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Company or Industry: Baskin Robbins of Beaverton Oregon
Salary:
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This contains alot of language, dry humor, and sarcasm. I was woken up at 8 AM with a phone call saying that Tara, the full time opener at our other store, her Grandfather passed away and she needs the whole day off. That means, I need to find someone to open the other store for five days next week. This is nothing unusual. I know what your thinking. "It's freakin' ice cream." Oh my god, I've experienced everything that could ever go wrong, found things in ice cream, sundaes, resumes, and employee stashes that'll make your hair stand on end. Anyway... Most of our employee's being without cars work at either one store or the other. There's Beaverton, which is in a busy metro area, and there's Garden Home, which is mostly residential. A bus runs by once and hour on the week days and quits running early. So I need to get to the Beaverton store immediately, sit over a pile of papers, and make phone calls to our "staff." Our staff of mostly high school and college girls. All the type to have well manicured nails and stay out late. And of course, the owner is out of town for the weekend in a part of Oregon that doesn't even have electricity. Lets see.... We need an opener who can open M-F from 10:30 AM to as late as 3:00 PM. Some of the openers are valuable (and paid) enough to stay from open to close. (11 AM to 10 PM) His name is David, he doesn't drive, or even have a cell phone. Grace is a bitch, Sam doesn't have a car, Hannah, Mary Beth, and Wesley have school. I'm not letting any of the new rookies open. So I make a call to Sam to come take over this store, and I'll taxi to the other store and open it. So I get to the store. In a residential district. While all the kids are in school. In the middle of fucking January. The relief doesn't come in until 4:30 PM after she gets off from school. She'll come in, sit on her ass, unpack her homework, and do that, instead of the gigantic list of chores I've written and pinned to the clipboard. But, ya know what, fuck it. Until we can get someone else to apply, we can't hire anyone else. She doesn't care that waffle cones need made, or clown cones need made, or soda tanks need changed. First, I turn on the hot fudge warmer. Then, I begin pulling 3 gallon tubs of ice cream from out enormous walk-in freezer. Everything in the freezer is organized in a special order that only our supplier, Alpenrose, understands. The list of flavors and stock were to receive arrives, and it's put in the freezer in the order it's listed. Even though listing it first by flavor, second by expiration date, makes more sense. I pull out the ridiculously shaped contraption that we use to cut the ice cream. We mount it on a metal pole, count down two holes, run a razor blade around the tub on that level, and pull a metal wire through the cut to cut the ice cream. I throw it on a round cardboard pad, cover the exposed end with bakery papers, and put it in the walk-in to re-harden. I do this several more times with several different flavors and lots more deli papers. A customer walks in. No, wait, my bad. The customer only wants change for the payphone. Makes perfect sense though. It's the middle of January, about noon, about 22 degrees fahrenheit outside. If there weren't cakes to make and orders to fill, mornings would be very boring. Today, there's an order for a 1/3 sheet Mint Chocolate Chip over chocolate cake. Frosted light blue with "Congratulations!" written on it in fudge. Another is a 9" round cake Chocolate Chip over white for "Happy Birthday Madison" frosted white, writing in whatever color. I'm going to write it in red. Such miniscule details are critisized to no end in this business. We've had customers demand refunds and phone calls to the owner because "Happy Birthday Jonathan" was written in pink. Woo fucking hoo. Pink! They act like I wrote "FUCK" on the cake in frosting. The bell rings and a customer walks in. I look on the monitor that displays the security camera's and see an older looking woman perusing the ice cream cabinets. Yup, a real customer. I clear my throat, plaster on my fake model-esqe smile, and approach her at the cabinet. She's looking at Orange Sherbet. "Good morning. Can I help you?" I say in that voice that sounds like that cheerful bitch over the phone trying to sell you MORE phone service. "Yes. I'd like a single scoop of Orange Sherbert." I internally flinch. It's not SHERBERT. It's SHERBET. (Sure-bet) Say it. Sure. Bet. Sure. Bet. SURE MOTHERFUCKIN' BET. I keep my plastered smile from faltering, ask her whether she'd like a cup or a cone. She says a cake cone. I scoop, she pays, she leaves, and I roll my eyes and continue making cakes. Sure. Bet. Sure. Bet. OCD people cannot work at Baskin Robbins. About 3 hours pass. I've made 6 third sheets, 4 half sheets, 2 rounds, and 8 mini's. Yes. Those are the true numbers. The catch is, all the mini's are the same flavor, and all the flavors are Vanilla, Chocolate, Oreo, nothing with big chunks like Cookie Dough or Very Berry Strawberry. Finally, the relief comes in. Grace sits on her ass, unpacks her homework, and starts reading her novel instead of finding the opening list, counting the cash and gift certificate bag, and practicing her scoops. What the fuck ever. I go outside, hail a taxi, and head to the other store. Ooh, but it's Tuesday. And Tuesday is Dollar Nite. I get in to find the opener still there cause the relief is late. She's trying to write on a cake, meanwhile a huge line is stacking up behind her. I wash my hands and go down the line, that fake smile, my ice cream earrings, and my girlie voice throwing more and more dollar bills in the tip jar. Thats the highest compliment someone in my field can receive. Then, some fucker decides he wants a milkshake. He can see it's dollar nite, there's only one clerk out, there's a huge line stacking up behind him, and he wants me to mix flavors too. When I finish that and several of the customers in line got fed up with the wait, he decides he has more than one drink, he's going to order them all one at a time, and he needs to call his wife to find out what she wants. I tell him to go ahead, make his call, I'm going to get the next person in line. He then says I'm being rude, the service sucks, and he wants to speak with the manager. I tell him I am the manager. He doesn't believe me because I'm fucking 19. I apologize to the person in line behind him as sincerely as I can and stand there, arms crossed, listening. I ask him if there's anything else and he finally leaves, leaving the shake on the counter unpaid for, and me not caring. Everyone else in line seems to agree. Everyone, be courteous of your fellow customers. If your going to order six small milkshakes on dollar nite, and more than one of them are the exact same thing, FUCKING TELL ME! It saves time, dishes, sanity, patience, and people from walking out the door without ice cream or tipping me. Finally, the opener finishes the cake and hands it to the customer and helps me finish the line of customers. Oop, gotta go. The rookie doesn't know the handpack containers are right behind him. |
In your opinion, how do most people get a high paying job?
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