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7:03 p.m. - 2001-12-14
The manager doesn't get to wear a vest.
Ahahahahaaaaa…ahhhhhworking's for saps.

First things first. I did Janie a huge favor by letting her use a site overhaul for my everlovin' diary as an excuse to put off doing her school work.

I like it plenty.

Nextly, news of my first day working at the fancy rich people restaurant.

Ummm…don't care for it as much.

I am the lowest of the low on the ladder, save the kitchen dishwasher. I am not the bar back, I am the bar runner, which means the hierarchy goes, general manager, a bunch of other managers, bar manager, servers, hostesses, bar tenders, bar back, my silly ass.

Since this is in no way a real career move for me, I could give a shit about the totem pole, but those who are lifers sure care boy, they care a great deal.

You see, it seems that the main difference between me and the bar back is that the bar back gets to make expresso and open wine bottles. The bar back is very glad that he gets to do this and I don't, because to him he has moved up a level that way. Now the bartenders would rather lick the floor than make coffee or open bottles, and get very bitchy if it even looks like they may have to.

To the bar back it is gets to, to the bartender it is doesn't have to. To me, it is set up to be doesn't even get to, but since I don't give a flying fuck, it skips right ahead to doesn't have to again.

Fuck everybody, see how that works?

This pecking order thing goes deep. I smiled at the kitchen dishwasher today and said hello to him and he almost shit his pants. Nobody talks to him except to yell about dishes. For the rest of the day the poor guy said hello to me every time he saw me. Meanwhile, all the other staff who were friendly to me when they first saw me and assumed I was a Bartender because I am white and neat and let's face it, look like a million bucks in a vest, discontinued the niceties as soon as they found out that I was a bar runner. Except for the ones who I suspect think that my little sister is cute. All the guys who found out that Sis was related to me wanted to be chums. More on that later.

So the bartenders don't talk to me, the bar back enjoys telling me what to do, the dishwasher thinks I am a saint for not blowing my nose on his shirt, the waiters who know what I am turn their nose up at me, the waiters who think that I am one of them smile at me, the people I already knew from before act normal and all of this is for some imaginary chain of importance cause I got news for all of them:

To the customers we're all just one big bunch of servants.

Now, on to the part where I saved myself from losing my new job by also saving myself the trouble of knocking a pastry chefs front teefs out.

As I mentioned, my wee Sis works as a server in this same restaurant, though she was not there today. My sister is…um…well…Okay my sister is cute. There I said it but I'll deny it later. Anyway, she modeled for some school photography project and got herself plastered all over some catalogue for City College of San Francisco. The pictures are good. Really good in fact, though they make my face hurt from laughter when I see them because she is dressed up like an angel. To me she is the arch angel of dork.

IRregardless to the fact, to others, especially others who have not seen her relating to her cat, she is not seen in the same light. Many these others see her as a…um…woman. Well today as I walked down the hall I came across a large group of these others of the male persuasion huddled around said catalogue with said pictures of said sister. Smiles all around.

"Oh…oh not good" I thought to myself as a fat pastry chef snatched the catalogue out of the previous graspers grubby mitts.

"That's My Sister." I exclaimed loudly, before anyone of the others that were present would say anything that would cause my skin to turn green, my pants and hair to turn purple and turn the whole mess of them into a pile of carcasses. They all turned and looked at me, smiles waning.

"You're Blueberry's brother?" one of them asked.

"Yes I am." I replied. I don't know what would have been uttered next rather than the round of "she's a cool girl" "yes, she's cool." "really cool, that Blueberry" "Her brother, wow." that followed, and I don't need to.

Yes, they call her "Blueberry". Not as good as the nicknames I have for her, but it'll do.

At least at my new job it will have to.


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