4.22.2004
Institutionalized
I ended my Friday (Tuesday, for me) by spilling a large tin filled with 30 sodas and 10 pounds of ice all over the floor of a classroom. My customers scrambled, got down on hands and knees, scooping up bits of slippery ice with cupped palms. I scooted around with a piece of linen, mopping up as much water as I could. The janitor never showed up, so I spent an extra 15 minutes, while a professor prattled on about study abroad in front of me, skating around on another piece of linen to soak up every last puddle.
Catering can be so much like acting. Clients watch your every move as if you were on stage, making sure you’re playing the role they paid for to the T. On "Friday," I got on stage and not only forgot my lines, but forgot to put my pants on, and I fell down. It’s not that I’m a lousy actor; I’m tired of the role.
I described the soda incident to my boss and she laughed, albeit with a tight jaw. She’s been under too much pressure of late; yet another layer of management has been placed above her, and her shoulders, despite her strong, 6-foot frame, are bowing from the weight. I tell her I had a dream of her leaving Bon Appetit, going to another catering company, a high-end one, where she could do more, better. My made-up scenario was my not-so-subtle way of saying, hey: I’m getting ready to leave too.
We’re standing on the loading dock, smothered in the smells of old garbage, coffee grounds, stale cigarettes. Greasy pigeons flutter down to root in the compost dumpsters. I’ve got mayonnaise on my shirt sleeve and coffee stains on the cuffs of my pants.
This is an institutional food service facility, serving thousands of students and teachers each day. The quality of service is just enough; the quality of food is just enough. There is little incentive to do more and better when you know your clients really have no where else to go.
For me, however, it’s time to leave the institution. Six months of 10-hour shifts and weekend-less weekends and I’ve learned all I’ll ever need--or want--to know about institutional food service. I give notice today, and two weeks from now, I'm on to the next day job, where hopefully, my clothes will stay clean, my legs unbruised, and my mind stimulated.
I ended my Friday (Tuesday, for me) by spilling a large tin filled with 30 sodas and 10 pounds of ice all over the floor of a classroom. My customers scrambled, got down on hands and knees, scooping up bits of slippery ice with cupped palms. I scooted around with a piece of linen, mopping up as much water as I could. The janitor never showed up, so I spent an extra 15 minutes, while a professor prattled on about study abroad in front of me, skating around on another piece of linen to soak up every last puddle.
Catering can be so much like acting. Clients watch your every move as if you were on stage, making sure you’re playing the role they paid for to the T. On "Friday," I got on stage and not only forgot my lines, but forgot to put my pants on, and I fell down. It’s not that I’m a lousy actor; I’m tired of the role.
I described the soda incident to my boss and she laughed, albeit with a tight jaw. She’s been under too much pressure of late; yet another layer of management has been placed above her, and her shoulders, despite her strong, 6-foot frame, are bowing from the weight. I tell her I had a dream of her leaving Bon Appetit, going to another catering company, a high-end one, where she could do more, better. My made-up scenario was my not-so-subtle way of saying, hey: I’m getting ready to leave too.
We’re standing on the loading dock, smothered in the smells of old garbage, coffee grounds, stale cigarettes. Greasy pigeons flutter down to root in the compost dumpsters. I’ve got mayonnaise on my shirt sleeve and coffee stains on the cuffs of my pants.
This is an institutional food service facility, serving thousands of students and teachers each day. The quality of service is just enough; the quality of food is just enough. There is little incentive to do more and better when you know your clients really have no where else to go.
For me, however, it’s time to leave the institution. Six months of 10-hour shifts and weekend-less weekends and I’ve learned all I’ll ever need--or want--to know about institutional food service. I give notice today, and two weeks from now, I'm on to the next day job, where hopefully, my clothes will stay clean, my legs unbruised, and my mind stimulated.
4.19.2004
Drawing lines
J grabbed me off the floor at a catering event and took me aside to where we could talk. Our conversation dynamic is awkward; towering a good foot above me, June is animated, all eyes when she’s speaking seriously, and me, craning my scrawny neck upwards, must look like a baby ostrich begging for food.
Company management had been negotiating a new contract with the members of Local 2, most of who work in our kitchen, for about two months. Although things seemed to be progressing smoothly, there were demands, she said, that probably weren’t going to be met--as saying no, I suppose, in negotiations is just as important as saying yes. There could be a strike, she whispered. We might need you to work more hours this Saturday, she urged, you know, just in case.
Scab. I applaud the person who came up with this derogatory term for someone who crosses a union picket line. A useless piece of skin, dead, flaky, picked off and tossed into nothing. Or more: a covering for a wound, in this case, angry workers who weren’t given the money or respect they felt they deserved. I could just step up, keep the ship afloat, heal the rift between those who get paid 6-figure salaries and drive Mercedes-Benz automobiles to work, and those who work for less than $10 an hour and walk.
I kept my mouth shut as I listened to the litany of preventative measures for the “just in case.” No student worker was to talk, especially not joke, to the kitchen staff about a strike. Daily schedules of events were to be hidden at all times, as they could give union members ideas of good times to walk out--when we needed them the most. Perhaps, I would have to bag sandwiches, or assemble fruit plates. There are at least 12 entrances to the building; so if student workers don’t want to physically cross a picket line, there were plenty of other options for getting to work.
There is a romance in labor conflicts, the eternal strife between the boss and worker, the haves (assumed) and have-nots (guaranteed). Student workers wanted details, they wanted the sex of it all. When? How? What will happen? Some of the more sober sat me down. Why are we hiding information? How do you feel about all this?
How did I feel? The strike, so far, has been averted; I came to work on Saturday morning, at 5 a.m., as scheduled. Kitchen workers, dishwashers stumbled in wiping sleep from their eyes not shortly afterwards, and we said good morning, and got back to work.
There is no romance in needing a paycheck, in being a 50-year-old dishwasher with three children. There is little room for protest when one might not even understand the dense legal details of the union contract, if one doesn’t speak English as a first language. Strikers get, I have been told, $40 a day and no benefits. Even if there is reason to throw off one’s apron, too often the strings are tied far too tightly.
There still may be a chance to cross, or not cross, a picket line. I look at my savings and think I could possibly take the stand I feel is right; at other times, I remember the panic of unemployment and think again.
J grabbed me off the floor at a catering event and took me aside to where we could talk. Our conversation dynamic is awkward; towering a good foot above me, June is animated, all eyes when she’s speaking seriously, and me, craning my scrawny neck upwards, must look like a baby ostrich begging for food.
Company management had been negotiating a new contract with the members of Local 2, most of who work in our kitchen, for about two months. Although things seemed to be progressing smoothly, there were demands, she said, that probably weren’t going to be met--as saying no, I suppose, in negotiations is just as important as saying yes. There could be a strike, she whispered. We might need you to work more hours this Saturday, she urged, you know, just in case.
Scab. I applaud the person who came up with this derogatory term for someone who crosses a union picket line. A useless piece of skin, dead, flaky, picked off and tossed into nothing. Or more: a covering for a wound, in this case, angry workers who weren’t given the money or respect they felt they deserved. I could just step up, keep the ship afloat, heal the rift between those who get paid 6-figure salaries and drive Mercedes-Benz automobiles to work, and those who work for less than $10 an hour and walk.
I kept my mouth shut as I listened to the litany of preventative measures for the “just in case.” No student worker was to talk, especially not joke, to the kitchen staff about a strike. Daily schedules of events were to be hidden at all times, as they could give union members ideas of good times to walk out--when we needed them the most. Perhaps, I would have to bag sandwiches, or assemble fruit plates. There are at least 12 entrances to the building; so if student workers don’t want to physically cross a picket line, there were plenty of other options for getting to work.
There is a romance in labor conflicts, the eternal strife between the boss and worker, the haves (assumed) and have-nots (guaranteed). Student workers wanted details, they wanted the sex of it all. When? How? What will happen? Some of the more sober sat me down. Why are we hiding information? How do you feel about all this?
How did I feel? The strike, so far, has been averted; I came to work on Saturday morning, at 5 a.m., as scheduled. Kitchen workers, dishwashers stumbled in wiping sleep from their eyes not shortly afterwards, and we said good morning, and got back to work.
There is no romance in needing a paycheck, in being a 50-year-old dishwasher with three children. There is little room for protest when one might not even understand the dense legal details of the union contract, if one doesn’t speak English as a first language. Strikers get, I have been told, $40 a day and no benefits. Even if there is reason to throw off one’s apron, too often the strings are tied far too tightly.
There still may be a chance to cross, or not cross, a picket line. I look at my savings and think I could possibly take the stand I feel is right; at other times, I remember the panic of unemployment and think again.
