Yesterday I was at work: miserable, exhausted, lonely, confused. I was running on about two hours of sleep. The night before I'd obtained about an hour and a half's worth on some foreign futon in the back-lands of Richmond Hill and another forty-five minutes back in my own bed-- with, of course, an hour and a half of commuting on the bus in-between these jaunts of sleep. So even after chugging a cup of hour-old coffee and a three-minute shower at home, being to work at nine-thirty that morning was brutal. And then I realized I'd forgotten my cigarettes in the breast-pocket of my shirt (in my room, on the floor). FUCK! My brother was a decent enough person to drive them down to my work. Although I'm sure he knew he'd end up being in for a nice, tasty beverage, the only incentive my brother needs to help me out is knowing he's helping me out. Bless him, bless him!
That didn't put me in any better a mood... that was just insurance that I wouldn't need to run across the street during my break and buy another pack. But yeah okay it put me in a better mood, for that reason alone. I knew it was going to be a rough day. My co-workers kept asking if I was alright, which isn't anything unusual because I have tremendously violent mood-swings all the time-- seriously, I jump like two hyper eight year-old's on a seesaw-- but even they knew I wasn't really there. I need my sleep, it seems, and I just can't garner the enthusiasm required for any daily tasks when I'm not well-rested.
And boom: a turn for the worse. Who seemed like just another customer in line ended up being the health inspector. She flashes her card to me, comes behind the bar and starts snooping around, and I start convulsing in my head and my heart. She starts her inspection while myself and the girl I'm working with start doing all that we can to make the floor look as presentable and "healthy" as can be. She asks me some questions and tells me to perform some routine duties to ensure that me, and presumably the other managers at my store, know what the fuck we're doing and how we're supposed to be doing it. At the end of her check-up, she firmly places the proverbial stethoscope around her neck and begins typing up a report on her laptop. She asks me to sign on the screen, and I do, happy to be seeing her nearing the end of her stay.
Then she pulls me into the back-room and tells me about something she didn't bother putting into the report. She tells me she'll just give me a verbal warning, rather than issuing a $50 ticket. And so it goes:
Inspector: You need to be concealing your hair.
Spencer: Uh, sure? Okay.
Inspector: Does *company name* supply you with hats to wear? They should be.
Spencer: Uh, sure? Yeah, they do. I look absolutely ridiculous wearing it, so I don't bother.
Inspector: Okay, but you need to be concealing your hair. If you hair was shorter, I wouldn't be saying this. If you were a girl with longer hair and you had it tied-up, I wouldn't be saying this. But your job involves serving food to the public, and you need to be concealing your hair.
Spencer: Okay, I get that. Fine. Just for inquiries' sake, what is it about my hair that makes you say this?
Inspector: (pause)
Spencer: (awkwardly smiles, while shitting his pants)
Inspector: You need to conceal your hair. Don't make me say this to you again.
What the fuck? I've worked this job for going on five years and this has never happened to me. I'm speculating that since she didn't have anything negative to say about our store, she probably needed to say something. But what the fuck? I'm a pleasant person, everybody who comes in to purchase beverages or foods or any goods from us whatsoever can see that. And they can probably tell that my hair is, if you'll allow me to say, an extension of my free-falling personality. So how the fuck did I get the short end of the stick? I can't pull off the hat, I end up looking like some greasy tow-truck driver. And I can't pull off putting pins in my hair, I end up looking like some conflicted white-boy who craves life in Woodbridge (and all that entails). How come I got fucked?
If you're reading this, Joan, take care. Continue enjoying your job, protecting the public from contaminated foods and ensuring that every restaurant in the Markham area is chock-block ready to go. But, and I mean this respectfully, fuck you for kicking me while I was down and ruining my day. And please, don't make me say this to you again.
And now, Quasi!
I Never Want To See You Again - Quasi
