Well folks, I done got canned. Sacked. Terminated. I received my pink slip. They gave me the boot. I got the axe.
That’s right. I will no longer be serving up Gyros or Moussaka. There are two things that bother me about this:
1. I will no longer be able to regale you with stories of the BFGR. Not that I have yet, but I was going to.
2. I was really looking forward to working the first two weeks of December so I could screw them over for the holidays. Guess they never heard of the “chopping block” technique*.
*Keeping all the undesirables on through December to ensure holiday coverage, then going on a firing spree in January. The doomed servers are referred to as being on the “chopping block.”
Of course, there is one other small concern: I was kind of counting on that two weeks’ worth of crappy pay. But I must admit, even that doesn’t compare to the relief I feel at never having to set foot in there again.
I’ve never been fired before. I’ve never quit a job on the spot either, though I’ve fantasized about it. Let’s face it, I am a nerd. When faced with the choice, I usually follow the rules. And even though I had one foot out the door (okay, more like both feet, my entire brain and a shoulder), it still stung. Fired? It’s like getting an F, another thing I’ve never done. I was upset.
But mostly, I can’t seem to move past the general haughtiness, the arrogance, the stern, “you’re in big trouble, young lady” attitude. Excuse me? I do not suffer this kind of treatment. It stuns me, actually, that these men feel entitled to speak to women that way. Losing my job, I can take. In fact, I’m already over it. I was over it before they even fired me. But my disgust toward the management? Not so easy. It’s that kind of maddening, impotent anger that results from witnessing an incredible injustice about which you can do nothing. Nothing! Can I stop them from acting that way? Nope. Could it ever happen that the servers would all wake up one day and refuse to be treated as slaves? No. Can I spread rumors about rats in their kitchen? Yes.
But I would never do something like that and everyone knows it. (hellooo? nerd)
True karmic justice can occur only if these men are somehow shamed. They have to know why bad luck has befallen them. That it’s their own fault. That each woman they disrespect is a radiant Venus, smarter and more capable than they will ever be. They act above us, expect us to be grateful to work for them, hold it over our heads in order to control. But they are wrong. They are not better than me. I am better than them.
I am better than them because I will not allow their beliefs to become mine. I am better than them because I have the gift of intuition and wonder. I know how good this life is, and how big. In comparison, these men (and the restaurant they take so seriously) are tiny.
I am better than them because I know that being better doesn’t matter. That responding to their cockiness only fuels the fire. Taking revenge only spreads negativity. If those girls don’t mind working there, that is their decision, and they have every right to make it.
There’s this part in The Fountainhead, where the main character (Roark) comes face to face with his nemesis, this really slimy guy who’s been sabotaging all of Roark’s chances. The guy is so pleased with himself for all the hand-wringing he believes he’s caused, and wants to know what Roark thinks of him. He practically begs for it. Roark looks puzzled, and in a totally indifferent (typically Rand-ian) manner, replies, “But I don’t think of you,” and walks away.
I’ve always thought that was the best response. The best revenge is not even caring enough to take revenge.
So, my attentions turn to more noble pursuits — papering the town with flyers, networking my ass off, staging a blitzkrieg of free workshops and introductory sessions at the gym, picking up Infinite Jest again, creating Christmas out of twenty bucks and my own two hands.
Big Fat Greek who?