My father detests any job-related complaints. When he was my age he would stand on girders and sandblast paint off of bridges, or work the midnight-to-five at the nearby plastic factory for a dollar twenty-five an hour. “That was the seventies, Dad,” I like to complain, as I prance around in my white-cotton manicure gloves that make me feel like Michael Jackson. “There has been inflation.”
I made $7.25 an hour, minimum wage at that time. Admittedly I did not have to scour chipping paint off bridges with a hose that could rocket me backward to a gruesome death at the bottom of some canyon, but I did have to don a démodé lime Fruit of the Loom tee and ill-fitting khakis and explain ad nauseum (literally; I got food poisoning) the caloric content of yogurt to heavy ladies with bags from Lane Bryant.
Now, this is not frozen yogurt—that should be made perfectly clear—but it is yogurt that has been frozen. There were two flavors—coffee and “regular,” which was not “vanilla”—an embarrassing faux pas that would get you a glare from the more accustomed customers. It was also not ice cream, god forbid, a fact that appalled many a spoiled three-year-old. It was healthy. There were only “onehunderedcalories” and helped “regulatethedigestionsystem,” facts that we spouted off obediently to confused customers.
“Wouldyouliketotryasample?” The bemused Hyde-Parkian would nod, smile. I would turn obligingly and reach under the counter for one of those paper ketchup holders. I would then pull the black handle of one of two stainless steel machines, which would let out a constipated moan and emit its yogurt dropping. I would then turn back to the customer, and hand over the sample ceremoniously. They would crane their neck forward and touch it with the tip of their tongue. There would be either one of two reactions:
- a puckering of the lips would occur, like one tasting a lemon, followed by a nodding of the head
- a small opening and closing of the lips would occur, rapidly, like a fish; the eyebrows would come together and they would comment on the unusual flavor, throw it out, and apologetically run for the door.
I had a dream in my first few weeks of working there that I was filling order after order, and I really had to take use the bathroom. Customers kept coming in; as soon as one was done another would take his place, while my bowels deteriorated more and more rapidly. I didn’t want to just leave; I wanted my manager to think I worked hard. I finally woke up, feeling nauseous, experiencing a crippling abdominal pain. I thought then that I had just eaten too much yogurt: after all, it did “regulate your digestive system.” In retrospect I had food poisoning. After attempting to walk downstairs and watch some Adult Swim, massaging my stomach and being in too much pain to move, I registered that I was going to be sick. I remember standing over the kitchen sink, hoping against hope that I wasn’t about to puke my brains out.
I should mention that my first fear is throwing up. I used to be afraid of all sorts of things as a child, which now I can attribute to my emerging anxiety problem that has me drugged up on relaxants while at school… but at the time I had no such anxiety meds.
I tried to go back to bed, or maybe to take some Metamucil to ease my ailing intestines. Either way, I woke up, ran to the bathroom (I imagine) and puked. Fortunately my stomach was mostly empty so I didn’t have to view any beans or noodles with meat sauce (another story). I slept on and off on the Jurassic Park couch in my family room. I woke occasionally, emptied the contents of my stomach, then took another nap. Although the throwing up is never too bad in retrospect, this did nothing to calm my anxiety. It was, instead, rather traumatic. Food poisoning marked the beginning of my hatred for the yogurt store, which I shall not name.
There were other aspects that I despised, which I will give you in a quick, bullet-pointed list so as not to bore you:
- The owners called every hour to make sure we answered the phone right
- The stench of yogurt clings to one’s clothes
- Working until 11:30 at night
- Listening to the same XM lounge station every day
- No tip jar.
It was these appalling circumstances that caused me to vow never to spend another summer in such a store, which is why I turned to hand modeling. More to come.
I wish I could have gotten to hear that constipated moan...ah, good times, I see!
POST MORE!! Your writing is hilarrrriiouusssss as it always has been!
Posted by: Bennett Nestok | 05/20/2010 at 12:33 PM