12-12-08

Two in the morning, got some dark hours still ahead, sleep until noon, but at least there's no work for me tomorrow. Worked today, another boring shift, which is ideal, no drama at work is a godsend. I cater parties, parties costing thousands of dollars, and I shine the silverware and set out the plates for unforgettable nights. I put up with a lot of bitching and demands from red lips flapping, but their words are dressed in the tightest fitting dollar bills, and I need those bills to make rent this month so I better smile, bow, and tend to whatever was requested of me. Serving is humbling, feeling like someone's slave has some perks, gives me energy to conspire, fuel for the never moving engine of disillusionment. I'll shit out pages of tirades, and feel some pride for how I spent my time away from work. Fortunately, the grub is good, and I endorse gluttony and grease, shoving dripping spoonfuls of rich lobster bisque, my fork heavy from slabs of Kobe beef marinated in truffles and wash it down with some decadent lemon crème in a buttery, flaky pastry. Yeah, struggle sure is difficult, seriously I'm seething and berating myself as I consume these creations. There's these two punked out guys that do all the dishes, lots of piercings, pissing out diatribes on the inevitable collapse of society, and how their laughs will silence their coughs as fires engulf the ideas that secretly and possibly subconsciously they never wanted to give these ideas skin. Not even the fervent anarchist can predict how they will react to a true revolution incensed and ever-growing. How they heap their plates with that butter soaked shit is truly a wonder to behold. With each bite they smile with how they're sticking it to the man, and I suppose that where ever one can take back a little freedom while on the job, no how seemingly insignificant, then that's a good thing.
I'm mischievous at work. I love to fuck with upper management, oh so subtly, nothing too destructive, but small things to demean their authority, show them that they have no impunity. I'll express my frustration through little measures of vandalism, and do I feel any remorse for impeding a stress-free work day for them? No, not in the slightest. One of the managers looks exactly like a younger Colonel Sanders, and ironically, he told me one day after a heavy admonishment for not keeping the other servers quiet while the guests prayed over their steaks, he told me, in a show of camaraderie, a healing after the harsh motivational speech, that his favorite food was fried chicken, and then he waddled off, his suit coat much too large, and his stumps for legs not moving fast enough for the pace of the business world. He's such an unlikable man, snide comments out the corners of his mouth, I can see it in his eyes that he does not want to talk to me, and the silence is excruciating, as we ride the elevator together, all the way to the top, and I realize how he has never asked me any questions about myself, yet I keep prying, keep presenting my open, jovial nature, covering up my vast condemnation for how he treats the staff. My way of getting back at him is by putting odd things into his mailbox, a broken light, crusts of bread, boogers I pull out my nose, an old keyboard, soiled napkins, handfuls of steak, the stuff I sweep up off the pantry floor, ah what fun I have, he empties the mailbox and I fill it right back up, and I'm waiting for the email alerting us with his displeasure. Whatever I can do to get some relief.