The Old Spaghetti Incident

My time at The Old Spaghetti Factory was short. Having recently come back from a year-long bender that was my first year of college in San Francisco, I mistakenly thought that the lateral-at-best move from "general employee" at a local pizza joint to busboy at OSF was somehow a vertical one. Mainly, it was my friend Jonathan who hornswaggled me into it, with the promise of a generous (five dollars an hour plus tips) wage, and a thrilling shift-meal of Mizithra cheese (a toothsome treat, to be sure). To his credit, the salary was technically more than I was then making, and the servers did tip us out (based on a complex calculus of variables including how much they got, how efficient you were, and how much social damage you could do to them if they stiffed you - the derivative of which, when applied to myself, yielded very little). In short, the only real earnings I saw from my service there was the gained appreciation of what an utterly thankless and miserable job a busboy has. Of course, shuffling from station to station with a decanter of ice water while dodging looks from the patrons who'd caught a whiff of my perpetual whiskey-sweats simply could not be endured for long, and I decided one day that I just had to go. The problem was that on that day, I wasn't there yet. Therein lies the regret.

I was somewhere in Fullerton, with the same friend who had gotten me the job in the first place, when I realized that I was due at work in less than an hour and I was definitely not going to make it to Duarte on time. To clarify the sheer history involved in this moment, I will mention that I had to use a pay-phone to call work (they're those weird boxes with buttons and a slot that have large, unused books hanging from them). My actual conversation went something like "Hello? Yeah, it's Tom. I'm not coming in today. Or ever. Again. I'm quitting. Sorry." The manager replied that he hoped this would someday bite me in the ass (apparently aware that the threat of "you'll never work in this town again" was severely lessened by both the fact that he could only have levied the austere offices of the Old Spaghetti Factory against me and the fact that town in question was Duarte). They mailed me my check, and I never saw any of them again. Altogether unsatisfying, yes?

The "staircase wit" came over a decade later, when I was dining at one of their fine establishments (which are much better places at which to eat than to be employed), and my partner ordered the "Meat-Lover's Platter," which included their eponymous "old spaghetti" adorned with two large meatballs and a curved Italian sausage. I think you can see where this is going. What *should* have happened was the following:

I arrive at work over an hour late, walking past the scowling glare of my manager to take my place at the bussing station. After the heat dies down, I continue doing the ridiculously mediocre job I had become renowned for barely doing, and lie in wait for someone to order the aforementioned platter, whereupon I offer to assist the server in unloading the tray of food. In the one moment of dexterity I would have displayed in my entire tenure at the restaurant (and arguably much longer before and after which point), I rotate the sausage ninety degrees, gingerly (and lovingly) orienting it so it protrudes from the meatballs (which, if I've failed to mention it, are resting in an appetizing pool of red sauce), thus seamlessly rendering the appearance of a large specimen of bleeding genitals. "Bon Appetit!" I exclaim, licking the sauce from my fingers with the selfsame gesture of a proud chef granting his blessing upon the diner before I drop my apron to the ground and walk out the front door, the confused whimpering of the young girl in front of whom I placed the dish fading away in the crisp air outside.

So, Darren, or whatever your name was who I let down so sorely, I hope this makes up for my quitting so unceremoniously. It so clearly could have been worse, though.