One Quarter Service, Three Quarters Asylum

People always say that your friends are the dysfunctional family choose. I have a different theory though. Friends might be of choice, but it’s your fellow employees that are more like a dysfunctional family. Really dysfunctional.

Working at a small family restaurant, you go through some interesting experiences. Well, in some cases, it can’t even be considered a restaurant, let alone a family restaurant. No, it’s not that at all. It’s a god damned mental institution. A loony bin. An insane asylum. A... yeah, you probably get my point. Anyway, this mad house is run by my older brother. At the age of twenty one, this restaurant was passed down to him and he’s still running it fairly well at the age of twenty five. Then again, it depends on your definition of ‘fairly well’.

It’s not like we don’t get many customers; we just aren’t the most popular restaurant in this part of the city. Although, there is many times that we are completely dead. Now at those times ladies and gentlemen, the fun really begins.

You see, everyone at this restaurant has a maturity level of sixteen or under. In fact, our best waitress acts like a twelve year old. So basically, we act like intoxicated teenagers at the toy section in Wal-Mart. Even if we are playing with knives, pudding and spatulas instead of Barbie dolls, Hot Wheels and silly putty.

The immaturity levels rage high here. Whether it’s the ‘rag races’ or the ‘let’s see who’s more accident prone’, we’re most likely to be laughing our asses off. We’re not slackers or anything; we simply make being bored fun.

And where am I in all of this mess? Well, I’m just the sixteen year old dishwasher. Or janitor in some ways. Either way I do a hell of a lot of cleaning.

Though, according to some, I’m everyone’s bitch. Being on the lowest level on this fucked up food chain, I’m the slave of the restaurant. Along with all of the other dishwashers. I’m next in line to own this restaurant and yet... I’m treated like shit. Then again, my brother is the one that approves of it. It’s restaurant tradition to pick on the dishwashers and new employees. That’s what he says, anyways.

Of course it wouldn’t matter to him, he owns this damn place. He’s above everyone else. Then there are the cooks. After that are the waitresses and waiters. Last of all... and definitely least, are the dishwashers.

But enough about the jobs and their levels. In this restaurant, it isn’t of much importance. Only a slight important. Nothing is of much importance actually. Not here. Especially not with a boss like my brother.

My brother can be described as a rather apathetic person. He’s okay with everything, just as long as he can afford a smoke at the end of the day. Ignoring people, including customers, has become a certain specialty of his. It makes it quite hard for us to bitch at him. Not in the sense of ‘he’s too good of a boss for us to yell at him’; it’s more like no matter what we say, he won’t listen.

That and many other things are part of the reason that only a select few can stand working here. Many will only last a month. A month and a half if their lucky. I guess most people like to keep the sanity they have. Some are just scared off. About 80% of the male dishwashers, whose ages ranged from fifteen to nineteen, were frightened off by one of our waiters. Why you ask? Well, when their being hit on and sexually harassed by our one and only twenty year old gay waiter, being freaked out is quite understandable. As for the 20% that don’t get scared, they’re generally gay. I mean, well, excluding me. I’ve just learned to deal with it. I’ve learned how to deal with all of it.

Not just the harassment. There’s also the abuse, the cruelty, and the forced loss of sanity. Call it an exaggeration, but work here and you’ll see. If you can last long enough that is. For those that last for three months or longer, they’re pretty much screwed.

That’s when the curse comes in. Yes in fact, the curse. After three months of being ‘new’, they really begin to treat the restaurant as a second home. They come in when they’re not working. They come in when they don’t even want to. They even come in when they’re supposed to be on holidays. Overall, for those that stay, they literally stay. They’re always here. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just because.

Always being at the restaurant is only part of this so called ‘curse’. There’s also the part that when you leave you always come back. It’s like a messed of version of fate that basically forces people to come back after they’ve been fired or after they quit. Most of the employees already have. It doesn’t matter if they left on bad terms or if they vowed that they would never work here again; they will come back.

On a different note, in my two years of working here, I’ve noticed something. A considerable amount of the restaurant’s staff have no life. Seriously. Their life is the restaurant. Their social lives consist of their fellow employees. Well, mainly us. There are those ‘side friends’. That of which are friends that they put to the side so they can hang out at the restaurant. Of there’s the few that can get dates. I mean, if you count the harassing waiter’s two day boyfriends.

If one were too ever come across this place, they may think we need help. Mentally that is. Or physically actually; it depends on whether or not someone falls down the stairs. Luckily enough, customers don’t see what’s behind the scenes. Though, at times they may hear it. Shouts of ‘help, rapist!’ and anything of the attention grabbing sorts are not rare.

To sum it all up... this place, has no order, might as well be an insane asylum, supports immaturity, has employees with no lives, can be rather frightening, and is in no way professional.

So yeah, welcome to the hell hole called Amaury Family Restaurant.