Shit-shows and Spirit-killers

 

 I have come to the conclusion that there are two main categories of jobs:

Shit-shows and Spirit-killers

Though they have very different meanings, they are not mutually exclusive. That is to say that a shit-show can also be a spirit-killer. I could do a Venn diagram where the center would hold numerous of my jobs as both.
The spirit-killer is the job that when your alarm clock goes off in the morning, you are filled with dread. A blizzard or an earthquake would be welcome. An alien invasion. Anything to keep you from having to go to your place of work.
A job can be a spirit-killer for a number of reasons.

#1 The job itself is demeaning.
I am not a snob, work is work. If you need money, you need to work. It's preferable to stealing and less risky. However, I have had to take some jobs that were below my skill or administrative level. One time I freelanced at the Javits Center and I was told to work in one of the cafes out in the food court area. My job was to assemble and grill sandwiches to order at a coffee kiosk. First of all there was no running water. The engineers pulled over a portable hand-washing unit but the sink did not work, therefore washing my hands between tasks was not possible. My coworkers were all surly, unmotivated minimum wage fast-food types. They were rude to customers and barely competent. I prayed that nobody that I knew would possibly be there and see me. I stood with my back to the crowd as I made panini for the lines of convention goers. The "baristas" took the orders, made the coffees and served the customers.  I was so embarrassed to be part of this group at this point in my career that I pulled my hat down a little lower over my eyes and tried to keep my hands as clean as I could without running water.  As I completed the orders, I would do my best not to turn around and face the public.
#2 The Atmosphere
My job in a warehouse developing and producing confections for a start-up. It didn't start out as a soul-crusher but it evolved into one. It was drafty and cold in the winter with no sunlight and I would do my work with scarves wrapped around my neck tucked into my chef coat. I would play stand up comedy on my laptop for entertainment and to simply hear another voice. I measured, mixed and produced recipes, recorded my findings and most of the time did not speak to another person for hours. I was all alone, operating giant machinery to produce cookies and chocolates. It was very civilized, I was paid decently, the hours were regular and no deadlines to speak of. But being so alone, even for an introvert such as myself started wearing down my spirit. After returning from a sun-filled happy family vacation to Sicily, I just couldn't take the warehouse any longer and resigned soon after.
#3 You are treated like a social pariah
I freelanced at a very upscale banquet catering facility in Manhattan, in the pastry department. They did very high end, gorgeous, made from scratch desserts. Though the pay was not great, I looked at it as an opportunity to learn on the job. I was given numerous tasks and was exposed to lots of new ways of doing things. Soon I noticed the "pastry princess" phenomenon . Some of the young ladies who worked there would come in and work on a wedding cake all day. This is very tedious and precise work, something that I have never had the patience for, so I respect that kind of talent. What I didn't care for is how they never cleaned their stations or god forbid anyone else's. If they had a coffee cup they would leave it. Their hands were golden tools to only be used for decorating and that was it. Not being the chef, I couldn't say a word so I just cleaned up after them.
A low point was when we needed to pre-scoop ice cream to be served on a dessert plate at an event that evening. I was the dedicated scooper. Again, nothing against doing labor, but my first job on the line ever, was scooping gelato to order while on my externship fifteen or so years before. It felt a little like going backwards. In this case I had to do about 350 individually perfectly rounded balls to be placed on half sheet pans. This had to be executed inside the walk-in freezer. I wore my leather moto jacket over my chef coat and apron, side towels wrapped around my neck as makeshift scarves, The only gloves I had were latex, and I double-gloved it. I worked as fast as I could but still it took a very long time and I was chilled to the bone. Next time we needed pre-scooped ice cream, luckily there was an extern there who did it.
I think the worst part, and why it was a spirit-killer was that I felt irrelevant and dated. There was a decidedly much younger and cooler group in that kitchen on the pastry side. The savory side was all Spanish, so it was a macho vibe. That I was used to and could actually deal with better. The ones that I was working with had worked together at a previous job, so they had their "in" jokes and stories about former coworkers. They had their little funny phrases and words that cracked them up. Anything I ever had to add to the conversation was just out of touch. I knew inside that I was really way cooler and had amazing and crazy experiences and was way funnier in my past lives but nobody cared. So I kept focused on my tasks and cleaned up after the pastry princesses.

Shit-shows
Shit-shows are a combination of disorganization and of being unprepared. Shit-shows are when you realize nobody knows what the hell they are doing. Nobody is flying the airplane and if someone is, they're drunk and we are likely to crash into a ball of fire upon impact.

Recently I had a hybrid shit show/soul-crusher job. Looking to pick up some side work, I answered an ad for a "culinary teacher". I use quotation marks because although that was what the job was posted as, it was really more like being an entertainer. Like a stripper, or a clown at a birthday party.
Two highly intelligent and very young Asian guys, B.& J.,who had met at Stanford and went on to Columbia together had started a business where people could sign up for "classes" held in bars. The idea is to learn something while throwing back a few cocktails and having fun. Actually, a good idea and the classes do fill up.
Time and time again though, people do not understand a) the food business and b) starting up a business. They do not get that you will have to break a sweat and work many, many hours. You will do things that you never thought you would have to do because if you don't, your reputation and thus your business will be gone.
These guys were lucky to get some very nice and hard-working chefs. The couple of them that I met could not have been more helpful. I trailed a couple of times to see how it worked. Give the customers aprons, set up tables, give them a simple task, keep them entertained, encourage them to buy drinks, finish task, let them eat the product, encourage them to buy more drinks. Clean up, Caio bella and show me the money! (Which by the way, was pretty good for this gig when it went smoothly)
Thing is, for the most part it did not go smoothly. One time I was given a new venue to do a "pasta class". I showed up at a little Moroccan restaurant on the Lower East Side. I arrived with my bag of flours, olive oil, various utensils. B.&J. were driving and bringing the bigger equipment. I double checked the address because the metal gate was mostly closed on the place and it was dark inside.
I rolled up the gate, the door was open. It was small with little wooden tables and a bar in the back that was covered with power tools. I was supposed to be making cavatelli with 24 hipsters in an hour here?
"Hello???", I called out a couple of times. A guy came out of the kitchen, I assumed that he was the porter. He was wearing a kind of dirty uniform, and when he opened his mouth he revealed that he was missing most of his front teeth. He spoke little English and he had no idea why I was there.
When the manager showed up, he too had no idea why I was there. When "B &; J", arrived with the equipment they started making phone calls to whomever it was that they had set this deal up with. I started setting up tables in an area that seemed somewhat conducive to working with a group. I spread out plastic tablecloths and attached the cavatelli makers to each table. I found a an outlet way behind a couch to plug in the induction burner and put my water on to boil. I scrambled while the rest of them stood around trying to get their collective thumbs out of their asses still trying figure out who had made this arrangement.
Customers started showing up. By then there was a bartender and most of the tools had been removed from the little service bar. I smiled and welcomed them, gave them each an apron and nudged them toward the bar to get a cocktail.
The room was also quite dark, even after the lights had finally gone on. It had a whole dusty, velvet curtains, hookah kind of vibe to it. B&J sat at a table on the other side of the dining room and looked at their cellphones. They started nudging me to begin the "class". It was then that I looked at my pot of water and saw that there was not one bubble in it, no steam and no power going to the burner.
B&J, not being culinarians nor professionals apparently did not have a sense of urgency. Once the kids were finished making their play-doh I was supposed to cook it and that was not going to happen in cold water. I ran back to the kitchen to find the toothless Mexican, who's name was Andres who was not only very nice but apparently not the porter but the chef. He let me put water on his stove in his tiny and quite unsanitary kitchen.
It looked like my crisis had abated for the moment. I put on my jolly act to entertain the folks. I showed them how to mix their doughs and to knead it. As soon as they started kneading their little balls of dough, the rickety bar tables that were not meant for this task started to rock and drinks began to get knocked over and spill.
I gave them a 10 minute break to rest their doughs and refill their cocktails (and to get the actual porter to clean up any broken glasses). B.&;J. introduced me to another chef who was supposed to observe before she started teaching classes. I'll call her Angela, because she turned out to be an angel.
Break was ending and I was filling Angela in on the routine. It was time for the group to start rolling their doughs through the cavatelli machines. These were brand new, as we had had some problems with them in the past. This was the real action part of the "class"where they could see their product become something that began to look like pasta.
One by one as they started rolling their doughs, screws began to pop off of every single fucking machine.
Angela jumped in and helped. We balanced between picking up nuts and bolts off of the dark and dirty floor, trying to force these under-rested doughs to somehow go through and get cut into pieces that might resemble actual cavatelli. There were not enough of these shitty machines to go around either so we had to whip them off of the tables when one group was done and screw them on to the next one.
Once most of them had their rubbery little dough balls on the platters we gave them, I sprinted back to the kitchen to start cooking. If Angela had not been there I seriously do not know what I would have done. She acted as the waitress, bringing back the plates one at a time so I could cook them and dress them with the pesto I had made at home. I was grateful to be the one in the kitchen alongside Andres and his crew jammed in there. Much preferable to working out there with the crowd who must have realized that this "class" was a farce. As
a hospitality professional and I can't stand when customers get screwed.
Finally when all the tables had been served, Angela said that she really did have to go. I thanked her profusely for getting me through the crisis. She flew back to heaven where she must have come from.
I said goodbye to the customers as they drifted out. Most seemed satisfied, thank God for alcohol to dull the senses.
I might add that B.&J. sat with their damn phones during this whole debacle. They were now planning more "classes" with the owner, the one that had actually made the agreement with them in the first place. He had just neglected to tell anyone else beforehand. Right before B.&J. left, they asked me in their quiet way to be sure next time to bring yellow plastic tablecloths, rather than the white ones I had this time. "We are trying to build our brand", J. explained.
It took me an hour to clean up the mess. I tipped the dishwasher to wash all of the stuff. I had to pack it into plastic bins where they were to be stored till the next "class". I stuffed those shitty cavatelli makers into the boxes along with any of the screws that we had retrieved. B.&J. had said that I could purchase new ones. They would reimburse me. In fact I could buy anything that I needed.  They said that I could take an Uber from Brooklyn to the job with all of the stuff. I knew that they did not want to be bothered to do any of the work. Oh- and I had to schlep a garbage bag full of the yellow (brand recognition!) aprons to the laundry around the corner.

I pissed and moaned for days afterwards, about having to replace those cavatelli makers, about how to make the water boil next time. Then I came to the conclusion that since I have a full time job now, I don't have to take garbage like this. While I want to make extra income, the stress is too much. I don't want to be the birthday party clown in a shit-show. I don't need to have my spirit squashed like a bug. The following day I sent B. a resignation letter along with the laundry ticket. Fortunately I can pick and choose at this moment, and my choice is no!