"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.