MY FAKE BOW TIE SMELLED LIKE DOG POOP!

A Perkins Restaurant Busboy Job Taught Me About Corporate Life

When I turned 16, my parents urged me to get my first-ever job.

“You have your license now,” said my dad, dangling car keys in his hand. “I understand that you’ll want to drive. But I hope you understand that someone needs to pay for gas and insurance when you do.”

I walked right into this spider web. “Who would give me a job?”

My mom had circled the classified ad in the HELP WANTED section. “Perkins Cake and Steak is opening on the edge of town. They are hiring NOW!”

Like a skilled magician, she produced the newspaper from her recliner, hidden within a cushion crack.

Dad smiled at her. Quite likely he directed the magic show.

Suddenly, he tossed the car keys to me. “You can drive there to apply.”

Their plan seemed sneakier than sneaky. They announced their plot (I mean “idea”) the day applications were taken, followed by immediate “open” interviews.

My shrewd folks had thought of EVERYTHING.

Getting hired was easy enough. Because I had never done a job interview before, I felt like a Miss America contestant getting quizzed by emcee Bert Parks.

The first day of training seemed like hospitality boot camp. Corporate trainers came from Minnesota headquarters to drill us on the “Perkins Way.”

Two managers, night shift and day shift, began. We watched a short commercial shown from a 16-millimeter projector.

One boss bubbled, “This will run on area TV stations. And it’s supposed to say “Now Open in MARSHALLTOWN!” at the bottom of the screen.

The young group nodded politely and obediently.

“How many thought that chocolate sundae looked good?” asked the second guy in charge. “Who can guess what was special about that sundae?

“Anybody?”

Hours of silence (well, seconds. It just seemed like FOREVER) later, the riddle was revealed. The studio lights melted the ice cream. At last, someone suggested using a scoop of mashed potatoes.

“This isn’t your typical franchise,” one manager panted. “This is Perkins!’

After the pep rally, all the busboys-to-be gathered with our trainer. He had prepared simulated customer tables with dirty dishes and more.

This trainer liked a minimum of instruction. Correcting mistakes and then showing the proper techniques of dirty dish removal was his style.

Our busboy guide left us alone to clean other groups of tables. I finished my duty then spotted another trainee. He was struggling to keep up.

“Let me help,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said beneath fogged-over glasses. “I just turned 15. My parents said I could fib on the application and not be the required 16. We need the money at home.”

“No problem,” I shrugged and smiled.

My cheap facsimile of a drill sergeant barked at me. I came over.

“Are you going to help your little girlfriend every day during his shifts? You won’t be there to save him every day.”

As I stood before the sarcasm king, I noticed I was a head taller than he was. I squinted and glared down.

“I was in the National Guard,” he hissed. “I know if someone can cut it or not. I’ll be watching you.”

I never heard another peep from my trainer. He stared and glared but never spoke again to me.

Finally, we were given our busboy “uniform.” I had bought white shirts, black pants and black shoes at a used clothing store.

What made those clothes special was a red vest and bow tie.

The vest had gold buttons and a little chain. I looked like a riverboat gambler or a parking lot worker at a Las Vegas casino.

The tie was a clip-on made of some rubbery vinyl.

After my first day of work, the neckwear became responsible for my first humbling.

During my first night of work, I worked up a sweat.

Then, the hallucination hit. I smelled fresh dog poop.

No dogs were in the building. I checked the soles of my shoes. Clean and clean.

I begged to use the restroom. I had been taught to hold it until break time, but I needed privacy.

Yes, both armpits were neutralized with deodorant. I wanted to scream. The dog poop aroma was right under my nose.

I took off my bow tie for a moment to go get a drink. I shuddered as I sniffed.

The pseudo-shit was in my hand. My temperature turned the chemicals in my vinyl tie into a stinkfest.

I washed the tie in soap and water. Less stink. Less worry.

I had to fill in for hostesses when they were swamped. Perkins placed plastic partitions across half the room. The company was one of the first to introduce the “smoking or non-smoking” sections.

Men and women would bare their souls to me when I asked their seating preference.

“I should be okay. I smoked outside before I came in.”

“I always smoke after a meal. I could try it without, maybe?”

I’d smile, try not to scream and say, “Thank you. Please, just pick one.”

I found that the non-smoking section was for illusion only. Tobacco clouds would pass overhead as they drifted into the “smoke-free” side.

Those annoying moments were easy compared to The Big Night.

The Chamber of Commerce sent out invitations for free meals on a specific date.

I got sent out to stand in the driveaway and flag down cars. This grand preview was supposed to win over town VIPs. These social influencers would tell everyone what a good meal they had at the new place.

All I had to do was explain this pre-opening was a special event by invite only.

The restaurant would open for the first time the next morning for the rest of the world.

Locals were excited to try the new place, but understood and apologized they were a day early.

Then, the pissed-off people drove up. The lit-up restaurant sign could be seen from the highway, less than one mile away. Out-of-towners had no way of knowing about the preview.

“Your practical joke isn’t funny!”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“We are traveling. We are hungry NOW.”

I’m still amazed that no one ran over my toes as they burned rubber out of the new parking lot.

The job grew tedious quickly. The trainers wanted me to drive my busboy cart to a table. I had three dish tubs on different levels. I was supposed to sort the dishes as I removed them.

One night, a manager growled, “Leave the cart!”

“New rule. It all goes in one dishtub. Hurry. Customers are waiting.”

I assured the kitchen workers that I wasn’t trying to stage a revolution and take over Perkins. They half-believed me, but wondered aloud how those highly-trained trainers could be wrong.

In a few short weeks, I knew I wasn’t cut out for corporate life. I quit.

Because I snagged a busboy job at a locally-owned, family-run restaurant the next week, my parents approved.

During a day off, my parents were watching TV. My Dad yelled. “Get in here. Hurry!”

I ran in. There was a Perkins commercial.

“It’s your old friends,” he snickered. “Wait a second.”

Then, my parents sang together with the commercial:

“You’ll like Perkins.”

I stared at them. They stared back.

Then, they giggled and guffawed. I joined them.

And I ate everywhere but there, dining happily ever after.

Want to be sure you never miss a Tom tale again? Just subscribe here, then rest easy!