After taking spring break off, I went back to work at the university cafeteria today. I had heard rumors that I would be moving up to doing kitchen-wide prep work, and sure enough, there was an empty station waiting for me when I arrived. There I work through my habitual single case of romaine heads, after which I'm brought a prep chart for the day:

3 cases lettuce chopped.
2 cases lettuce leaves.
2 cases cucumber halved.
2 cases cucumber sliced.
2 cases cherry tomatoes sliced.
1 case roma tomatoes sliced.

In addition, there's a second list, given to me verbally:

1 hotel pan green and red peppers, diced.
25 lbs onions diced.
30 lbs onions shredded.
2 cases grapes, vined.

Half of these procedures I haven't been taught to perform properly.

I'm working on my second case of chopped lettuce when the boss comes by. "Will, do you know what time it is?" I don't know. My station faces the barest wall in town. "You've been chopping lettuce since 9:00--" I started working at nine o'clock. "So, since 9:15? Well, it's been over an hour, and you're only on your second case." I remark on how much time I need to spend removing rotting spots from lettuce heads. "I was watching you, and you need to be faster, I know you can be." Sure. "You need to pick up the pace. And by the way, you need to see me for an evaluation today, so make sure you check in with me before you leave." You got it.

I stew, imagining that I have a "go faster" switch on my side that I've neglected to flip on out of ignorance. Only then, I realize that I actually can go much faster if I indiscriminately throw away lettuce leaes bearing any trace of rot. My production speed jumps, and my waste factor skyrockets.

Four hours and two cases of sliced cucumbers, a hotel pan of diced green and red peppers, and twenty-five pounds of diced onions later, and I wonder what's got me feeling stir crazy. I go on break and sit in the employee lounge reinventing my orange peeling method while most everyone else attends the new daily mandatory meeting. The office secretary walks in on me drawing and eating an apple, and she takes a look back at the filled meeting room. "Aren't you supposed to be in the meeting right now, Will?" Yeah, I should, I tell her as I stow away my sketchbook and hide in the dish room with my fellow dish man. I ask him what the hell's the meeting about, and he knows and cares about as much as I do. I toss my gnawed apple core and set up for a thirty-pound onion shredding experience, toting cutting boards and containers back and forth across the packed meeting room's solid glass wall. I can feel my superiors' glances and I don't give a shit. It's past 2:00 and no-one is fighting me over the chance to chop that sack of onions.

I'm leaning back from the countertop as halved onions bring tears to my eyes, when my boss walks up to my side. "Hey Will, you need to be at the CPM meeting tomorrow. Every day, 2:00, mandatory for all staff." I ask her what CPM stands for. "2:00, every day." Right, every day at 2:00. What does CPM means. "Culinary Planning Meeting." Arright. "And don't forget to see me before the end of the day, alright?" Absolutely not, I tell her retreating back. I wonder just how I meant that.

By the time I'm preparing leaf lettuce, my boss decides it's easier to directly bring me into her office for the evaluation. We're joined by the head chef and both his and my boss's managerial smiles, and I'm handed an evaluation sheet. I catch the words "struggle," "challenge," "sacrifice," and "concern" on it before my boss delivers an introductory speech that includes the debut of her first words of appreciation to me since I started working in October. She lauds the idea of getting some feedback from me, and flows right into an oral interpretation of my evaluation. Phrases like "zone out" and "get lost" from the written statements are interjected with more personal words of how much I've improved, how slow I am, how they want to keep me on staff, and how I am currently at a rating of needing improvement, and my next evaluation is in two months.

I'm confident that my boss is a good person. She seems nice enough, she probably has a healthy group of friends, but she has the managing skill of a martial government. I have the feeling that she could singlehandedly ruin a non-profit agency faster than a dead body and a money laundering scandal. The head chef is a good guy as well, and it shows in how much time he spends doing what all the other chefs do most often - cook, talk, complain, pee. He gives me some good advice in the evaluation meeting, but he and the boss are still coming short of my expectations.

"Now Will," my boss says, "This new role we have you in is pivotal to keeping the kitchen running, so we need you to get up to speed with it as soon as possible. You need to make sure you stay on top of your prep work so you can make some time to help get things done in the dish room."
My mind begins to wind up. My eyes widen and my eyebrows furrow to project that mixed feeling of shock and disbelief.
Wait, I interrupt my boss's lecture with. I'm supposed to be doing central prep and washing dishes at the same time?
"Well, you've improved your dishwashing to a good level, you just need to make time for it by improving your prepping speed."
Hey, I say in a firmer voice. Am I doing prep, or am I dishwashing?
"We need you to do both, but--"
I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing out there. You guys didn't even tell me I was moving to prep today.
"We've had you doing more prep work lately because we need you out there. You just have to get better at focusing on your speed, you're smart enough."
Then why am I not meeting expectations?
"You just need some time to get better--"
You want me to work two jobs?

I realize I'm wearing my half apron, a standard and unnecessary article enforced by management and delivered to me via the other dish man when management was too chicken to speak to me directly about it. I fumble with the knot hidden under the apron, pull it loose and fold the apron in my arms.

I don't think I've got what it takes to work here, I tell them. You want that in writing?

I knot the apron's strings so they don't tangle in the wash, and toss the folded pile onto my boss's desk before going to empty my locker. I'm zipping up my hoodie as the head chef walks into the lounge, that look on his face like a kid who's dog just ran away. "Will. Hey, we need you, you can't get upset by this evaluation..." My face is solemn, but inside I feel giddy, since I've never quit a job before. I smirk when I tell him that hey, it's just too bad I wasn't a good match for the workplace. I tell him to have a good one. I walk out.


Epilogue/Prelude:

I spent a good fifteen minutes in the ground floor bathroom stall, half cooling down and collecting myself, and half abusing the abundant source of toilet paper in deference to the bought supply at home. I caught the buses home fast enough to break the joyous news to my roommate, who happened to have renegotiated the terms of his employment at his terrible workplace to allow him an extra two dollars an hour, in addition to getting Wednesdays off from now on. He congratulates me on my decision, and asks me if I have another job on the line. I tell him I'm thinking of getting a paper route, but mostly I've just made plans to shoot hoops in the back yard tonight. Maybe take a bath and get to rest early.

I might go work at a chemical plant - I've got connections there. Maybe I'll start working out and try dancing for that gay bar downtown. I prefer having options like these, compared to feeling abused and controlled by a job that works me like a slave and a dog. I feel more hopeful about the future, now that I have no job.
I don't know how that works, but it feels right.