Me: Hiya, boss. I need some more hours.
Boss: Go away.
Me: So, sayyy... Saturday all day, off Sunday, and Monday in the afternoon?
Boss: Sure. See you then!
Actually, usually he texts me and then 10 seconds later calls me laughing at his own joke that he's JUST texted me. Sometimes he even reads his text out loud, word for word, just to make sure I took it all in.
For all his faults (no, no, you're perfect the way you are, Boss!) the dude has actually been pretty awesome during this recent bout of unemployment/underemployment. I told him I didn't want to sign up for more shifts because if a temp role came in I'd either have to turn the job down or leave the bar in a sticky situation. Not good options. So he said to come on in whenever I wanted, and he'd let some other staff leave early if they wanted, or he'd figure out something for me to do. Basically, I can set my own hours and he'll do his best to make it happen.
This past weekend I set my own hours. 30 of them in 3 days. And now, after I write this post, I'm going to go buy some Crocs for my poor achy feet. Yes, really. I have to do something, I literally limped home at the end of a 12 hour shift on Sunday.
And let me tell you about Sunday. On Friday (Good Friday), I sold more on the floor than I ever have. Including my previous stint at the same bar, and, I think, any other bar or restaurant I've ever worked at. Given inflation and conversion rates and maybe even some memory loss, I can't be 100% sure. But regardless, I sold almost a thousand pounds worth of food and drinks in a 5.5 hour shift. And the boss loved that.
So on Sunday, I was working a 12 hour shift, because we are short staffed and I need money. Wins all around (except for my poor feet, maybe). On my break, I tried to order some fries. This was because a)I have no money, and b)it's Passover, and while I'm not being uber religious I'm trying to avoid certain foods. My boss flipped. WTF was I doing trying to survive on fries? (I didn't dare tell him I'd been munching on olives and nuts all day, and one of the chefs had overcooked some eggs so he'd fed the to me too). I said I wasn't that hungry. He roared and called me a liar. Then he proceed to order me pretty much everything on the menu. Maybe a slight exaggeration, but not that much of one. The guys in the kitchen were baffled, but eventually brought me my feast. I couldn't come close to finishing it.
He said it's because he likes me, and because I've been doing a great job. I hope it wasn't pity. But either way, I'm keeping my head above the water.
Pour you a pint?
PS - And in case you were wondering... I didn't take the "dream job". I'm trying to build a life for myself here. It involves a killer job for sure, but it also involves weddings, softball, parental visits and a permanent job so I don't wind up job hunting again 6 months down the road. Not sure it was the right decision, but it was the one I made and I stand by that.
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