lousy pants

When I started six months ago The Mundane Manager handed me a pair of Tim Horton's pants that smelled like a lingering fart in a musty basement. The pants didn't have a button above the zipper, either.

The smell is a little better after many washes, but the button is still missing.

And without a button, my zipper is almost always either down, or on the way down. I would estimate that I have probably handed out around 1,000 coffees with my zipper completely down.

weird-o

Some weird-o pulls up to the intercom. He's ordering and ordering, but I can't hear him because his obnoxious diesel truck engine is louder than a Spinal Tab concert.

"Can you please pull up, sir? I can't hear you," I say.

"Why can't you hear me? You're the only one that can't hear me over my engine," he says at the window, and then proceeds to rev the engine. I start to think that the problem with his guy isn't under his hood, but in his trousers.

arby's sandwich

Zen Buddha brought this Arby's into work last night, but she didn't eat it right away. Around 2 a.m. she decided that it was go time, time to eat her roast beef sandwich.

"Fire, oh my god there is a fire," I heard Zen Buddha yelling.

I turned around to see ZB fling open the microwave. Inside her roast beef sandwich was on fire and still in the metallic wrapping.

"Oh, I forgot that I left the wrapping on."

unmarked van is a-rockin'

When I came into work the other day - grumpy and angry because I had to work - one of the daytime girls got all up in my grill, as she calls it.

"Guess what gangsta?" said the daytime girl, who, on a side note, is a very tiny, teenage white girl.

"What?"

"You don't have to be so mean, geeze, but I will tell you, anyway. There was like this white unmarked van sitting in the parking lot for like a whole hour. And no one from inside the van came in and ordered anything, then, a lady got out of the van to use our bathroom. Then the van just like drove off."

"So you think that they were doing some hard-core banging in the van?" I asked.

"God, like why do you have to put it that way? But yeah, I do. Gross, huh?"

"Everybody has urges, you know? And I'm glad the Tim Horton's parking lot can provide a safe haven for those urges."

"Like, totally, gross."

courtesy patrol van

One of those Courtesy Patrol Vans rolled up to the drive-thru window. The guy inside had ordered a large double-double.

"Can you put a sleeve on that," said the dude, then he handed me his money. "Wait, is the coffee hot?"

"Yeah, it's kind of hot," I said. Now, I said, "kind of hot," because there were two creams in it. Black coffee is really hot. A double-double is "kind of hot."

"No, never mind," he said. "I want my money back."

"Really? The coffee is fresh. I just..."

"Give me my money," he interrupted, then reached for his money that was still in my hand. "The last couple of times that I have been to Tim Hortons the coffee hasn't been hot. Give me my money. My coffee has to be hot and I am in a hurry. Now, give me my money."

"You aren't very nice," I said, then handed him back his money. My comment stunned The Courtesy Patrol Van dude, so he didn't start yelling at me until I had already closed the window and was waving goodbye to him.

It is now possible, and kind of likely, that The Mundane Manager will receive a phone call from The Courtesy Patrol Van dude in the near future.

roast beef

The other night Zen Buddha walked toward me with one of her eyes twitching and she was foaming at the mouth.

"I think that we are going to start making roast beef sandwiches pretty soon," she said. "There is a new button on the ovens for roast beef."

"Do you think that is a good thing?"

"Yes, it will be great. I will have one everyday that I work."

"What else do you put on a roast beef sandwich besides roast beef?" I asked because I have never had a roast beef sandwich. I was vegetarian for two years of my life and I still really eat beef.

"I might put some cheddar cheese and hot sauce on it."

At that point, I realized that I better choose my words wisely because Zen Buddha is going to have a heart attack in a couple years. She already eats breakfast sandwiches without the bun, just sausage, egg, cheese, and hot sauce. She eats two of those every morning.

"Let the force be with you, Zen Buddha," I said and then got back to cleaning.

the zipper from hell

In the bitter cold I strapped on my new coat and set out to dispose of the trash - six bags full and 15 folded up boxes. As I was taking out the first load I noticed that the zipper on my coat had gravitated upward, leaving an unzipped area at the bottom - not good. When I tried to force the zipper back down it was stuck. Again, and again, and again I tried to set the zipper right in the bitter cold, no use.

Eureka! I got the bright idea to pull the zipper all up, even though it wasn't catching properly. So now, the zipper was all the way up and my coat was fully unzipped. I figured the zipper would unhinge at the top. I was wrong. It was even more stuck. I yanked, pulled, adjusted, re-adjusted, no use. My fingers were popsicles. My demeanor was low.

I now realized that my head wasn't going to fit through the hole. To make matters worse I was still wearing my headset, which was now lodged in my coat's head hole. I began to panic. I starting flanging around in the parking lot trying to get my coat off. Finally, I riped the headset loose and threw it to the ground. Next came my Tim Horton's visor and my hair net, but still my coat was stuck.

Slowly, I began to stretch the coat opening over my head, but as it started to go over my head it was riping strains of my hair out of my head. I hated everything at this point. I got the coat off. I was super stressed. I took a half an hour break. I didn't speak and I made Zen Buddha take all the orders.

little help from my commercials

I was watching TV, as I sometimes do to get my mind off the bitter realities of order-taking at Tims. Specifically, I was watching a basketball game and if you have ever indulged in a hard-fought b-ball game on the old tube then you know that there are a lot of breaks in the action, a lot of commercials, people.

During every interruption there was a commercial for Tim Hortons. At first, I walked out of the room when these babies came on because I felt like I was ODing on Tim Hortons. I mean, watching a Tim Horton's commercial for me, is kind of like watching commercials about the strength of rope after your next door neighbor just hung your favorite cat - Mittens - with rope, which is not cool, not cool.

But around the third quarter I started to get lazy. I remained on the couch watching these commercials, which I realized were all about the Bagel BELT. I reflected back to an old blog that I had written about how only mental-challenged people ordered the Bagel BELT.

In the commercial, a shot of bacon showed up on the screen and the announcer said "B." Then egg, "E." Then lettuce, "L." Then tomato, "T." Was this Sesame Street, or a Tim Horton's commercial? The announcer then explained that the Bagel BELT is just like a regular BLT, but with an "E," with means egg.

So, the target audience for these commercials is either people who live in a half-way house, or can't read - maybe both. I can't wait until all of our new customers come through the drive-thru trying to learn their ABCs while ordering the Bagel BELT. Great, just great.

the staff is a-changin'

So there is a new Kohls opening near Tim Hortons and a bunch of the daytime girls are applying. It's very hush, hush. Don't tell The Mundane Mundane.

Well, the other day one of the daytime girls told Zen Buddha that she should apply.

"Like totally, you should apply, Zen Buddha."

"Kohls, no way, I can't apply at Kohls," ZB replies.

"Like yes you can. You just go online and apply."

"I know how to apply, but they won't hire me."

"Like why?"

"Well, I am not even allowed in the Kohls' parking lot because I got caught stealing a bunch of stuff there last year. Kohls' security people took my mugshot and if they catch me in the store, or even near the store I could get in hella trouble."

"Like wow, Zen Buddha. You's a gangsta."

"Yeah, I have sneaked into Kohl's a couple times since, but I didn't buy, or steal anything."

more about the sensible skinhead

I have always sort of been on the fence about whether or not The Sensible Skinhead is good person. Yeah, he has been to jail, but that doesn't necessarily define his goodness, or badness.

A good person according to Doctor Donut: 1. Someone who doesn't maliciously lie to their friends 2. Is generally nice to others, unless provoked otherwise 3. Isn't completely engulfed by pop culture.

Here are some of The Sensible Skinhead traits, you can decide what type of person he is:
1. Always comes into work pissed-off, but lightens up as the night goes on.
2. Lies to impress co-workers. For example, tells Buddha Baker he has been 2 years sober and then tells me he went out drinking last night.
3. Strippers come to visit him at Tim Hortons to show off their new boob jobs.
4. Talks on one of those tiny cell phone attachments that go in your ear all night.
5. Went to go see "I Am Legend," but didn't know anything about "Sweeney Todd."
6. Sends me text message images of naked women.
7. Can perfectly impersonate any voice and recite large chunks of dialogue from movies and TV.

leather face/ex-wife

I worked with The Sensible Skinhead last night. His whole left arm is now tattooed.

"Is that new?" I asked. I couldn't help from asking. It looked like a horror movie poster on his arm - big stitches and mutilated faces all over the place.

He turned over his arm. "This is supposed to be a cross between an ex-wife and leather face," he said, pointing at the disfigured and bloody face. "It turned out really well."

"Have you been thinking about doing this for awhile?"

"Well," he said. "This guy from California, Eggroll, just tattoos me while we watch TV. He has won awards all over the world for tattooing."

"Why did Eggroll move to Michigan?"

"Oh, he lost his license in California," The Sensible Skinhead said. "And you don't need a license here."

"Really."

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.