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Article - 'Stories of a DisgruntledBusser' by Rhynir

An item about Miscellanious posted on Aug 10, 2004

Blurb

Rhynir explains his job as a Busser, providing many stories and rants, as well as random happenings in his workplace.

Body

I have written these over a period of about two weeks. So don't think I have nothing better to do with my time other than write stupid rants about my job.

I had donned my outfit, a burgandy colored polo shirt, along with my nametag. The nametag says "Dave", my preferred first name. It's magnitized, so I don't have to worry about poking myself with a needle. I tied my apron in a shoelace loop. I traveled into the back hallway near the hoses to pick up a spray bottle and a fresh dry rag. It was important to have a dry rag. Not only could you clean crumbs off the tables, but you were able to clean them in a cleanful manner. Next, I grab a tray from off the icecream machine. It's rather odd that we have the trays stacked on top of the ice cream machine, but where else can you put them?

And thus, a new day begins at work. It's an easy job, but I feel like complaining about it. Plus, since my interview, I've had a hankerin' to do one of these. The RANTS are to familiarize you with the work a busser must endure. The STORIES are the actual true stories that really happen. I swear, they really happen, and are 100% true.

Legend:
To access a particular rant or story, hit "ctrl + F" and type in "Rant #1,2,3,etc" or "Story #1,2,3,etc"

Terminology:
Bus: To remove plates from table and clean it.
Busser: One who busses.
Manager: Usually a fire-breathing demon, but only one is like this at work.
Tub: A large plastic tub in which you can stack a great deal of plates/glasses
Tray: A tray that is a about a foot in diamater. Great for carrying things.
Volume: When the majority of the customers have left and business is slow. Usually towards the evening.
Cut: Happens when Volume is reached. It simply means that you finish what you're doing at the moment (and maybe a thing or two the manager gives you), and you can go home.
Clock In: To tell the computer that you're there and it's time to start making money.
Clock Out: A joyous activity in which you can run OUT of the resturaunt after you tell the computer you're done making money.
Tip Money: Money given to the bussers, hostesses, and dishwarshers by waiters/resses from tips collected. A very quick easy source of cash.
Paycheck: The reason you work.
Side work: Small work that is to be done before clocknig out.

Rant #1: The Grime
Most of the job of the Busser includes cleaning tables. In fact, that's what the public sees most out of the busser. There are easy to clean tables, and there are absolutely filthy tables. By absolutely filthy, I mean like someone smeared Elephant Crap all over it.
The first task to be done while cleaning the table is to find and eradicate all irregularities. This includes stuff left by the customer, such as glasses, pens, and expensive pills they direly need to survive (I have tossed several pills from tables, but never a medicine bottle). If the gear left by the customer is in semi-decent condition, I'll take it to the host stand and let them deal with it.
After cleaning the miscellaneous items from the table, I now rid the table of all trash. This usually involves finding tip money. If it's above fifty cents, I'll give it to the waiter/ress, but if it's less... The trash usually involves napkins, more napkins, and even more napkins. I find the nearest trashcan and dump the trash into it. All the trash cans are by side stands where your waiter/ress refills your drinks, so I take a little drink myself. Hey, I've cleaned a table for about fifteen seconds. I need a break.
I return to the table and stack all the glasses onto the tray first. I've had some bad experiences with glasses before, so I always get them onto the tray first. Then I load bread baskets, little platters, and if I can find room, the huge-ass plates. Then I set the tray onto a chair or the seat, if it's a booth. I first take my rag and wipe all the crumbs onto the tray. Then, I draw out my squirt bottle and spray the table. After that, I wipe all the water off. Good as new! Then I clean the chairs/seats and pick up my tray and back into the dish area!
The dish area can be a dangerous place. If you don't yell "CORNER!" while you round a corner, you'll probably be knocked down by some running shmuck. To add emphesis to the hastiness in which I need to clean the dishes, I yell "CORNER BITCH!". If I run into a group of people just standing in the way, I'll push my way through them while yelling "GET OUT OF THE WAY, MOTHERFUCKER!" or another string of obcenities.
Back in the dish area, I set my tray on the little shelf that leads to the ominous lean mean dishwarshing machine. I toss the dishes and glasses to the dishwarsher, who catches them with Matrix style accuracy (No wonder we call him Neo), and washes them. Batta Boom, batta bing.

Rant #2: The Other Shit Bussers Do
Now, as a busser, I don't just sit there and run around cleaning tables. There's much more I do. For instance, I put ice in the ice trays. I clean the bathrooms. I take out the trash. I sweep and mop the floors. In other words, I put the ice in your soda, I make sure there arent' any plagues around, I make sure your shoes don't get dirty, and I make sure the pisser is safe to piss in. I also flirt with the waitresses and hostesses, if you catch my drift.

Rant #3: Going to Work
In the profession of a busser, like many other jobs, one needs to be at the place of work. I could very well program a robot named C-3P0 or R2-D2 to clean the tables for me, but that would be too much work. Now, I live in a small secluded town in the backwoods. It's over thirty miles to my work place, in the city. So, I have to drive a car to work, obviously. Now, my car is pure class. It's a gas-hog, but luckily not as much as an SUV. My car is a boat. I have to motivate my slave-crew of oarsmen to take me thirty miles to and from work. It's hard, but I can manage. I just whip them a few times and shout at them. The sad thing is, I have to get ready for work. This usually involves taking a shower, combing my hair, donning my outfit, and brushing my teeth. For some reason, I always start getting ready two hours before I work. One hour to get ready, and one hour to get to work. I must play The Sims too much (Ever notice how the sims' car pool comes really damn early?). Anyway, I spend too damn much time combing my damn hair with a damn comb. I don't understand what I spend five minutes in front of that damn mirror combing my damn hair. As soon as I look some direction, my damn hair goes out of place. Damn damn damn damn damn damn and I'm in front of the damn mirror again for five damn minutes. That is, until I discovered hair spray (and matches) when I was seven. I knew about it, but never used it. Now I do. Just don't light a match near me.
The ride into to work is boring, what with the slowness of my slave oarsmen that move my battleship of a car. It's nice for the first twenty minutes because it's very much like a drive in the country. The next five minutes is aggrivating because I get on the interstate and have to deal with assholes that are going 70, 80, 90, 100 miles an hour, in a 60 zone. A good flash of the finger does 'em in pretty good. Also, if some fuck is tail-gating my boat, I just throw a slave at them. After all, I can always get more. If they're really persistant, however, I'll turn one of my several cannons at them and fire away. That usually seems to make them back up a ways or pass me.
The last five minutes of the drive to work is just red light after red light. Remember that scene in 'Meet the Parents'? It's about the same thing. If I'm really having a bad day, a train will come and make me ten minutes late for work. And you know what the irony of the train is? My work place is a block away on the other side of the fucking rail-road tracks. But sometimes, I'll hit green light after green light! That's when luck is on my side and I can scoot on over to work. Once at work, I usually go straight to the sidestand or host stand and flirt with the waitresses/hostesses until I have to clock in. Cheers!

Rant #4: "Excuse me, sir"
When I walk through the resturant with my water bottle hanging off my belt like a revolver would on a cowboy, I'm guarenteed to meet some questions. The prominent question is "Where is the bathroom?" And I've been less that 2 feet from a SIGN that says "<---BATHROOM, ASSHEAD" and had the question asked. I've always been tempted to say "Ah, if you have to pee, go out to your car, open the gas tank, and let it go. If you have to shit, unlock your car, get in the front seat, and let it go."
The next question that is asked is "Excuse me, sir, could you get our waiter/ress?" Well, if it's in two of the four rooms, I can do it pretty easily, but in the other two of the four rooms, I don't have a clue who the hell the waiters/resses are. Even if I DO know who the waiter/ress was, I'll play dummy with them. Usually, they want to change their order. I say "Well, I don't know, what was their name?" Yeah, that sounds a good question the dumbass customer with a change of appitite can answer. "Oh, I don't know," they reply. Froth will build at the sides of my mouth while my face turns white, then red with rage. So, I calmly say "Well, you see, when they first come over, they tell you their name." At this point, I start throwing gang signs in their face. "That is why you should listen to their name, bitch, so I can go get them if you want to change your order." Of course, I might know who the waiter/ress is, but I'll just be an asshole anyway and say, "Well, yeah, I'll go get them, but...what's the satisfaction in it for me? Where's the *cough* tribute?"
Now, there was once a table filled with sorry old fucks once. About 5 of them above the age of 60. First, they're assholes to their waitress. (Usually, I wouldn't care, but this particular waitress was hot and really cool, completely undeserving of the lameness of their customers) Next, while I'm cleaning a table right next to the booth, they start to get my attention, "Excuse me, sir, could you get our waitr-" and one of the old fucks shuts her up and says "Don't ask him, bussers never know anything," I know this should be a story, and it will someday. The uncontrollable FURY in my blood BOILED as I cleaned the table RIGHT NEXT to them as they went ON to DISCUSS how useless BUSSERS were. I was thinking of getting the manager on them, but I decided not to. Instead, I laughed while they talked about how stupid bussers were. These old fucks have nothing better to do than sit in a resturaunt talking about how crappy bussers are? Well, I can think of a couple activities more rewarding than that, namely DYING, you old fucks. True story. They also didn't have to pay a cent because they all had Senior Citizen discount and coupons or some shit. They didn't even leave a penny of a tip. And the worst part was, I had to clean up after them. Damn old fucks.

Rant #5: The Beginning of the End.
Yes, my resturaunt has begun it's downfall. Not by lack of customers or unpopulatiry or anything else, it's the little things. And this little thing is so powerful, it can crush resturaunts. This little thing has caused monopolies to fold. This thing can be THE difference between victory and defeat. It was created in the 1800's, so surely we have upgraded it? We have. It's just that some rustic businesses have reverted it to the old style. This little thing can determine everything there is in a resturaunt. What is this all-powerful commodity? Ketchup.
Yes, the elusive ketchup can do all that stuff PLUS more. But how can it determine whether a business folds or not? Back when I started working, we had plastic ketchup bottles. You know, you squeeze and stuff comes out (Don't think of that in a sick way). But just recently, I cleaned a table at work and discovered something that should be banned from resturaunts; a glass ketchup bottle.
These things are clearly the icons of sin, so why do we use them? Sure they can be refilled easier, but the plastic bottles are SO MUCH MORE easy to work with. With the glass bottle, you have to shake it to get stuff to come out.
When you think about it, glass ketchup bottles are really nothing more than a subliminal demonstration of masturbation for both sexes and sex itself. First, you have to shake the ketchup bottle in the same way a male masturbates, then, if the stuff doesn't come out, you stick a knife or other thin long, usually cylindrical object into the ketchup bottle to make the ketchup come out. This would represent a woman masturbationg or sex itself. Isn't it nice how I think? When you think about it, a great many things are similar to sex. This is just one of them.

Story #1: The Busser and the Dirty Table
I finished emptying my tray when I decided to do my rounds again. The place was losing people, which was good. I would be out of there at a half-way decent time. I rounded the corner and saw it. It! The dirtiest table known to man! I groaned and frisbeed my tray onto the nearest occupied table. I reached into the side-stand and pulled out the most lethal weapon known to mankind and bussers; the TUB. Yes, the elusive TUB. No table can dare withstand the awesome might of the TUB. Legend has it that a busser once carried fifteen table's worth of soiled plates and glasses. The name of the TUB was Pestilance...and the busser's name was Roy.
Gripping the tub in my filthy hands, I start stacking plates into the TUB. More plates and more. While I load the plates, I start feeling tingly in the back of my neck. I lowered my eyes to the plates. What was I doing? Loading plates into a tub? In a resturant? For Fucking MINIMUM WAGES?! AUGH! I had to get out of there. I had to breathe! I heaved the TUB away as hard as I could. I felt my skin turning green, slowly, but surely. My muscles began to bulge like a steroid junkie's. With a roar of rage, I picked up the table and flung it across the room, spilling salt and pepper everywhere, as well as the other things on the table. The diners were unsure whether to yell at me or cower in fear. Thankfully, all of them did the latter. They cringed in their chairs and booths, fearing what may be their doom at the hands of this bulking monstrosity of a busser. I lurched through the room, plowing through tables and customers. And then I saw it!
My skin reverted, as did my muscles. I saw HER! The most gorgeous hostess of all time. I walked up to her, slowly. She turned from her ignorant asshole of a customer waiting to be seated and looked at me. Our eyes locked. Tension and the heat rose in the hostess's stand. I held up my hand, as she did with hers. Our hands locked, her smooth skin against the grime you could call my hand. We slowly walked towards the back room, certain of our fate. The customers looked on with smiles of idiocy. Her hand grew warm in mine. I knew what she wanted. She closed her eyes and brought her lips close to mine. I did the same. We were to come together with a kiss, when a hand grabbed my shoulder. I spun around, releasing my hand from hers and opening my eyes. It was the manager! "Dave, I'd like to speak to you in my office," he said. I looked back to my love, her eyes were full with tears. As the manager dragged me around the corner, I silently spoke encouraging words to the hostess. Those words were, "Call me tonight!" She waved, the tears swelling in her eyes, as I rounded the corner and into the office...of the managers.

Story #2: The Kid Who Cried.
The salt, pepper, sugar packets, and custom sauces had to be arranged perfectly before I was through cleaning the table. I pushed the foursome of sauces into their place first, since they were the bulkiest. Next, I put the sugar packets to the right of the sauce thing. The colored packets were closest to the sauce container, the white ones away. I put the pepper in front of the colored packets and the salt in front of the white ones. The managers were fixed on them being this way, and would become as disgruntled as I if they were not. I picked up my tray, heavily loaded with plates, glasses, and other crap, balancing it delicately in my grasp. Then I heard it start. The ominous wimpering of a kid. I guessed his age at three, as I have heard a lot of temper tantrums.
I finished unloading my tray at the dishwasher area in the back near the kitchen when I decided to do my rounds again. The rounds were simply checking the place for dirty tables. The rounds led me into the bar, and unfortunately, the source of the temper tantrum. There, in the round booth, was the temper tantrumer. My guess of his age was correct. He was bawling heavily. I cursed him under my breath, but kept my cool. I had been warned about my hulking transformations a mere hour before. Something had to be done about this kid. Luckily, there were no tables in the bar. I found another table at the other side of the building. I cleaned it with speed. My speed, that is. Of course, it was a Thursday night. It was never busy on Thursday nights. And if it is, well, then, by golly, I'm not a Rhynir! (Of which I am. :P). I spent a nice half hour cleaning the table, a party table, that is. Four tables pushed together. The manager and waitresses asked me to seperate the tables for them. I did so, and spend a nice amount of time doing so. Half an hour later, I unloaded my sky scraping 3 ton tray at the dish area and started my rounds. Again, they took me into the bar.
The kid was still crying, only louder. I looked towards the bartender. His eyes were red with rage, his hair a mess, and plugs in his ears. I looked to the wall above the child, seeing the unmistakable stain of beer. I judged the trajectory, volume, mass, density, physics, flip-flop fisics, and all that other crap of the stain and deduced it was thrown by the bartender. Enduring the child any longer would send him to the nuthouse. This particular bartender was cool, so I had to do something to save him. If he left, who would tell me dirty lesbian jokes?
The parents of the demon were seemingly oblivious to his campaign of screams. Well, I would change all that. I sucked in as much air in one breath as to equal that of which is in the room you are sitting in right now. With that one breath, I uttered the following:
"GODDAMNIT YOU FUCKING IDIOT DUMBFUCK ASSHOLE IGNORANT PARENT WHY THE FUCK DON'T YOU LAY THE SMACKDOWN ON THAT FUCKING BRAT BEFORE I TEAR YOU A NEW ASSHOLE WITH THIS RAG NOW YOU LISTEN HERE I WILL GIVE YOU FIVE YES FIVE SECONDS TO SHUT THAT KID UP OR I WILL BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM MYSELF WITH A MALLET CONVIENIENTLY STORED IN THE BACK ROOM FOR SUCH A CASE I SWEAR I WILL KILL THE LITTLE FUCKER MYSELF IF HE SCREAMS A B SHARP ABOVE THE STAFF AGAIN GODDAMNIT RESPECT MAH AUTHORITY YOU FUCKING IDIOT I AM SICK OF THE MENTAL ORDEAL THIS LITTLE FUCK IS PUTTING ME THROUGH MAYBE I SHOULD HACK OFF HIS HEAD FOR YOU EH CHAP SHUT HIM UP OR I WILL BANISH YOU TO A LAND WORSE THAN NEBRASKA GODDAMNIT SHUT THAT FUCK UP BEFORE I RIP OUT HIS LUNGS AND FEED THEM TO THE CROWS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
With that said, my lungs exploded, causing instant death for me. I was revived with a Phoenix Down and a Potion (And a delicious steak). Everyone else in the bar gave me a standing ovation, including the parents of the little shit. Although traumitized, the kid regained his composition and began to cry. He was crying...of terror. Sick of him, I reached into my small apron and pulled out a fifty caliber shotgun and pumped the kid full of lead. I stashed the shotgun back into my apron from whence it came to hide it from the manager. He walked up to me and said, "Dave, I'd like to speak to you in my office." As I walked to my eventual (but not permanant) job termination, I shot my fists into the air, a sign of victory. You would think the resturant was a concert the way they cheered me. Justice had been served. Judge Dave has the verdict for Resturant Versus Annoying Brat case. The verdict is instant DEATH for the kid and the hot hostesses and waitresses for the honorable Judge Dave.

Story #3: The Eternal Wait.
Things were bad. Real bad. We had two, yes, TWO bussers on duty. Some other bussers had quit, unfortunately. Now it was down to four bussers. Two for the mornings and two for the nights. Both of the night bussers, me and my friend, were on duty at this point. We were both equipped with tubs, but that was not enough. The wait for the legions of people at the door was roughly three hours. I checked my watch. 8:32 was what it said. I groaned aloud, but was inaudible compared to the roar of customers. I was only on until volume, but at this rate, it would be midnight before I would be out of there.
As I tromped through the largest room in the place, I noticed five tables get up at the same time. Immediately, I went into a frenzy with my tub. As soon as I would clean one table, another would get up, and the hosts would bring another party to sit at the table I just cleaned. It was hell. The process continued for almost two hours, until a ray of sunshine hit. People stopped coming in. Mainly because it was after ten? I checked my watch. 8:34 it said. "HOLY FUCK" I screamed. I checked the sidestand clock to be sure. Yes! Two minutes had went by! I had cleaned 50 tables in two minutes! Such a feat was deserving of a medal. I learned later people were leaving because of my super sonic (the hedgehog) speed. It freaked them out, I guess, to see a busser clean a table in less than two and a half seconds. I finished the other tables in the resturaunt in my frenzy before the other busser had finished taking the plates off of a table.
People pointed and stared. The managers had given me a dark grey jumpsuit with a gigantic B (for Busser) on the chest. I even got a cool mask. I was BUSSERMAN! Immediately, I flew to the next room to fight my arch-nemesis, the evil table that can never be cleaned. With my rag, squirt bottle, and tub, I challenged the table. In less than a second, I had triumphed over evil. To make things easy on myself, I went into Game Genie mode and entered the "Tables Never Need Cleaning" cheat. The code was "m3g0-h0m3"
Immediately, the manager came over to me. He put his hand on my shoulder, causing me to turn to face him. "Dave," he began. A million things raced through my mind. 'Oh fuck, did he find out that I flushed a gerbil down the toilet? God, I hope not. But what if - hey, that girl in that booth is pretty damn hot. I should get her phone number' is waht raced through my mind. "What?" I asked, my voice giving a tone of fear. "You're cut." the manager said. "C-cut?!" I cried. "Yup, go clock out and go home." he said. I yelled, screamed, did somersaults in the air, anything I could to celebrate. I was alive! I was done with work! And the best thing, I was FREE!!!

Expect more sometime, but my hands are tired. Now, everyone say "Thank you for wasting ten minutes of my life, Rhynir!"