the order. It was a cop that had ordered, so I didn't feel bad about making him wait.

six dozen

A tyrannous woman pulled up to the drive-thru at 5:10 a.m. explaining that she wanted donuts, a lot of them. Ok. How many?

"I want six dozen," she declared, straight-faced. I told her that she needed to come inside. This sort of transaction doesn't happen in the drive-thru. Plus, I needed to try and talk her down. We only make 80 donuts for the morning - if you did the math, twelve dozen donuts equates to 72 donuts, leaving us with eight donuts. Eight donuts at Tim Hortons! That's like Pres. Bush pronouncing all his words correctly. No. Doesn't work like that. That's just not reality.

So, this despotic woman lumbered into the lobby and barked "just mix up the donuts in each box." I made up the first box and she wasn't happy. From here on out she decided to choose the donuts one-by-one - great. As she was hand-picking donuts for the third box another customer walked in. It was a regular customer, who always orders a large coffee with light cream. I politely asked the domineering woman if the regular customer could go in front of her.

"No!" she yelled. "I haven't finished ordering."

The regular was forced to wait and eventually walked out. We started in on the forth dozen and I had to say something. I knew that she didn't care about totally wiping us out of donuts, so I had to hit her where it was going to hurt her.

"Wow, we are really running low on the chocolate and cream-filled donuts," I said. This startled her. While she was still in a state of shock, I told her: "We still have plenty of Timbits that are chocolate and cream-filled."

After some rigorous debate I talked her into four dozen donuts and 60 Timbits. It took me about 20 minutes to finally load up this monster order for the lordly lady. I looked over my shoulder and the Zen Buddha was freaking out because the drive-thru line was in a state of an emergency. I had to get this tyrant out of the store and on her way, but she wasn't going to leave without totally pissing me off.

She wanted bags for all the donut and Timbit boxes. The bags that we have are really hard to fit over the dozen boxes, so this took some time. Finally, it was time for her to pay. What does she hand me with a smirk on her face? A hundred. Now, I have to go over to the other register to make change. Secretly, I hoped that she'd trip and land on the donuts, smashing them all, so that I could tell her that she doesn't get a refund. I didn't see her trip, but it still could have happened.

After I got rid of her, I turned to see chaos. The Zen Buddha was running around trying to fill orders for the insane amount of people backed up in the drive-thru. What was worse? We were out of coffee. No coffee at Tim Hortons! That's like Pres. Bush telling the truth. No. Doesn't work like that. That's just not reality.

Blog #50, what!, what!

For this momentous blog - Blog #50, what!, what! party at Doctor Donut's tonight, bitches! - I would like to step outside of my experiences at Tim Hortons and write, an aside if you will, about some of the trials and tribulations that have come about due to the blog.

One of the difficulties about this blog is it costs a lot of money. I have to have at least ten brewskies in my system before I sit down to the keyboard to write. By the time I have finished the blog, I am usually pretty blasted and all my brewskies are gone, so I have to make another trip to the corner store for more brewskies, then my broskies come over and drink all my brewskies and I have to buy more brewskies because my broskies don't have jobs. It's a pretty fun cycle, but costly.

Also, I smoke at least a pack while writing, which isn't free either. Really, how can one write without smokes? Maybe all those chump authors on the Oprah book club don't smoke while they write, but they can all suck my exclamation point! - Blog #50, what!, what! I'm getting a keg tonight, bitches!

And the costs don't end with brewskies and smokes. When you're on the good ol' Internet and you're pretty hammered, your mind tends to wonder toward the dirtier things in life. I won't go into detail about some of the questionable Web sites that I have given my credit card number to - I may have a few younger readers out there - but I'll tell you what: $14.99 here, $29.99 there, $69.69 (deluxe membership) somewhere might not seem bad at first, but that is a monthly fee, people. Those bills really add up, especially when you're working at Tim Hortons and buying brewskies for your broskies all the time.

But don't you worry your little head about Doctor Donut. I'm in too good of a mood. I don't work tonight and I e-mailed one of the fine ladies on a Web site, which I have been a member with for six solid months, to be here for the Blog #50 par-tay tonight, what!, what! If you ain't got a car you best start walking, or riding your Huffy to Doctor Donut's now!

deleted scene from the strippers' visit

After the strippers, who came to visit The Sensible Skinhead, left the other night, The Sensible Skinhead asked me which one that I thought was the hottest.

"Why? Are you dating one of them?" I asked.

"I'm not dating any of them, but I'm kind of seeing two of them, haha, if you know what I mean?"

"Classy," I said. I silently hoped that STDs couldn't be passed through coffee, donuts, or muffins. My sixth-grade Phys. Ed told me otherwise, but my teachers also lied to me a lot like, for example, when they told me that Ernest Hemingway and Charles Dickens wrote interesting prose. "I guess they were all pretty hot."

"Well, do you remember the one with the big tits and the tight sweater? Yeah, you do," The Sensible Skinhead replied to his own question. "She showed me her new cell phone, flipped it open and there was a photo of her butt-ass-naked."

"Whatever happened to good ol' fashion Polaroids? It's all about the cell phone these days," I said.

"You should have stayed out here, man, all of those girls are really sweet, especially the one in the sweater. She's a real darling and super friendly," said The Sensible Skinhead, who seemed to take on the persona of a chivalrous knight defending his lady's honor. It was kind of noble, then he told me: "She would have let you grab her tits. They feel real, too."

the dismal return of Fat Moe

Zen Buddha's boyfriend, Fat Moe, was still sleeping overnight in her car, in the Tim Hortons' parking lot, when I worked with her the other night. What a surprise. Although, it appears that they are trying to keep Fat Moe's sleeping arrangement a little bit more discreet, which was at least a nice gesture, I guess.

Fat Moe didn't hang out in the lobby eating all the donuts and muffins this time; he wasn't using the bathroom every hour; and he wasn't speeding through the drive-through - without a driver's license - demanding to speak to Zen Buddha. Also, Zen Buddha wouldn't admit that he was sleeping in her car even though I could see him mulling around out there, which was at least a nice gesture, I guess.

If Fat Moe wasn't such a low-life, mooch, jealous boyfriend, wannabe player, piece of trash, I wouldn't have a problem with him rummaging around in the parking lot, but the problem is that he sucks at life. He was living with Zen Buddha, but her mom kicked him out because he sucks at life. He was living with some friends down state, but they kicked him out because he sucks at life and doesn't understand the concept of rent, especially paying it.

Maybe I shouldn't be complaining about some dude that was sleeping/making a bunch of phone calls in the parking lot. The problem was that he called Zen Buddha every 15 minutes; they argued about money; Zen Buddha got all stressed out; she started yelling a bunch of stuff like, "There better still be exactly nine dollars in the car when I get back." All of this Jerry Springer action made it very tricky for the Zen Buddha to get her work done; therefore, I was forced to get all my shit done real fast, so I could pick up the slack for her - not cool - and where inlays the problem? Fat Moe.

the ride home

After dealing with assholes, wearing a hairnet, and cleaning toilets for an eight-hour midnight shift I'm twitchy. My nervous are shot and I'm tired of all the beige. I usually don't say goodbye to any of my co-workers. I chuck my hairnet on the parking lot pavement and I probably look like a heroin-addict gone cold turkey, but I'll tell you what, the ride home is euphoric.

I turn on CBC radio 2, which has a classical program on. Classical at 6:15 a.m. is exactly what the Doctor Donut ordered (yeah, third person, what are you going to do about it?). I need it, rather I yearn for classical after enduring the lousy pop hits - "today's greatest hits" my ass - that The Sensible Skinhead, or Zen Buddha rock out to all night while baking.

There is a usually a slight fog, but you can still see the stars, both dippers, when I drive home. All of the commuters around me are in a mad rush to get to work or to school, but I have no where to be except home to sleep, so I drive real slow, slow enough to annoy the other drivers, and I let all the assholes pass me by.

wake up earlier, people!

We always get these people, rather jerks, that come into Tim Hortons five minutes before they have to be to work and, of course, they have these complicated orders that they say really fast, then they get all pissed-off if we don't take and make their order at the speed of light. Personally, I could care less. It's their problem. I don't get paid more if they are on-time. Plus, my soul is black and I have plenty of my own problems - like, I don't have health insurance and my ingrown toenail still kills.

Anyway (since this isn't some sort of Emo blog), I had this lady, who was obviously late for work, pull up the other night and order. She wanted a small lemon tea with four equals, two milks and the tea bag taken out (kind of picky, but not too bad). Then she ordered her sandwich so fast that she could have been making a quick analysis on the elongated sentence structure of William Faulkner - I had no idea. After some pointed questions I figured out that she wanted ham and Swiss on a bagel. Still, I didn't know what kind of bagel. When I asked her she grew increasingly irate.

"Plain. Plain bagel, just hurry up," she barked.

Ok, I got that, Little Miss Thang, but then I heard The Sensible Skinhead in my headset asking me what type of condiment Little Miss Thang desired. I knew that she was probably going to spontaneously combust in her car, but I asked anyway.

"Plain," she barked.

Plain condiment? Now, I couldn't just take that answer. We don't have a plain condiment. Perhaps, I could have inferred that she didn't want any condiment, but I don't get paid to infer. I just do as I'm told and I wasn't sure what I was being told to do, so I asked again.

"Um, we don't carry a plain condiment. Do you want some Tim sauce? Perhaps some honey, or yellow mustard?"

"No!" she yelled. "Just plain, no condiments."

"Okie dokie, pull up for your total."

$8,000 tits

The Sensible Skinhead baked and I worked the front. The guy really likes to show off. People that have more things to show don't have much to tell.

He had this mammoth tattoo on the inside of his forearm. The "meaning" behind why people get tattoos always bores me, so I rarely ask, but the black ink looked really new and dark on the inside of his forearm, so I knew that he was waiting for me to ask. It was of a naughty nurse, a map of a U.S. state and an hour glass. What a dope.

We were working for an hour and he started stocking the stuff I am supposed to stock and washing the dishes I am supposed to wash. I began to like The Sensible Skinhead. We kicked off a conversation about work related hogwash. I told him about the hoes that wouldn't pay, or leave. As I'm telling the tale I notice that he had a number in the middle of his state map tattoo - got to be his prison number.

"What the fuck is that number?"

"Um, it's kind of personal," he said, then started to get back to work, acting busy.

"Then why did you put it on your arm?" (reasonable question)

"It's a reminder of where I have been and what I've done."

"That's kind of lame," I said (I couldn't help it). "What did you do then?"

"I'd rather not talk about it, but that naughty nurse is pretty hot, huh?"

"Fine, whatever," I said and walked toward the front.

I spotted a group of girls knocking on the locked door. They said that they were there to see The Sensible Skinhead. I let him know through my headset and he told me: "They are all strippers. Check out the one with the big tits she just got a $8,000 boob-job."

"Shit," I said. "I am going out back for a cigarette. You can deal with this." I can't deal with show-offs, big tits, or not.

i'm trying to quit smoking, but...

... The Buddha Baker shares these fantastic stories during smoke breaks. I have been trying to quit smoking, but if I give up on smoking then I'm giving up on her stories. I just can't do it. The stories are too good and The Buddha Baker is actually somewhat reserved, so I have to really work to get a good story out of her.

The Buddha Baker has lived with prostitutes in Arizona; She smoked a joint most everyday on her way to middle school, and when she got to school the teachers paddled the students; She has run out of money in about ten states; She has a felony on her record - I'm still trying to figure out what for (I don't want to look it up on the Internet like a creep. I want her to tell me.)

The Buddha Baker smokes Newports 100s. Me, either Camel or Parliament lights. A few times I went to work without cigarettes. When The Buddha Baker asks me if I want to take a smoke break I can't resist. I want to hear about how one of the prostitutes made a dude take out all his money from an ATM and give it to her. In cases like this I bum a Newport 100, which is murder. Those cigs are rough.

I'm almost at the point where I only smoke with The Buddha Baker, which is nice. I always get a twisted tale and a chance to blow off some steam from customers.

The other day we were taking a smoke break and The Buddha Baker told me about her boyfriend from high school. He has all these track records, which I didn't think was particularly interesting. I asked what he was up to these days.

"The last heard he was still in jail," said The Buddha Baker. "He accidentally killed his best friend awhile back."

"Accidentally?"

"Yeah, I guess he thought the safety was still on, but the judge thought otherwise."

"Oh," I said and took a long drag.

they fought the store (and the store won)

We ran out of lettuce at 3:30 a.m. last night. I love telling customers that we're out of a product. Customers often say, "skip it," and pull away in a huff without ordering anything, which means less work and more time to read Bukowski in the lobby.

At 4:45 a.m. these stuck-up hoes pull up. They want egg salad in a wheat wrap. I gladly inform them that there is no lettuce. They decide against the wrap due to the lettuce limitation. I start to think things are going my way. Alas, they want to know every type of bagel we serve. I go through the list of 15 different flavors. They want me to go through the list again. My hands clinch up; my knuckles turn white.

One of the hoes asks me: "What the hell is an everything bagel?" I almost ask her if she gets out much? instead, I kept my cool and enter into the game.

"It's like a combination of the all the other bagels that I listed twice, not counting the fruity ones. It's like totally awesome, my absolute fav," I reply.

Finally, the hoes decide on two bagels ("you better make sure they're untoasted") with cream cheese ("vegetable cream cheese, or did you run out of that too?") and a French vanilla cappuccino("no, not the frozen kind, it's too cold out here for that"). I give them their total - $4.79.

"No," says one of the hoes. "Why don't we get a discount? You didn't have what we wanted." Now, if they would have been civil, not insisted on the discount I would have given it to them, no problem. I give super deals all the time, but not with these hoes.

They refuse to pull up until I give them a deal. I hold, but The Buddha Baker overhears the argument through her headset and tells them that they will get a discount. The Buddha Baker wants to get rid of them. The Buddha Baker is nicer than me. I want to show these hoes up, but I respect The Buddha Baker.

The hoes, five-layers of make-up, and some scantly-clad outfits finally pull up. The Buddha Baker only gives them 10% off, and this just won't do. The hoes want our names, the phone number of our manager and the number of the corporate office. We give them the info with a smile. They want to know how much this job means to us. Nothing, so let's move this game into overtime. Apparently, there is a phone number on the outside of the drive-through window. One of the hoes calls the number with her rhinestoned cellphone and tells us that she is calling corporate. What corporate office is open at 4:45 a.m.? Why didn't she call the corporate number we gave her?

It's at a stand-still. They won't give us the money. We refuse to hand over the food until they pay. Another car pulls up. A dude orders. I walk the dude's order out to him. As I'm walking past the hoes, I noticed the phone number they were calling is labeled: Allergy Information. Score, overtime goal for Tim Horton.

I tell the dude, who is still stuck behind the hoes: "Um, these stupid girls in front of you aren't moving because we didn't give them a big enough discount."

"They better move because I have to get to work," says the dude while pulling out his identification card - state corrections. "I work for the state police. Do you want me to have these girls removed?" I really start to get into the conflict. Adrenaline kicks in for the first time since I have been working at Tim Hortons.

"I think it has come to that," I say smiling even bigger. The dude looks around for for his cellphone in his car. The hoes have no license plate. The dude finds his cellphone, but he's still dialing when the hoes peel-out into the darkness.

The Buddha Baker also threatened to call the 5-0 and that's why the hoes high-tailed it out of there when they did. I'm let down, in a way, because the hoes end the conflict, so I get back to Bukowski while eating and drinking the hoes' order.

"you owe me"

I worked last night - bloody ingrown toenail and all. Was my Mundane Manager glad that I was fighting through the ferociously irritating pain? It difficult to tell from her note: "Doctor Donut, Could you please work Friday? You owe me? (smiley face) - Mundane Manager."

I didn't think it was possible, but my Mundane Manager caused me more irritation with a simple note with loopy letters than my obscenely repugnant toenail. She may deserve some sort of award for this feat: Miss Damsel of Distress 2007? Satan's Little Helper this side of the Mississippi? or perhaps, just a free pass directly to Hell?

The sassy little note didn't irritate me the most when I first saw it. The note progressively pained me as the night went along just like my oozing toenail. The torture of my ingrown toenail was actually a catalyst for the torment of the note.

Both ailments hit their peak of annoyance around 5 a.m. when the wire connecting my headset to the battery pack got caught on the pop dispenser, I lost my balance, nearly fell down and in the process stubbed my toe - yeah, the one. It was strange because when I was jumping up and down holding my toe in agony I didn't yell out, "Stupid toe;" instead, I yelled out, "Stupid god-damn manager and her shitty note." That sealed the deal for me that the two ailments affected each other, kind of, like how O.J affected Nicole.

no pockets

No Pockets! There are no pockets in the Tim Hortons' uniform. What does this mean? Tim Hortons doesn't trust its workers in the least bit and is implying that we are lazy. I have been meaning to write about this for awhile because it is a travesty, a sham, and a mockery - a Traveshamockery!

No pockets on our corny khaki pants. No breast pockets on our fluffy shirts. I am surprised they let us wear socks. I am always thinking about stuffing a few twenties, a Boston Creme and a couple Timbits in my socks. They would never know. Oh wait, there are cameras scrannin every inch of the store, so I might get caught.

You may be thinking that there is no reason for the Tim Hortons' employee to have pockets. What's the use? Well, I'll tell you: pockets make me feel like a normal human-being. Every since I started wearing pants they have always had pockets. Even my baby clothes had pockets. I've gotten used to having pockets. I like them. I don't always keep stuff in my pockets, but I like the option. I don't always have my hands in my pockets, but I like the option.

Every time I reach down to put my hands in my pockets and there are no pockets I get a little bit pissed, and sometimes my outrage builds up and I take it out on the customers. I don't mean to take my rage out on the customers, but it just happens because I miss my pockets. If Tim Hortons didn't trust me so much then they shouldn't have hired me. They shouldn't hire anyone that they can't trust to have pockets.

life has been good (kind of)

I haven't worked in about a week because all those late-night, 8-hour shifts have taken a toll on my pencily body. I have an ingrown toenail - big toe, right side - which makes it very painful to walk, difficult to stock and almost impossible to mop.

The best part about having an ingrown toenail is that no one wants to know any details about it. People think that it is gross. They are right. It is.

The assortment of Tim Hortons' managers that have called me (every day) to work renege on their request after I tell them about my ingrown toenail. My ingrown toenail is the equivalent of a lady getting out of work due to "feminine issues."

Today, one of the managers called me up: "Um, Doctor Donut, I heard that you were sick, or hurt, or something, but I was hoping that you could come in and cover a shift tonight. Can you do that for me?"

"Actually, what I have is an ingrown toenail. I'm looking at it right now and ..."

"Whoa, whoa," interrupted the manager. "We will find someone else to come in tonight. Take care of yourself and don't worry about."

Click.

lousy jocks

A group of high school wrestlers from Springfield hung out in the lobby until we closed the doors the other night. Wrestling? What a silly and homo-erotic sport.

So, all these jocks had their letter jackets on. They just sat around pounded their muscular fists into the tables laughing about fart jokes. Donut crumbs and pop spilled every which way.

It was surprising to me that these meat-heads didn't have any ditsy chicks with them because when I was in high school all the wrestlers constantly had the flaky chicks wrapped around their pulsating veins. Did all that male-on-male crouch grabbing and butt slapping associated with wrestling finally get to these guys?

We were really slow when these jocks were treating the Tim Hortons' lobby as their own personal McDonald's play pen, so I was tempted, tempted to tell these meat-heads to, "Make like a tree and get the hell out of here," but I chickened out multiple times. I just couldn't do it. All those terrible high school memories of the wrestlers treating me like crap flooded back into my brain. I was paralyzed.

When they finally got up to leave one of the wrestlers asked me to refill his water. I told him I was busy and proceeded to stock one of the napkin dispensers. The Buddha Baker noticed that I wasn't helping the dude and went ahead and refilled his water.

"Why didn't you help him?" asked the Buddha Baker.

"I don't know. I didn't like those dudes," I said.

"I got-ya," said the Buddha Baker. "Me either."

it only takes one

Everything was a little too perfect last night. I was working with the incomparable Buddha Baker. She was explaining broadcast Schizophrenia to me - victims hear voices through the radio, or TV. I was on-schedule with all the cleaning and re-stocking. We had just enough customers. Mama-kitty paid us a visit. We feed her some chicken breasts.

Then came that customer. The customer that had a bad mother and learned no manners.

That customer was a wiry chick that pulled in around 3 a.m. She ordered a medium French vanilla cappuccino and a bagel BELT (bacon, egg, lettuce and tomato) minus the egg.

I repeated her order back to her before I even started to make it because she had a bitchy attitude to start with. I knew she was looking for a problem. I tried to avoid it. I tried.

She pulled up in her tank of an SUV. She gave me a ten-dollar bill and without looking at me, or speaking a word she pulled away into the night. Three minutes later she was back: flying through the drive-through and honking her horn. Why do people honk their horns in the drive-through? Because their momma didn't raise them right.

"This cappuccino isn't even lukewarm. Where's the cheese on my sandwich?" she barked.

"You didn't order any cheese and I can get you another cappuccino, or heat the one you have up if you want," I said.

"I don't have time for this," she barked, then handed me back her order and the change I had given her from her ten. "I want a refund."

Now, maybe if she was civil I would have given back her ten, but that wasn't the case; instead, I handed her back the change that she tried to return to me. I closed the window. I could feel her devil eyes on me. I did my best imitation of "Magic" Johnson's classic hook-shot with the bag containing her bagel BELT - nothing but net. I raised my hands in victory.

She got her money back, but not her ten-dollar bill. Me, I had hit a three-pointer at the buzzer to win the game.

springfield revisited

The Springfield store has an extra employee come in at 5 a.m. This was crucial because the last time I worked there it was with Dwayne The Brain McClain, who couldn't tie his shoe in a slight breeze. The guy was a real louse.

Bryson was the name of the dude that came in at 5 a.m. He was hot-shot employee with the handbook tattooed on his ass. It looked like his uniform has just come from the dry-cleaners and he was proud to be wearing it. He had washboard posture.

I took the orders and handled the money. I let Bryson handle the rest. The guy was doing origami with the parchment paper and could fill a double-double before I could I say, "How 'bout an ice cap, eh?" I found myself just watching him in action. It was like watching a bee build the hive. He had some serious Tim Hortons' skills. I hope I never have them.

We got really busy and Dwayne The Brain McClain was off somewhere sucking his thumb, so I had to start filling some of the orders. I was making an ice cap. I put too much goop in. I started mixing the thing and it over-flowed. Bryson saw what I was doing and nearly had a heart-attack.

"What are you doing?" he said in a snide whisper. "You never put that much in."

I wiped down the cup and handed it to the lady who ordered it. With a smile on her face she told me, "You can make my ice cap anytime, hunny."

monkey do

During our morning rush a lady laid in on her horn. She had four cars in front of her in the drive-through. This caused the friendly songbirds to shit on the store and fly away. Mama-kitty hid in a cardboard box pawing at her ears. Even the raccoon left to find scraps at McDonalds.

I couldn't let one crazy customer drive away the everyday wildlife. I decided to move as slow as possible. I had to listen to a few more honks, but she wanted me to hustle and I wanted to do annoy her as much as she was pissing me off. I figured I could endure one morning of honks to keep the birds coming back with their sweet tunes.

When the lady finally got up to the window I kicked the passive aggressiveness into high gear. She held out her money. I held out a single finger.

"Hold on a sec, I haven't finished ringing you up yet," I said and shut the window.

I took her money. Closed the window again and individually dropped each coin, from a considerable height, into the register. Since she paid me in coins for her coffee, the coin dropping took some time.

When I reemerged with her coffee she seemed confused. Somehow, she mistook her coffee for a banana because she started reaching for it like a monkey. I made sure to tell her to, "have a perfect day and drive careful out there because there's some real crazies out there on the road," before I handed over the coffee.

truckers

One nice thing about the drive-through is that semi-trucks won't fit. Business would be overwhelming and stupid if truckers could pull-through. I don't have anything against truckers I just don't like customers.

The other night I had some crafty truckers order. I guess they weren't that crafty; they just parked their trucks at a near-by Wal-Mart and started banging on the window.

Maybe I have seen too many horror movies, but when I first saw these two truckers I began to panic. What would you do if you saw two large men wearing flannel shirts, banging on the window, yelling inaudible things in the rain? Me, I grabbed the sharpest bagel cutter and kept it close by, but out of sight from the truckers.

The truckers turned out to be two of the nicest customers I had all night, but I will tell you what: if some crazy dude reaches for my neck, or starts up a chainsaw in the drive-through I will start cutting some fingers and ears off stat.

canadian soldier

While working at the Springfield store, I had this guy order a large coffee. When I handed it to him he shouted out, "Wow, that cup is enormous." Apparently, he was Canadian. In Canada their large cup is equivalent to a U.S. medium. Americans have an arrogantly large cup size compared to Canadians - I will let you tackle that.

So, instead of just taking the enormously large U.S. cup he poured what I gave him into one of the many Canadian cups he already had in his car and gave me back the difference. "I don't like your president and I don't need your extra coffee," he seemed to be saying to me with all his pouring.

In the midst of his madcap pouring, I noticed that he was wearing AC/DC pants - not tight black jeans, but MC Hammer pants with AC/DC logos littered up and down. I began to scan the rest of his messy Toyota to see what other oddities I could discover about this alien from Planet Canada. He had army fatigues thrown about, duffel bags, plastic boxes and all kinds of Tim Hortons' merchandise.

I was completely unable to judge this dude. He continued to struggle to fit a large U.S. lid onto his tiny Canadian cup. I offered him a U.S. medium lid; he declined my offering.

"This is how we do it in the oil fields of Afghanistan," he said while grabbing a pre-used Canadian lid off his dash. "We've got a Tim Hortons in Afghanistan. That's the only way the Canadians would go."

"So, if they built a Tim Hortons in Iraq," I said, "then the Canadians would fight there."

"Somebodies got to kill those assholes," said the Canadian soldier and then drove off into the night.

"Oh."

dwayne the brain mcclain is a louse

My Mundane Manager made me work over at the dirty, super busy Springfield store the other night. And to put the glaze on the donut, I was forced to work with the infamous Dwayne The Brain McClain, who's a middle-aged, socially-inept baker at the Springfield store. I've heard countless stories about much of a prick this guy is from The Zen and Buddha Baker. Now, it was my turn to experience this dude's snide demeanor first-hand.

I seriously thought about quiting, or just not showing up, but I talked myself into going in. I never came up with a good reason to go in, I just did it. It's like Tim Horton has me up against the boards and keeps cross-checking me in the back every time I get into a comfort zone at work.

Dwayne The Brain McClain never learned how to use the cash register, so he was unable to help me at all up front with drive-through customers. Zen and Buddha Baker warned me about this, so it wasn't a big shock, but still uncalled for. I mean, this guy has been working at Tim Hortons for a couple years now and he still doesn't know how to work the cash register? Bullshit.

Around midnight, Dwayne The Brain McClain suggested that I bring in my boom box, which I had in my car, so that I could listen to music. "It makes the time go faster," Dwayne The Brain McClain said. On the surface, this sounded like a nice suggestion, but the problem was that Dwayne The Brain McClain was already blaring Rush from the back. I thought he might turn down Rush a bit when I brought in my boom box, nope; instead my Animal Collective CD had to compete with Rush and the oldies playing in the lobby. This proved to be an impossible environment to take orders, so I just gave up.

A couple hours later, Dwayne The Brain McClain switched his radio over to "Love Lines." At this awkward point, he asked me, "Can you believe the crazy things that people ask about sex on this show?"

I hadn't been listening to the show because I was too busy taking orders, so I replied, "What are people asking about?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Dwayne The Brain McClain. "Just things about sex."

I gave him a blank stare, then it dawned on me that Dwayne The Brain McClain probably thinks that women's breasts feel like bags of sand. For a couple minutes I felt bad for the guy, but then I became paranoid. We were alone. He was going to make a move on me. I never got within 10 feet of him for the rest of night.

I need to have a serious talk with my Mundane Manager about never working at the Springfield store ever again.

felonies

Of course, when Zen Buddha told me that there are people with felonies on their record working at Tim Hortons I had to know who, and with a little bit of persuasion - and a promise not to tell anyone - I got it out of her.

Drum roll please.

The Buddha Baker and The Sensible Skinhead both have felonies on their records. Now, I didn't push the envelope, so I don't know exactly what they did, but I do know that their crimes were worse than drug possession. How do I know? Well, Zen Buddha told me that Fat Moe has a drug possession felony on his record - a lot of pot with intent to sell. Apparently, what The Buddha Baker and The Sensible did was worse, according to Zen Buddha.

At first, I was really taken aback. I work with The Buddha Baker and The Sensible Skinhead the most, but then I got to thinking - look out. The Buddha Baker and The Sensible Skinhead are the two hardest working, by the book people at work. They are constantly telling me, "No, I don't want to do that because we might get in trouble."

Now, I kind of feel bad about referring to them as suck-ups in past blogs. My advice for anyone that finds out that they are working with someone with felony on their record is to schedule as many shifts as possible with them. They will be the hardest workers you will come across. Disclaimer: I don't think that The Buddha Baker and The Sensible Skinhead are sex offenders, or I won't want to work with them.

I don't want to speculate any more on what they did, but I think I can get the Zen Buddha to tell me in the coming weeks.

homeless, homeless

I worked with Zen Buddha last night and it came to my attention that her boyfriend was homeless. He slept in her car in the Tim Hortons' parking lot. I understand that everyone gets down on their luck once and awhile, but as the night wore on I understood why this guy was homeless: he's ultra annoying.

From 10-11 p.m. Zen Buddha's boyfriend - let's call him Fat Moe - hung out in the lobby. While in the store Zen Buddha and Fat Moe got down on some good ole fashion cutesy talk. Fat Moe only took time-outs to point at me and say,"But he's here." After Fat Moe made mention of me a couple times I told Zen Buddha that he couldn't stay in the store all night.

But even after we locked the doors at 11 p.m., Fat Moe didn't really go away. Twice the store phone rang and right before I picked it up it stopped ringing, no answer. The third time the phone rang - "Can I speak with Zen Buddha?"

"Yeah, no problem," I said glaring out into the parking lot.

Then around 2:30 a.m. a car flew through the drive-through without ordering. Suddenly, Fat Moe was at the window – "Can I speak with Zen Buddha?"

Zen Buddha explained to me that Fat Moe had to come into store to use the bathroom. She didn't want him driving around with her mom's car because Fat Moe was still on probation. I guess I couldn't argue with that.

Later in the night, Zen Buddha told me that she's trying to get Fat Moe a job at Tim Hortons. Fat Moe has been applying all over the place, but it has been hard for him to get hired since he has a felony on his record. Zen Buddha went on to say that Fat Moe should be able get a job at Tim Hortons because there are plenty of other people that we work with that have felonies on their records.

"Oh, yeah, that's a good sign," I told her.

"the lights are still out. the lights are still out."

For one reason or another the exterior lights - including the drive-through menu lights - go out about five times a night. The darkness decreases the number of customers, which is nice.

On the flip side, we usually get about five customers that morph into Paul Revere when the lights are out. They must deliver the message, the message of darkness. My usual response is, "Yeah, that happens a lot."

But the other night, we had a lady get crazy about it. First, she told me through the intercom, "I can't see anything. I don't know what to order. Do you know that your lights are out?". Then she pulled up and started banging on the window, yelling "The lights are still out. The lights are still out!"

I decided to play along, freak-out about it too - even though I couldn't of cared less. I opened the window and yelled, "Oh, my, god. No! The lights are still out? Don't worry, I will take care of this." With that said, I sprinted to the back of the store to the light switch, flipped it on. I sprinted back to the window to build up a bit of a sweat and to make sure that I was gasping for air - add some drama, you know.

"That was totally unacceptable," I found myself saying to the lady, who nodded in approval of my mania. "I will have a serious conversation with my manager in the morning about this is serious issue. I hope this never happens again."

"I'm glad," she replied, then drove off with her small pop and breakfast sandwich.

I still haven't talked to my manager about the lights going out and I don't have any serious plans to do so.

a little change is needed

Occasionally, yes, I'll admit, I do mess up and give people the wrong change back - forgot a nickel here, not enough pennies there. After I realize my mistake - or the customer alerts me - I say, "sorry," I fix the problem, boom, we move on, next order.

Last night I shorted this business-type a quarter, the most prized coin in American currency, while we were slammed with customers. I didn't realize my mistake, so the this guy had to two options: Forget about it and get to work, or alert me. Of course, he decided on the latter.

Not only did he decide on the latter, but he alerted me in probably the rudest way possible: he laid in on his car horn. If that wasn't enough, his next move confirmed that this guy was a complete dick. He held out the change that I had already given him in silence, so that I could figure out for myself that I shorted him a quarter.

The silence was what really bothered me. I mean, at least, he could have told me that he was penny-pinching dickwad with no concept of manners, but no, he had to keep quiet about it. He needed to make me feel foolish, so that he can feel superior to me - a tormented, poor Tim Hortons' employee. Party on, dickwad.

baby girl

When I went into work Tuesday night the Sensible Skinhead was there. He didn't have to work. He was just there - such a suck-up. It got worse when he opened his mouth. He kept saying to me, "You're making baby girl bake? Why are you making baby girl bake? I never make baby girl bake."

OK, let's get a couple things straight. First, baby girl is Zen Buddha - niece to The Buddha Baker. Zen Buddha, or baby girl, got hired in at the same time as the Sensible Skinhead and I. The difference between me and those two is that they both work five, or six days a week. I work two, sometimes three.

They both have baked plenty of times - even though The Sensible Skinhead says he never makes Zen Buddha bake, she knows what she is doing because The Buddha Baker has taught her niece well.

If I baked, then everything won't get made. The Timbits and half the donuts won't get made. Who wants to walk into a Tim Hortons with no Timbits and half the donuts made? I don't. Tim Hortons without its Timbits and donuts is like a porn site without nudity.

So, yes, I made baby girl bake and The Sensible Skinhead needs to get a hobby, besides shaving his head and hanging out a Tim Hortons when he isn't scheduled to work.

taking the edge off

So, before going into work last night I decided to take the edge off a bit and had a some red wine. It felt good to have a nice buzz, to be breaking the rules because I work with so many suck-ups. My co-workers, who are all deathly afraid of being written-up, rubbed off on me and made me paranoid - but no more.

I actually had a decent time at work last night because I had conversations with the drive-through stoners. I took an hour-and-half break to read some stories in The New Yorker. I gave some kid a half-off discount after he told me that he had been driving around egging houses.

Yeah, my Mundane Manager yelled at me in the morning because I hadn't shaved, but what can I expect? I'm working in a "Hell Hole" - think the Spinal Tap tune.

down

I don't think things can go on like this. I need to quit soon. I don't care. The money sucks. The hours suck. I'm compromising my will to live. I need a haircut and a good snack for once in my life. No more. No more. Oh, alas, no more.

i don't feel like talking about it

I don't feel like talking about Tim Hortons today - give me a break.

tale from the Buddha Baker

During a cigarette break the other night, The Buddha Baker told me that one of the girls working at our sister store in Springfield is selling drugs out of the drive-thru at night - not hard drugs, but dime bags.

At first I pretended to be disgusted by this girl's - who will be named Sassy Sally - behavior. I had to pretend because I didn't really care and the more I thought about it the more I agreed with what Sassy Sally was doing. If Tim Hortons was paying Sassy Sally more than minimal wage she won't have to be selling drugs out of the drive-thru. I am glad she's being proactive to fix the problem of minimal wage.

If selling drugs out of the drive-thru wasn't so dangerous I would probably do it myself and I kind of wish I still smoked pot, so I could get the staff discount over at the Springfield store.

4:30 a.m.

4:30 a.m. is a great time at Tim Hortons because a ton of customers try to order breakfast sandwiches, but we don't start selling them until 5:00 a.m. - haha.

I had this lady last night, right around 4:30 a.m., that delved into this elaborate breakfast-sandwich order with cheese croissants, packets of jelly, sides of butter, when I had to interrupt her, "Whoa, whoa, slow down lady, we don't sell breakfast sandwiches until 5 a.m."

"What?" I heard her yelp into my headset, then she proceeded to pull up to the window, so that she could yell at me in person, which is fine by me because I don't get paid any less or more if the customer is happy. Actually, I prefer that the customers aren't happy if they are rude.

She listed many reasons for why we should serve breakfast sandwiches at her convenience. I gave her my best blank stare, occasionally saying, "OK." After the third "OK," she asked me if I was getting smart?

I told her that, "I would be stupid to get smart," and she sped off toward McDonalds. Score one for the good side.

return of pricky pete

That guy, Pricky Pete, who I played soccer with in high school called me the other day. Luckily, I didn't pick up. This was the last person I thought would call me - besides maybe my stupid ex-girlfriends - since I told him that there is no god when he came through the drive-through awhile back. I don't even know where he got my cell phone number, but those god-lovers are crafty and creepy.

Pricky Pete probably wants to show me the way, the right way, but god is going to have to show me a sign before you see me, The Doctor Donut, at any stuffy church standing up, kneeling, sitting down and singing hymns out of tune. The best way that god can show me a sign is to give me a raise a Tim Hortons, so I am making more than minimal wage. Also, I would like all of the bottled water at Tim Hortons to turn to wine.

I don't pray to god, so I am not counting on a sign - in the form of a raise - but if for some reason I do get a raise on my next paycheck it better be a big one and then I will think about getting drunk off Tim Hortons' wine and going to church, but only if I have the day off and nothing better to do.

i'll be honest

I've tried to keep the blogs fresh, but I will be honest: I haven't worked in over a week and I am running out of material. I think someone has figured out my real identity and location.

Not only has someone figured me out, but this snitch told my Mundane Manager about my blog. And what do you know? I am barely on the schedule these days. Well, if you have something to say to me, I am working tomorrow night. Come through the drive-through at midnight if you aren't yellow; I will make sure that your coffee is, bitch.

fog blog

A couple of days ago it was extremely foggy outside all night, so every time a customer came through the drive-through I would end the transaction by saying, "good luck out there." Most people appreciated this sentiment on the night of the fog, and for some reason I liked ending my transactions that way, so I have stuck with it.

I feel like customers need to hear it - "good luck out there" - if their job is so shitty that they have to get up before 5 a.m. The best part about the saying is that some of the really macho dudes that come through get really offended by me saying this because they don't need luck; instead, they have testosterone.

I actually had a dude flick me off the other night because I told him "good luck out there," but most of the macho dudes just tell me that "they don't need luck" and then peel off. In my opinion, if a dude can't handle hearing "good luck" than he has some sort of complex and it has to do with the size of his penis.

high school reunion, yay!

Working at Tim Hortons is only like one notch above working at McDonalds, so it's embarrassing when someone that I went to high school comes through the drive-through. This has only happened once, but that was enough. I masked my embarrassment by being rude to my old high school classmate (notice that I keep referring to him as a "classmate," and not a "friend" because we never were friends and never will be after our encounter at Tim Hortons.

Any who, I played soccer with this guy that ordered around 4:30 a.m. the other night. When he pulled up I immediately recognized him - he still has that inane grin and block-head haircut from high school - but hoped that he, let's call him Prickly Pete, wouldn't remember me.

Alas, the first words of out of Prickly Pete's mouth were, "Hey, uh, don't I, uh, know you from somewhere?"

"Did you say that you wanted two, or three creams in your coffee?" I quickly retorted hoping to change the subject and speed up the transaction.

"We played soccer together, yeah, that's how I know you. How's it going, bro?"

"Pretty shitty," I replied, then something came out of my mouth from pure habit, "So, what have you been up to?"

"Oh, you know, I have been working a lot," said Prickly Pete. "And I have been going to church."

I pounced on this statement. "Geeze, bro, I am sorry to hear that because there is no god. Haven't you learned anything since high school? Oh, and hey, there is a car waiting behind you, so I guess I will catch you on the flip-side, bro."

Prickly Pete pulled away with his mouth so wide open a whole clan of killer mosquitoes could have flown in. I kind of hope at least one did.

rabies update

There is some good news, and with that comes some bad news concerning whether or not The Buddha Baker has rabies. First, the good: The Buddha Baker has not been foaming at the mouth, or sporadically having fits of rage - both good signs. Also, there has not been complaints from customers claiming to have contracted rabies due to an infected muffin, or donut that they munched on at the Tim Hortons that The Buddha Baker and I work at.

Unfortunately, the bad news out weighs the good. The most startling revelation is that the baby kittie that bite The Buddha Baker has disappeared along with momma kittie from behind the store. So either the cats died from rabies, died from another cause - hit by car, eaten by raccoon, etc., etc. - or they have found a home.

The other glaring case of bad news is that The Buddha Baker has not gone to see a doctor (besides me Doctor Donut) to check, double-check if she has the crazy animal disease. In my opinion, she might want to see a real doctor because I am only a self-proclaimed doctor of donuts. The only thing I have ever prescribed were more sprinkles.

I haven't started my campaign to raise money to save The Buddha Baker's life, yet, for one reason: The Buddha Baker smokes Newport 100s. I have heard that there is fiber glass in those cigarettes and Newports might be a better medicine than anything some real doctor could prescribe. Newports will kill off anything in The Buddha Baker's body including her lungs and rabies.

you're wrong, litte miss thang

I always dread working the midnight shift on Thursday because Friday morning is absolutely crazy with stupid customers, but I worked Thursday night last week. On Friday morning, business men order four dozens donuts to bring into the office and strung-out postal workers flip-out when we accidental put three creams in their coffee, instead of three-and-half - whatever, man, whatever.

But the worst customer was this lady, who looked to be a secretary, that came through the drive-through and ordered a muffin and coffee, which is a perfectly fine order, but the problem was during the money transaction. She handed me a five and then I gave her back her change. As I was handing her her muffin she announced that she had given me a twenty and not a five. She was wrong, but I told her I that I would entertain the thought and checked the register. She was wrong. We only had three twenties in the till and I could remember the three customers that the twenties came from. She wasn't one of the three.

Of course, the lady threw a royal fit and asked to see my manager. I calmly told her, with a smile on my face, that my manager didn't come in for another hour and that I could give her my manager's cell phone, so that she could wake up my manager and bother her at home.

For some reason, the secretary lady didn't want my manager's cell phone number, which I would have been happy to give her; instead, she informed me that I hadn't seen the last of her, which I replied, "great, we always like our customers to come again, and come often."

confession

Of course, my favorite thing to do at Tim Hortons is to frazzle annoying customers, but I have a confession to make about my second favorite thing to do at work.

Every night I mop the floors, which includes both the men and women's bathroom. In the bathrooms (also in the dining area) we play oldies music. We don't play just any Dick Clark lame collection either, we play some pretty badass oldies - Santo & Johnny, The Flamingos, Question Mark and the Mysterians, T. Rex, Bob Dylan, Broker T & The M.G's, Etta James, etc., etc.

And every night while I am mopping the floors in the bathroom I pause, take off my headset and just dance to a whole song in each bathroom. There is nothing better than just letting it all hang out to some badass oldies tune with a mop in your hand and a uniform on your back while staring at yourself in the mirror acting crazy.

When I'm really shaking it down in the Tim Hortons' bathroom the stress of the lonely housewives, who order 6 ice caps, and the anal business men, who order a cafe mocha with half regular coffee and other with decaf, goes away - no customer exists, money isn't a problem and I don't have any late-night checklist to follow.

the doors won't lock

So last night we couldn't find the keys to lock the doors, so we were forced to leave dining area open all night. I have heard they keep the doors open all night at the some 24-hour Tim Hortons, but in the surrounding where I work robberies are somewhat commonplace , so we lock the doors at night.

A lot of shady characters come through late at night: strip club customers, strippers, truck drivers and drug dealers. All night, I heard yelling noises and I swore that I saw I people's faces in the store front windows more than a couple times. Basically, if ever there was I night that I would try to recapture in a horror movie it would have been last night when we couldn't lock the doors.

Alas, no one tried to come in, and on second thought: I am starting to think that I over-reacted to the situation and I kind of feel like a pansy. I have to go back into work in like half-an-hour and I kind of hope that we don't have the key again tonight and some grizzly trucker, strung-out stripper, or hopeless bottle-collector comes in. I mean, at least tomorrow's blog we be extra exciting.

revenge on the muffin man

Every late shift that I have worked there is this old guy that drives-through at 5:15 a.m. and orders the same thing. He orders three blueberry muffins, which sounds like a very sensible and, I guess, cute order; but for some reason the muffin man is unable to make the transaction without pissing me off.

The first time the muffin man, who I'll assign the name of Dick, came through for his muffins I handed them to him. In reply to my muffin offering, Dick said to me, with his right arm in the halt position, "Oh, no. This won't do. The bag is too small." This signaled to me that the muffin man's real name is probably Dick.

Another one of Dick's tricks is to tell me what his total is before I get a chance to, which is probably one of the most annoying things on this planet. I don't care that you know what three blueberry muffins costs: $3.27! If your life wasn't so boring, Dick, then you wouldn't know what your total was before you ordered.

It's obvious that Dick has a gut-wreckingly boring life and he only finds salvation in picking on the little guys, so now I mess with him each time he comes through. It brings me joy. You can judge me if you want to. I just to throw him off because he's such an ass-munch and never orders anything different.

So last night I saw him driving around, so I answered the beep,"Thank you for choosing Tim Hortons, would you like to try five blueberry bran muffins?"

"No, just three."

"Okie dokie, three blueberry bran muffins, $3.27, pull up."

"No, no, no, I don't want bran muffins. Just three blueberry."

"You said bran, no problem."

"No, no, regular blueberry."

And then I didn't say anything and pretended not to hear him, then I heard Dick's truck pull up. Next thing, he was pounding on the window. I took my time walking over to, and opening the window.

"Here are your muffins, sir," I said and handed the muffins to him. He gave me the halt signal.

"No, no, no, I wanted three regular blueberrys."

"I know. That's why there are three in the bag, with a couple napkins. Have a nice day."

killer mosquito

Some of the drive-thru customers may have thought I was practicing Karate this morning, but in fact, there was a kamikaze mosquito that just wouldn't die. The devil-worshiping insect repeatedly dive-bombed into my hairnet and ear. This left me itchy, agitated and thirsty for revenge.

I had the bugger in my sites a few times, but each time that I had the killer mosquito in the cross hairs another customer would ring-in at the drive-thru and I would have to fill the order.

It should be mentioned that I was forced to work at the Tim Hortons in, let's say Springfield, which is across town from the one that I usually work at last night. Apparently, the Springfield Tim Hortons has double the customers and to compensate for the larger number of customers the workers only do about half the cleaning.

Whenever I fast-food restaurant (I don't care what you say, Tim Hortons is fast-food. Our coffee is just better than burger joints) doesn't keep up on it's cleaning the bugs come. I haven't had any major problems with bugs at the regular Tim Hortons that I work at, but the Springfield store had ants and killer mosquitoes, so my advice for all you Tim Hortons lovers out there: Go to the most out-of-the-way Tim Hortons because as the service may be slower the inside of the store will be cleaner. Those heavy traffic Tim Hortons are dirty, my people.

crazy little kids (part 2)

I wish I could say that there was only one instance of bad behavior by little kids on Sunday in the dining area at Tim Hortons, but then I wouldn't be telling the truth. I should note that this instance was much more enjoyable for me because I was able to laugh at the little brat, not with him, but at him.

Apparently, there is this mom that comes in with her kids after church every Sunday - we think that they are Lutheran. She brought her two kids, a boy and a girl, but she also brought along two other boys about her son's age, which I would estimate to be around 9 or 10.

The mom, a very cordial lady, wanted me to put the kid's donuts on separate plates since they would be eating in the dining area, which was fine by me. She had each kid tell me what they wanted and I put it on a plate for them, also fine by me.

The drama went down when the bunch sat down. Perceivable one of the boys, that wasn't the son of the cordial mom, only ordered two donuts; whereas, the other two boys ordered three. The mom stood her ground and didn't let the boy order another donut because really all he wanted were two; he only wanted three because that is what the other two boys had (by the way, three donuts seems like a lot of donuts for a nine-year-old, but the kids did have to sit through a church service and probably deserved a little extra treat).

So the boy with only two donuts started to whimper, then some tears ran down his face and then it was full-blown sobbing. And still the mom didn't give in; rather, she removed him from the kid's table and made the cry baby sit with her - haha.

Now, I don't know how the rest of you, out there in cyberspace, were raised, but I never cried when another mom was taking care of me unless I was seriously hurt - it's just rude. This mom took a little brat to Tim Hortons - a treat for all ages - and bought him donuts and a milk. I could have brought the kid out an extra donut free of charge for the baby, but I didn't because the mom was right in laying down the law. Plus, I think I would have been laughing too hard at the little brat to give him an extra donut.

crazy little kids

So I finished off my second morning shift for the week today and I found more reasons to hate the morning shift. The most blaring annoyance came as a result of an abundance of crazy little kids in the dining area.

First of all this family - mom, dad and two little ones - came in and started demanding breakfast sandwiches as if the family, as a whole, wasn't fat enough. This wasn't a big deal because I have gotten used to fat people demanding breakfast sandwiches. It's just part of what you sign-up for if you work at Tim Hortons. I could start a whole new blog about the fat people getting their suspenders in a bunch about the breakfast sandwiches, but I won't go there.

Anyway, the problem came when the foursome sat down with their food. The problem was that the two little ones didn't sit down; instead, the roamed around the dining area looking for anything that they could displace while their parents just thought it was the funniest thing since the Borat movie.

Their kids opened a cabinet in our display area and started pulling out travel mugs and placing them randomly around the dining area - hilarious. Then the little ones moved on to the coffee canisters and did the same - absolutely amusing.

The best part of the whole ordeal is that the parents made no attempt to put back the displaced items, rather they just informed me, as they were leaving, that we shouldn't leave stuff out for their kids to move around - thanks for the heads up, assholes.

(There will be a part 2 of the "crazy little kids" blog tomorrow)

different types of stoners

For whatever reason my Mundane Manager put me on the morning shift the other day. I had to work from 6 a.m. to 10 a.m. and tomorrow I have to work from 6 a.m. to 2 p.m. - bummer. I need the hours so I won't complain too much, but when I was hired I made it clear that I wanted to work the late shift. I don't like a lot of customers and I'm not a morning person, simply as that.

One thing I did notice when I worked the morning shift the other day was that the stoners act much different in the morning compared to the restful hours between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. I was actually a little surprised to see stoners up so early. What I witnessed was the construction-worker-stoner crew.

A pick-up truck, filled with three construction workers, pulled into the drive-through at about 7:30 a.m. They knew exactly what they wanted - two Ice Caps and a black coffee - which is very different from the stoners who drive through at 3:30 a.m. and change their mind about what type of donuts they want at least three times.

When these three construction-worker stoners pulled up to the drive-through window a cloud of pot smoke bellowed into Tim Hortons. The girl who handed the guys their drinks and change said, "I think I'm stoned and I don't even smoke," after they pulled off. This stoner behavior was in complete contrast to the late-night stoners. The late-night stoners are almost always paranoid and don't want you to know, at any cost, that they are stoned; whereas, the construction crew could care less because they know that the 5-0 aren't looking for stoners at 7:30 a.m. like they are between midnight and 3:30 a.m. Plus, the construction crew feels entitled to be stoned because they still plan to be productive - build a house, lay some cement, or something to that effect.

communication breakdown

Customers take on the persona of Louis the 14th (the Sun King) when they pull up to the drive-through intercom because they don't listen, don't take no for answer and don't use common sense. I think most customers have really terrible jobs, so whenever they have a chance to feel superior to another human they do so.

I mean, after I tell a customer that we only have two everything bagels there is really no need for him to order half a dozen everything bagels, but I had a customer do that last night. He didn't hear me wrong. He just thought I was lying to him - "You caught me sir, we actually have 20 fresh everything bagels right here at my finger tips. I don't know why I lied. I am sorry."

When I hear the beep (which means a car - or sometimes a bunch of kids on bikes - has pulled up to order) I immediately say, "Welcome to Tim Hortons, would you like to try and an Ice Cap?" and at least 50 times I have had customers say to me, in response, "No, I want large Ice Cap." It's like I am too stupid to know what they could possibly want, so even when I am right I am wrong because the customer is king and I am just the lonely jester here to screw-up your order and occasionally amuse you with my stupidity - please, please, don't cut off my head!

the customer is always right

At about 3:30 a.m. last night, an odd voice transmitted into my headset - the voice of a kid that had just hit puberty and had a lisp. He ordered two drinks - small mocha and coke - but then he ordered something he deemed "an original bagel." I figured that he was talking about a plain bagel, (he was) and as I was clarifying his bagel choice with him I could hear two voices in the background calling the kid a "faggot, faggot," and then asking him, "Why do you have to be such a faggot?"

Personally, I'm not a big fan of the word faggot when it's used to hurt, but I have been taught from day one at Tim Hortons that the customer is always right, so I didn't step in. If these kids wanted to call their friend a faggot, it was okay because, at the time, they were customers.

It didn't dawn on me right way, but as I was toasting the "original bagel" I started to consider how three kids, that all sounded like they were 14, got their hands on a car. You have to have a car to go through the drive-through, right? The dining-area was closed at this time. Did these kids steal a car because they saw no other way to get Tim Hortons' food and drinks? I know people really like our coffee and donuts, but is it good enough to steal a car?

I carried the order to the drive-through window and there were three 14-year-olds on bikes! Not Harley Davidsons. Huffys. Not only were the 14-year-olds out on bikes at 3:30 a.m. Wednesday night, but they all had cigarettes in hand. My first reaction was to ask, "Where are the parents?" I didn't pry though because whatever bullshit our customers are up to they are still always right.

you can bank on that

If you have been reading along you might mistakenly get the impression that working the late shift at Tim Hortons is all sunshine, lollipops and stoners coming through the drive-through, but I am here to tell you that you are wrong. Yeah, I have touched on some negative things like The Buddha Baker perhaps having rabies, and drug deals going down in the bathroom and in the parking lot, but I don't believe I've really hit the nail on the head about the pains that go into an 8-hour midnight shift at Tim Hortons. It's not all ice caps and creme-filled donuts and you can bank on that!

Making egg salad at 1 a.m. is not like cooking a birthday cake for grandma in the afternoon. The eggs come out of a plastic bag smelling like Nicklas Lidstorm's jock strip after three periods of playoff hockey and an overtime period to boot. Not only do the eggs smell like butt, but you have to mix it in with mayonnaise (one of the more questionable condiments) and all these other stinky little vegetables. Even the eye of newt stew - you know, what the witches make - has to smell better. Nobody really orders an egg salad and I really don't know why we keep making it.

I know waiters and waitresses have to stand for long periods of time - yes, it sucks - but what really bothers about the food industry is wearing a hairnet - and for 8-hours straight. I feel like no good ideas can escape from my brain because the hairnet is holding in all of my imaginative thoughts. Plus, I feel like a lunch lady every time I slide one on.

The headset makes me feel like a robot. The Buddha Baker and I rarely ever talk face to face; instead, just through the headset. When I talk to customers in the drive-through line there is a real echo effect that makes me feel like I am giving an acoustic concert to an empty stadium. So unless I am saying things like, "10-4," "Over and out," "Chrrrer, I think we have a bad connection, chrrrrreeer," I don't like the headset because I am not a robot. I am man and you can bank on that!

who's in the bathroom?

The Buddha Baker and I are supposed to lock-up Tim Hortons at 11 p.m. and reopen the dining area at 5 a.m. Well, the other night we forgot to the lock the doors until 11:30 p.m. It didn't seem like a big deal until The Buddha Baker noticed a car in the parking lot, not running and with nobody inside.

The Buddha Baker asked if I had seen anyone in the dining area in awhile. I hadn't. The Buddha Baker started yelling out, "Hello? Anyone in here?" a couple of times - no response. I didn't think anything was suspicious, so I started toward the back to grab some supplies to stock the front. As I strolled to the back, I heard The Buddha Baker bellow out, "Oh, my, god!" I rushed to the front. The Buddha Baker was pointing toward the empty car in the parking lot. Two dark figures were rushing toward the car. The engine fired up and the car peeled out without pulling through the drive-through to order.

"What did they look like?" I asked The Buddha Baker. She explained that it was two guys in their late-teens. She said that they had sprinted out of the men's bathroom toward their car.

In my mind there were three possibilities.
One: It was a drug deal. Drug dealers and their clients like to make exchanges at businesses that are open 24-hours-a-day, like Tim Hortons. The problem with this theory is that the exchange usually occurs in the parking lot where two cars meet, then the deal goes down in one of the cars. In this case there was only one car, but from the way these two characters behaved they might just be rookies at the whole process.
Two: Gay love. Perhaps these two guys are still "in the closet," and they felt like a little make-out session in the Tim Hortons' bathroom would satisfy their needs, but still keep their preference a secret.
Three: Paranoid stoners. Maybe these guys were rolling around smoking, smoking and smoking some more and then they both realized that they needed to use the bathroom. They didn't want to go home to their parent's house just yet and saw our 24-hour sign. When The Buddha Baker yelled out, "Hello? Anyone in here?" a couple of times, they freaked and wanted to get out of Dodge as soon as possible.

No matter what these clowns were up to they need to learn to keep it cool, or at least learn how to pee into empty bottle while still cruising.

rabies

I hate to admit it, but my trusty co-worker The Buddha Baker might have rabies. About a week ago she was bitten by a wild animal behind Tim Hortons. I wasn't working the night she was bitten; I only know the story that she told.

Apparently, The Buddha Baker had been trying to catch this little kitten out back for awhile because she has a friend that's a vet. The Buddha Baker's plan was to trap the kitten, call her veterinary friend, and create a better life for little kitten. This wasn't some off-the-cuff scheme either. Every since the little kitten started coming around The Buddha Baker has been feeding it (and it's mom) chicken breasts to try and build up a relationship.

Well, about a week ago the little kitten let down her guard. The Buddha Baker snuck in behind it and grabbed the little fluff ball. Unfortunately, The Buddha Baker forgot to take into account the fact that the little kitten isn't used to being handled and when she grabbed it it freaked out like a soccer mom the day after Thanksgiving. The little kitten clawed, scratched and bite The Buddha Baker.

Where the kitten lives - near the trash bin behind Tim Hortons - there also lives this really fat raccoon and a skunk. If the little kitten was bitten by either the raccoon or the skunk there is a chance that the little kitten contracted rabies and perhaps past it on to The Buddha Baker - bummer, man. That's a bummer.

The Buddha Baker is pretty distraught. She doesn't have health insurance, so she hasn't gotten a rabies' shot. I am starting to think that I may need to start some sort of fundraiser (with those fancy wristbands that everyone seems to be wearing for a good cause these days) to help save The Buddha Baker. Hopefully she just doesn't have rabies and everything will be easier on everyone. So let us all bow our heads and hope upon hope that The Buddha Baker doesn't start foaming at the mouth any time soon.

the unmarked van

The Buddha Baker and I were taking a cigarette break around 2:30 a.m. last night when this white, unmarked, Econline Van pulls up around the back of Tims Hortons. "So, you guys partying?" yells the dude from the front seat. Dumbfounded, The Buddha Baker and I stare at each other trying to find something to say; Nothing comes. "I'm just messing, ha ha," says the dude.

So I walk inside and start taking the dude's order: two toasted bagels with cream cheese. Seemed like a pretty basic order and I make it (taking my time as not to cut myself on the bagel-cutter two nights in a row.)

I ring up the total - three bucks and some change - and open up the drive-through window to find the dude slumped over in his driver's seat, looking dead. "Here's your bagels, sir." The dude - late twenties, round and pretty clean cut - springs into action like someone being hit by lightening. He nearly slams his head against the roof of the unmarked van, but composes himself enough to inform me that: "I'm fucked up, man. I shouldn't be telling you this, but I am. I had a fight with my girlfriend, so I went out tonight."

"Here's your bagels, sir, maybe they will sober you up a bit," I say to the dude, noticing all the carpenter equipment loaded up in the back of the van. It appears that the dude has taken out the company van for a late night bender at the raunchy strip club just down the street from Tim Hortons. He is by himself, which makes me feel kind of bad for him, so when I give him back his change I tell him to watch out for the 5-0 and that I hope things work-out with his girlfriend.

Now, I don't usually wish people good luck with their personal life in the drive-through, so I just figured that the dude might let me keep his change - a buck and some change - as a tip, but no. While slamming one of the bagels into his mouth he grabbed the change and gave me a thumbs-up and drove off.

I hope the cops did pick up that sordid lush.