My job is easy. I work in a donut shop. Tim Hortons. Actually, I have two totally different jobs: first, I work in the front. The can-I-help-you guy. There's only one other can-I-help-you guy besides me, and he's the store manager. The other job I have is baking muffins, and preparing donuts.
The front is easywork. Clean up, serve customers. Fill sandwich counter. Menial, but fun. I get all my shit done--aside from serving whatever customers there are--by, say, 1:30. Two and a half hours.
The back (bakery) is not so easy. You're constantly rushing. Five hours to tend to dozens and dozens of muffins, and also the croissants and danishes. It's not hard work, by definition. In fact, it's downright simple. But you have to work quickly, in order to get all your muffins out front in a decent time, so that you can have time for cleanup, and smoke breaks. This particular job does not leave time for breaks. At all. You're constantly moving. It's usually wise to bother one of the front people to get a drink or a sandwich for you--that's how deep it is.
So anyway, last night, I was muffin man. Everyone did a fair job of leaving me alone all night--it takes time away to even talk to other assholish cow orkers--so I did great! I finished early, had time for a somewhat decent cleanup of the place, then donuts arrived at 4:00. We don't bake the donuts at our store. They are sent, plain, from another store, and it's my job to fill them, top them off, powder them, whatever. This is pretty easy work, in comparison to the rushrushrush of the muffinwork.
This doesn't mean that you don't have to move quickly--indeed you do. You've got six hundredish donuts to take care of, in various ways, and three hundred Timbits. Not bad. If you move fast-fast, you can have most of this done in the last three hours of the day (today it took me until 6:10 (two hours and ten minutes). I would have been done much more quickly had I not had repeated interruptions by my dumbish co-worker, who we'll call "Jane". Jane, it seems, has difficulty associating with anyone. Her social skills are clearly subpar, even though her ability to work is stellar. She works very well, but has the unfortunate habit of making passes at every single male who walks through the door (or drives through drive-thru), despite the customer's comfort level. Some days, you can hear a man's thoughts, as if transmitted directly into your forebrain, just by the look in his eyes:
uh...yeah, sure lady, ok, go away now
But she doesn't give up and never learns from her actions. It's as if she's slightly outside the rest of humanity--incommunicado in some ways. To make things worse, she flaunts her physical attributes, by stroking her brastraps unabsently, and playing coy for people who don't care. Mostpeople don't care or don't notice, but otherpeople do, and are moderately discomfited by her displays; I know for sure that I am.
Jane comes to help me when I am having troubles baking. I haven't been baking for very long, so I haven't found The Beat yet. Believe me, once I find The Beat, I am telling her to Fuck Off, and Don't Come Back Into My Kitchen. But for now, she helps. Mostly. Today she did not, however.
Today, she was all over the place, topping donuts, getting in the way. When I had just about completed a tray, she decided to take donuts off of it, to top them. This is a nono. You don't get in the baker's way when he's feeling the groove. Especially when said baker is sick and tired of your lame displays of affection towards strangers who don't really care who you are. I tried to explain the problem to her.
"I'm trying to fill these and you're getting in my way."
"I know," she says, "but you're behind, you're supposed to have all of these donuts out by five o'clock. It's past that now."
"I'm well aware of that, and I don't give a shit." I don't; I'm not fast enough yet to do that. I'll get them out at five when I'm able.
"Well, that's a great attitude to have."
"I know that, now, leave my donuts alone, please." Meekly, she trundles away.
I am left alone for twenty minutes or so, when Jane comes back, and starts grabbing shit out of my hands. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I want--"
"Okay, I don't care what you want, Jane. Seriously. I'll get these out when I get them out."
"Jeez, you don't--" At this point, she starts to carry my fondant away! (The fondant is the topping for the donuts.)
Now, I'm finally upset. I raise my voice, and I rarely ever do that. "Okay Jane, get the fuck out of here, you're totally in my way. I don't need your help, you choose to come back here. I'm busy, I'm working, and you're fucknig it all up, taking things from my hands, no less, and you expect me to get to the backpatting? Fuck that."
She stands there for about three seconds, like a deer in the headlights. "You don't have to yell."
"I wasn't yelling."
"Whatever, Devon. Whatever." Then she leaves. I yell, "Thank you!"
I'm done the rest of my work in twenty minutes.