"What one thing would you change about my working habits?"
It's the dangerous question that I often ask and he usually tries to dodge. Once, when I was a kid, my parents had the idea that we would go around the dinner table and say something good about each person and then something that we thought they needed to change about themselves. The idea was constructive criticism by the people who are closest to you. But, like every other human, none of us accepted the compliments, and we all still remember the criticism. Terrible idea, really. But I tend to gravitate to those ideas, and frequently ask Rich to tell me what I need to change, what makes him crazy about me.
Today, I ask him just after the start of our lunch rush, and he doesn't hesistate for a second.
"Cleanliness!" he blurts out, instantly hurting my feelings. We've just finished serving half a dozen college age kids who are still half drunk from the night before. They order strange food combinations; Bacon and Egg sandwiches and buffalo chicken wraps, fruit with steak wraps and blueberry sodas. The girls are standing in skimpy bikinis, the guys are shirtless and swearing for no apparent reason as they order and wait. It's true, my work area is a muddle of egg shells and wrappers; of buffalo sauce and trails of cheddar cheese as I race to cook their food while Rich is ringing in orders and speaking just a tad too loudly, almost barking at the customers.
"Cleanliness?" I'm angry. If he meant that I was messy, he should have just said messy. Cleanliness means that I don't wash my hands, or that I pick things up off the ground (neither of which is true, of course). Messy is managable, cleanliness is a state of being.
"C'mon, Naph. Don't be mad. That's not what I meant. It came out wrong. What would you change about my work habits?" He knows I'm more hurt than angry, and this kills him.
"I don't want to play this game." I turn toward the wall and begin to organize the chaos. But I can't stay quiet. I want to swear at him, to tell him that if I could change one thing, I would make him less of a... well, you get the point. But in a rare show of restraint, I hold my tongue.
"Customer Service," I say instead. "You're kinda mean to some people. And that's not cool. Maybe I should go back on the register."
"Fine. Do it." He's angry now too, and I remember again why this game is a terrible game. We go from having fun to having no fun. Everyone ends up angry. We work in silence for the next five minutes, before we manage to talk it out. He agrees to try a nicer tone of voice and I say I'll clean up my messes as I go. And we do. Together we make it through our first (somewhat) busy day of summer. And no, I'm not back on the register yet.
Maybe tomorrow.
It's the dangerous question that I often ask and he usually tries to dodge. Once, when I was a kid, my parents had the idea that we would go around the dinner table and say something good about each person and then something that we thought they needed to change about themselves. The idea was constructive criticism by the people who are closest to you. But, like every other human, none of us accepted the compliments, and we all still remember the criticism. Terrible idea, really. But I tend to gravitate to those ideas, and frequently ask Rich to tell me what I need to change, what makes him crazy about me.
Today, I ask him just after the start of our lunch rush, and he doesn't hesistate for a second.
"Cleanliness!" he blurts out, instantly hurting my feelings. We've just finished serving half a dozen college age kids who are still half drunk from the night before. They order strange food combinations; Bacon and Egg sandwiches and buffalo chicken wraps, fruit with steak wraps and blueberry sodas. The girls are standing in skimpy bikinis, the guys are shirtless and swearing for no apparent reason as they order and wait. It's true, my work area is a muddle of egg shells and wrappers; of buffalo sauce and trails of cheddar cheese as I race to cook their food while Rich is ringing in orders and speaking just a tad too loudly, almost barking at the customers.
"Cleanliness?" I'm angry. If he meant that I was messy, he should have just said messy. Cleanliness means that I don't wash my hands, or that I pick things up off the ground (neither of which is true, of course). Messy is managable, cleanliness is a state of being.
"C'mon, Naph. Don't be mad. That's not what I meant. It came out wrong. What would you change about my work habits?" He knows I'm more hurt than angry, and this kills him.
"I don't want to play this game." I turn toward the wall and begin to organize the chaos. But I can't stay quiet. I want to swear at him, to tell him that if I could change one thing, I would make him less of a... well, you get the point. But in a rare show of restraint, I hold my tongue.
"Customer Service," I say instead. "You're kinda mean to some people. And that's not cool. Maybe I should go back on the register."
"Fine. Do it." He's angry now too, and I remember again why this game is a terrible game. We go from having fun to having no fun. Everyone ends up angry. We work in silence for the next five minutes, before we manage to talk it out. He agrees to try a nicer tone of voice and I say I'll clean up my messes as I go. And we do. Together we make it through our first (somewhat) busy day of summer. And no, I'm not back on the register yet.
Maybe tomorrow.
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