Wednesday, September 25, 2013

The Complaint

Many years ago, I was working as the manager of a fine dining establishment known as Hardee's. We had a loyal clientele, some of whom would wait at the door before we opened to procure biscuits and gravy in a Styrofoam container or a bottomless cup of coffee for a nickle. I know what you're thinking, but that doesn't actually make me a hundred years old, our coffee was just really cheap and worth every penny of the five cents we charged (if only because the cup in came in was worth at least 4 cents).

Our regulars consisted primarily of retirees who would sit talking about the Great War and once in a while scare us into thinking they'd had a heart attack. We were afraid not only because we didn't want them to die, but because we knew that our contribution to their diet was certain to play major factor in any ventricular blockages and the resulting cardiovascular failure they might cause. Aside from the elderly, we had a rather large contingent of homeless and mentally ill people. You've probably pieced together that forward thinking people would not spent significant time eating in this sort of place. Yes, they did come in from time to time, but did not form the staple of our regular visitors.

One day, well after the lunch rush while perhaps a half a dozen people were dining leisurely, I was summoned to the front of the store. I inquired what could be so important as to interrupt my paperwork (and more importantly take me from my relaxing seat in the office). The kid sent to retrieve me simply shrugged and told me, “Some guy, he said he'd only talk to you.”

I headed to the front lobby where a large, green army jacket garbed man with a clean cut beard and serious blue eyes waited. He looked the age to have been a Vietnam veteran, so I wondered if those serious blue eyes were contemplating the murder of the man who perhaps he believed tried to poison him with food wrapped in paper served up with a slice of processed cheese.

Perhaps this rather irrational fear of mine was loosely linked to another customer who'd developed two interesting phobias when he'd been a POW in World War II. One phobia was mops. He would cower in the entryway when a mop appeared, entering the store only when the floor was completely dry. More frightening, and relevant, was his fear of cheese. If ever he received a Cheeseburger, he would return to the counter, ranting maniacally about how he hadn't eaten a slice of cheese since 1942 and demand someone remove the offending tray, sanitize the area within twenty square feet (without using a mop) then replace his burger with a cheese free one.

So this in mind, I asked the man, “What can I help you with?” I was, of course, hoping that he didn't read between the lines and realize that I was really begging, “Please don't pull out your KA-BAR tactical combat knife and stab me in the neck because we put cheese on your sandwich by mistake.”

He took me by the shoulder, not in a gruff fashion suggesting a disgruntled killer angered over misplaced dairy products, but that of a friend. I didn't realize that he was about to address one of the great debates of our society or that he'd momentarily let me know without a doubt on what side of this volatile debate he firmly stood. Nor until that moment, did I realize that a restaurant could reside in the center of this debate.

He pulled me close and whispered, “Sorry for making you come up here. I don't want to embarrass any of your employees. But there's something going on that I'm pretty sure you'd want to know about. I know if it were my restaurant I would want to know.”

He smelled of laundry detergent and was well groomed. He clearly wasn't homeless. I nodded, feeling less fear for my life. “Sure, I always appreciate any input from customers.”

“I was just in the restroom. There's a pretty big problem there.”

We'd had issues with the toilet in the past. I wondered if it was backing up again.

He finished, “Your toilet paper rolls are on the wrong way.”


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