Here's to one of our own

The good folks in management at the Martini have a very special handbook on how to fire employees. It’s courteous, logical and professional. First, they begin to quietly scale back The Employee’s shifts, week by week. It may be as simple as a “Hey, you know, it’s lookin’ like a pretty slow night, why don’t you go on home?,” ten minutes into the shift, when the only people out eating are those with a senior discount and an 8 pm curfew. The Employee is unable to make any money. The next week, upon taking a glance at the new schedule, The Employee might discover that they don’t seem to have any shifts on the books at all. Curious. The Employee can’t seem to remember being fired.

And then, as the Martini one is inclined to do, the grapevine blows up with speculation. The Employee has long since realized that their employment is over, and the whole staff knows it. But the ever-professional and secretive managers remain tight-lipped until the moment of their choosing.

Last week, this unfortunate chain of events fell upon one of our own—James, a longtime server, proud provider of underage drinks, lover of all womankind (this comes to mind as a theme song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dXwZxzbZw4c&feature=related) and infamous for head-butting tournaments with management.

Once James got called out of his Friday shift (“it’s lookin’ like a slow night…”) and had me check his schedule (“so…you have no shifts.”), we met up for too many rounds of margaritas to reflect on his predicament. Somewhere around the fourth margarita on the rocks, James told me he would be making a scene the next night, to quit properly. I laughed in between bites of my burger and wrote it off as the type of indulgent fantasy that we all have and never act on.

Saturday night. The new general manager, Public Enemy Numero Uno for James, was helping expedite in the understaffed kitchen. I had forgotten much of James’ plan, until he texted and asked me to remove his phone number from the computer and to delete all messages he had sent me that night.

5 short minutes later, the phone at the host stand trilled a few times. The other hostess answered, and called one of the door guys over; it was Public Enemy with a distress call. James was not to be let in or near the building. My ears perked up. Wait a minute….

James had entered through the backdoor of the restaurant, and after locking on the location of Public Enemy (thanks to the coordinates I unwittingly gave him), triumphantly strode up to him, thrown his apron, yelled “Fuck you, asshole—I QUIT!” and proceeded to shower the manager with a Dunkin’ Donuts blueberry smoothie, laced with Crystal Lite Raspberry mix, topped with cream.

Once word reached the floor, James was long gone, but now our GM smelled like fruit punch, and the sickly, sweet smell emanated in a sugary haze wherever he went in the restaurant, all night. Though he seemed relatively unfazed, the rest of the staff was in a state of half shock and half awe. He had done what we all dream of doing on our worst days, and all for the price of a $2.59 smoothie.

So, here’s to James, and the years he gave to the Martini. We wish him and his (incredibly dramatic) cojones the best.