1 January 2001 · Manifesto — printed and left under windshield wipers.

Everyone here was real. Every name has been changed.

Today is January 1, 2001—New Year’s Day. The snow is piled high on both sides of every street, and the ice and snow that has melted from those wintry walls painfully reflects the light of the sun into my eyes. I am a determined person this year. It is my new year’s resolution. In fact, it is my new year’s revolution. You see, I am revolting. Actually, I am revolted. I am revolted by the things I’ve seen in the past six months: things that have happened, been allowed to happen, and even purposefully done. While the knowledge I bear will never be lifted from me, perhaps the stain of keeping it secret will be cleansed, now that I have decided to impart this with the public. What I am about to share with you all will shed light on this subject that is more painful than the light glaring into my eyes as I now walk away from possibly the filthiest place I can ever remember visiting, much less working at.

I realize that the facts I am about to divulge may seem the act of a vengeful person seeking to slander her enemies, but no, this is not so. I seek no retribution against the people I am to mention hereon, but I cannot bear the shame of keeping what I’ve witnessed private. You, my friends, are my audience, and at center stage of this play is the Spaghetti Works. But what I really want to show you is what goes on behind the curtains…

Upstairs in the office, one man smokes his cigarette leisurely. His name is Stan, and he is one of the managers of our restaurant, The Spaghetti Works. He smiles smugly as his fingers glide over the ten-key surface of his calculator. He’s already drunk, but nothing unusual for this die-hard alcoholic. He’s saved himself fifty dollars today already, since he’s been drinking from the restaurant’s liquor inventory, and that’s fifty dollars less he’ll have to spend tonight at Johnny’s Hall of Fame, which is where he’ll go as soon as he’s finished closing the restaurant. As if the fifty dollars wasn’t good enough for him, he laughs to himself after reading the results displayed on his calculator. Someone’s made a mistake, and Stan is going to take advantage of that mistake. He always takes advantage of others’ mistakes. One of the waiters has accidentally paid twenty dollars more than they ought to have when clearing their account—twenty dollars of hard-earned tips that is now going to end up in some cabby’s pocket. And that whole twenty dollars, too, since it’s Stan’s belief that one of these days his generous tips is going to get him a chance to spend some time with those taxi-drivers that Stan finds irresistible. Stan has no car, and unless he wants to walk the six miles to his home, he has to call a cab. Most of the time someone else has to call the cab, since by the time Stan’s ready to go home, he’s too drunk to read the keys on the phone. But Stan wasn’t the only one stealing alcohol. The bartenders would charge people for their drinks without ringing them up, putting the restaurant’s profits into their own pockets. One of the waiters, a man named Tony, used to get drunk while working the comedy show in the back. He would ring up drinks and bring them back, and enjoy the drink as well as the show. And when he didn’t feel like paying for the drink itself, he would simply fool the bartender by grabbing an old drink receipt from the garbage and placing it where the bartender would think it was new, and needed to be prepared.

One of the waiters runs up into the office with a flustered look. He’s the last one on duty, and the store has been closed for five minutes. One table remains occupied on the floor by two unkempt men who live in and out of the YMCA. “Hey Kyle! My table’s about to leave, but one of the guys found a roach on his napkin, and wants me to pay for his meal.” The waiter, 20 years old—old enough to serve alcohol but not drink it—is a kid named Larry, and he’s only been working here for a little while. Most people refer to Stan by his nickname, which is Kyle. Stan likes to remind us all that not everyone is allowed to call him that, and I always wondered why in hell anyone would ever want to. I once asked him why he likes to be called that, and he said that he loved all his employees like a mother, and that we all acted like a bunch of kids anyway. I agreed, he did love all his employees, but with one exception: the women. Stan turned to Larry and threw his card at him. The card would let Larry “comp” off the man’s meal. It was a function the computer referred to as “food alien,” and was a function used quite often. The Spaghetti Works was literally a roach hotel. I remember watching in utter horror and disgust as one of the dessert coolers was moved to the side, and there were what seemed like millions of roaches crawling amongst each other in a big pile. I would never have expected a rotting body to attract so many bugs! But lo and behold, they swept those bugs up and tossed them out back, and it was forgotten…by everyone except me. I’m not afraid of roaches, but if I’m minding my own business, getting myself a glass of coca-cola, I’m going to freak out when a roach falls on my head from the damned ceiling! This happened twice: once to me, and once to my fellow server Jen. Even the roaches seemed to have something against us girls.

As Larry turned to leave, Stan snapped at him, “And when you bring back my card, bring me a beer and a shot of Rumpleminz as well, understand?” Larry smiled and said, “Only if I can have a beer too.” Kyle sighed and said, “You kids are going to kill me. Fine!”

For four months or so, the sign out front with the Spaghetti Works emblem on it was out of order. Or so we thought. The neon lights that, when turned on, spelt Food, Wine, Cocktails, now spelt Food, Wine, Cock. Most of us all thought that was nothing more than a crazy coincidence—coincidence considering that the greater part of the Spaghetti Works staff was gay, and the ones who weren’t, were usually female. But I overheard one of the restaurant’s gay servers, a man named Jim, proudly exclaim that it had been done deliberately.

Cars that were parked alongside the restaurant had a tendency to end up without windows, radios, and even backpacks. Jen’s car had been broken into, and the perpetrator had broken the window on one door only to find out that the door on that side wouldn’t open, and then broke the window on the other door. And when the perp finally did gain entrance to the car, he/she tore out the radio right from the console. One of the other servers, this one named Ruth, returned to her car to find out that someone had broken in by ripping through the fabric top of her convertible and had stolen her backpack. Two months later, Larry’s car would be broken into and his radio stolen. Had Larry’s car not been vandalized as well, I would have sworn it was just a part of the anti-female conspiracy.

Waiters and management both stole from each other and the company. Tony had a brand-new coat stolen the same day he’d purchased it. The management would hold on to excess cash—cash that wasn’t detailed on the paperwork—and pocket it. And after Tony showed the other servers how to make sure they always ended up making 20% on every table, then the shit really hit the fan. You see, we were shown the obvious. We were required to bring a bill of sale to each table. The customers would pay for what was on the receipt. And since we held on to all the cash until the end of the day, we would pay back to the restaurant what amount was the total amount rung up. But we could keep that amount lower than it ought to be by transferring certain items to new tables. The kitchen crew would only prepare what foods were rung up, they responded to printouts. But the waiters themselves prepared certain things: desserts and drinks. Salads were self-serve, so that would work. And kids’ meals were no different than pasta refills, which were free. So by ringing up one item of each, we would simply never close those items off—we would transfer them from table to table. Even tables where we received a lousy tip would suddenly make us an additional $1.50 per drink, $2.99 per kid’s meal, and $3.99 per solo salad! That was like $3.00 to $6.00 extra for every table! We never felt so eager to up-sell and push soft drinks. Nor did we ever feel the slightest bit angry when someone ordered a kid’s meal (which is for 8 years and younger) for his obviously sixth-grade kid.

The restrooms were always filthy. It wasn’t really our fault. The customers at Spaghetti Works are for the most part disgusting pigs. Considering that the homeless like to borrow our toilet paper for unthinkable purposes, and women toss their spent sanitary napkins in the toilets, never stopping to pick it up when they miss, there really is only so much we can do. Two employees, Ray and “dishwasher Oscar,” really tried hard to keep them clean. I remember once Ray asked Jim if he wanted to see something really huge, and Jim followed him into the bathroom. I was mortified until they came out looking absolutely disgusted and I went to go see what it was that they saw. When I went into the men’s bathroom (it was vacant at the time), water was spilling onto the floor from one of the toilets, and I could see that the toilet was clogged by a massive terd that filled the entire hole and more! Considering the terd’s diameter, I felt somewhat confident that it was probably excrement from one of our employees…

One of our managers, George, is sleeping with one of the waiters, Ted. Ted wears a hairpiece because he’s shaved his head (and everything else as well) so he can wear wigs when he performs at the drag queen events at The Garden. Kyle has confessed his undying love to three of the waiters: Oscar, Tony, and Stan W. Tony is trying to win Ruth’s love; while Ruth’s been pitching to Kyle that Ed’s been sexually harassing her. Meanwhile, George and Kyle constantly address their employees as “honey,” “sweetheart,” and “big-daddy.” As if this isn’t enough, Kyle offered Oscar $50 if Oscar would only join him in the bathroom, so that Oscar could butt-rape him. One of the Mexican cooks, Norm, attacked Oscar out of jealousy for Oscar’s closeness to Jen, whom Norm stalks. And Jen is soon fired for being late, while Tony, who’s been late numerous times, is given a beer for at least showing up. Sexism, Racism, and other prejudices run wild here. Whether you get a job or not depends whether or not Vic is short for Samuel or Samantha. White-trash redneck servers have short tempers for the illegal immigrant Mexican line cooks, and vice-versa.

The basement is filled with pot-smoke, piss from the leaky urinals upstairs, and moldy bread. The fire and smoke sensors are out of order, and if the health inspectors weren’t paid off then Spaghetti Works would be Spaghetti Broken. Kids choke on pieces of brillo-pad that somehow ended up in the spaghetti sauce, roaches season the burgers, servers roll silverware while smoking and picking their noses. When a customer complains that their silverware is dirty, the waiter usually takes it to where he won’t be seen, wipes it with his shirt, and brings it back. It’s not a comforting or appetizing thought that there are dozens of dead birds lying about in the vacant and condemned rooms in the levels above, or that zillion tiny shards of termites plague the floors and walls, or that roaches do as they please under the management’s watchful, but not mindful, eyes. Broken glass fell in the ice-bin? No big deal, stir the ice up and it’ll end up on the bottom. Uh oh, can’t remember which drink is the coke? No big deal, taste them all until you get the right one. The tongs for the bread are missing? No big deal, you have hands, don’t you? Those fried clams looking awfully good? No big deal, grab some; your customer will never know they’re missing. Customer asked for a jack and coke, but you used well rum? No big deal, have Kyle comp the drink, but give it to the customer anyway. (More money for you!)

You know, I always wondered if this Spaghetti Works was the only one that could be this fucked up (there are three of them!), but I couldn’t believe there could be more than one restaurant within two states distance that could be as nasty as ours. But one day I found myself waiting on some people who told me they waited tables at the Omaha Spaghetti Works. After some conversation I discovered that theirs was just as bad, if not worse, than mine.

I am telling you all these things because I too, am guilty of it, and I would confess to you all my sins. No one is innocent there, especially the management. But no one is perfect, I understand that much. What I don’t understand is how so many people can be so far from perfect. I could go on and on, about how wretched people bring their lives with them to work. Bitching about how his boyfriend hasn’t been giving it up, and how her husband is cheating on her, and how all of it is your fault. People selling each other marijuana, and trading customers’ credit card numbers like they’re playing cards. Everyone is conspiring against each other, words are spoken behind people’s backs, and no one will admit it. Well here it is, folks, this is it. Admittance. There are no secrets anymore. Not for the Spaghetti Works, anyway. And should you ever decide to patronize its hollowed halls (for the termites have been at work for a long time now) you may want to wipe your silverware on your own shirt, and figure your waiter’s gratuity after subtracting the costs of your soft-drink, salad, and your son’s meal. You might refuse the free bread, and buy your jack and coke somewhere else. And if you think you saw a roach scurry under the table, you probably did. You see, Spaghetti Works is broken. And I don’t believe that everyone there is damned to hell. Some people actually did impress me as hard workers, ones who did try to do their job well and honestly. Those people are Ray, Susan (even though she brought home to work), Randy, Oscar the dishwasher (even though he is psycho), George (who actually is a professional most of the time) and Roberto in the kitchen. And there were those people who made it worth working at, because their attitudes were a breath of fresh air. I want to mention those people too. They are Tony (who got fired for standing up against the nonsense), Stan W. (who quit to move to Wales), Cal (who is always late), Oscar K. (who refused the $50.00), Sara, Ed (who stands up for his values), Vic, Frank K. (who quit to pursue a career in massage), and Jane K.

Well, thank you all for having the patience to listen to me. Hopefully with this knowledge you will see to it that these atrocities are not allowed to continue. Please pass this information on to your friends. They ought to know too.

Composed 2001 · part of the Essays collection · authorship documented on the Provenance page.