ICYMI, Part III - Page 2

While his modesty was to be expected, it's one of the more grating attributes of his personality when I am heaping praise on his accomplishments. I've had the pleasure of working with Gabriel in one way or another for over a decade and he never gives himself enough credit.

I'm used to entitlement at every angle. Family, coworkers, guests, employees, I am, more often than not, put out by the sheer gall showcased by those whose throats are within reach. Alternately, everyone I love and respect seem so far away now.

Before my current position, if I had to interact with any of the usual suspects from above, it was in a mid-level management capacity. I was a general manager for a dispensary all of 3 months before being fired for not showing enough empathy when a new employee called in for her 1st day on the job because her mother was in the hospital. I was drunk and when approached with the news by the area manager, reacted with a tirade about general incompetence and the lack of proper work ethic in the youth of today.

I'd never really had to fire anyone, even while running Kleft Jaw; things had a way of working out naturally.

I had to consider these factors when mulling over the potential salary and sales bonuses for a General Manager Position at a pizza restaurant near Coors Field. After all, I had just passed my PTCB exam in December, and was trying to reacclimate myself into the workforce while my life unraveled into over exposed nerve stems and punitive damages; a macadam of concrete facts bound together by spit/petty opinions and forming a road that circles back to the point of complete exhaustion.

I was there again, the left-handed track, forgone conclusions, obtuse in an food stall serving slices of my more profound experience and contempt when the LA Dodgers came to town for yet another trouncing of the Rockies. Long before day one of their spring series, I was told to be prepared for mounting hassle and harassment, large orders, slices out the wazoo; my area manager, Kennedy, had warned that it could be even busier than opening day back in March, my first day on the job...

Frankly, that was about as much insight as he offered and I still haven't told him as much. The day before the game, Kennedy disappeared, well, was more or less sequestered without access to a phone and HR had no idea of when he would be returning. Vagueness aside, in retrospect, I probably got more of a heads up from Marc Martinez, a part-timer who sat at the counter on his days off chatting with my employees as they rushed back and forth from each station. Pasta, salad. Marc blabbering. Register. Marc staring. Clipboard, pizza oven, plating, 3 compartment sink, turn around and there's Marc fucking Martinez watching you work.

"Hey Anthony."

We'd never spoken before; I did not know his name or even the fact he worked for us.

"Hey man, one second."

Kennedy had told me that I would hate Marc, because he's a bit... he's, yeah, really lazy.

"Hey are you doing the food order?"

"Uh..."

Kennedy also mentioned how annoying he could be and that Marc would often call him in the middle of the night to make reports on stuff happening in the stall.

"Yea?"

"If I were you, I'd order a lot of drinks for tomorrow. "

"Yea, I'd planned to, thanks."

Kennedy was gone and it would be weeks before I’d hear from him upon release from the undisclosed rehab facility. After bragging about 6 years of sobriety and warning me about other employees' habits, he'd fallen off the wagon for 6 months and found himself in a dark, dark place before realizing he needed help, again.

I didn't let that deter me from performing at a higher level and answering the call once the doors prematurely opened at 11am. There they were in their glory, Angels' fanatics, drunk by noon and ready to waste more time in the food court while 7 games played overhead on 30 television screens. When I came in there was Marc, sitting out of uniform behind the register, visibly frustrated and sitting on a stool. Immediately abrasive, our first interaction didn't go as hoped:

"Hey Marc, can you do me a favor and ask people to use the kiosk for a second and help Andy get caught up while I give Aug-"

"I tried telling them but they won't listen!"

"Uh, okay man. Just relax. Try again."

I put on a black apron and began throwing masa in the air like a clown on parade. Apparently in Italy, you can get arrested for such displays of bravado. I didn't care, it was how I was raised and this, this is America... right?

The line was stacking and Marc was still sitting, out of uniform. If I have to wear a hat, I thought, this motherfucker...

"Hey Marc, do you have a hat?"

"I heard you the first time, damn it!"

"... you need to cool it."

"You need to learn how to talk to people better!"

"Look, I don't know what's happening here, but maybe you should just go home."

"Fuck you!"

"Hey, don't cuss at me."

"You're such a pain in the ass!"

"Marc, go home now or you're fired."

"You're going to fucking fire me?"

"If you don't go home, yes."

"Go ahead and fire me asshole!"

I washed my hands with the hot air coming from the two ovens at my back.

"Okay. You're fired. Leave now."