We Have Fun Here

By aginocch

We don’t want to tell you too much about this book. It is a truly special story and we don’t want to spoil it. The magic is in how it unfolds. Just kidding, it’s another book by Tony Ginocchio, and he’s back on his two favorite subjects: work, and how it’s terrible. WE HAVE FUN HERE, told from inside a restaurant in Illinois, a consulting firm in California, and a supermarket in Maryland, also attempts to get at why it’s terrible, and what we can do to change it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: aginocch
• Release date: Jun 20, 2019

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We Have Fun Here

Tony Ginocchio

Copyright © 2019 Tony Ginocchio. All rights reserved.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or real events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck was first published by Viking Press-James Lloyd in 1939. If You Give a Moose a Muffin by Laura Numeroff, with illustrations by Felicia Bond, was first published by Harper in 1991.

The author is a proud member of the National Writers Union, UAW Local 1981.

ISBN-13: 9781074852245

But – you see, a bank or company can’t do that, because those creatures don’t breathe air, don’t eat side-meat. They breathe profits; they eat the interest on money. If they don’t get it, they die the way you die without air, without side-meat…the monster has to have profits all the time. It can’t wait. It’ll die.

From The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

If you give a moose a muffin, he’ll want some jam to go with it.

From If You Give a Moose a Muffin by Laura Numeroff and Felicia Bond

For Amelia Rose

WORK SALAD

I’m not sure who at corporate thought this was a good idea, but the restaurant is now responsible for raising a baby. When we were told last week that every location would be adopting a baby as part of some sort of charitable thing, we all assumed – understandably, I think – that we’d like get a photo of a baby in Africa or something and pay a dollar a day to feed him and that would be the last anyone here would think about it. But no, there’s a literal baby here now, swaddled up and lying on one of the tables, twenty minutes before we open. Terry, our manager, is pretty bewildered, and not really sure how to break the news to us in a way where we understand what’s going on.

Guys this…this is Rosanna, he says with a shrug. This is your baby. This is our baby now.

What? is our general response.

Are you sure it’s mine? Frank asks, like a jackass.

It’s…it’s ours, continues Terry, looking down at the letter he has from corporate. So, legally speaking, Rosanna is in the custody of SaladWorks. Each store will be responsible for the upbringing of one baby, and is encouraged, he’s just reading from the letter now, to integrate him or her fully into the fun, unique, and productive atmospheres of our retail locations.

Terry puts the letter down. That’s all of the information I have so far. Are there…are there any questions? Every single hand goes up.

Yes… I say when Terry calls on me. What…what is happening?

Look, sighs Terry, this isn’t coming from me, this is coming from corporate, every store got one of these today, apparently. Rosanna is still just there, asleep on one of the dining tables, an actual alive baby.

That baby…looks very new, pipes up Lily, like, she can’t be more than a few days old. Where did a restaurant chain get these babies? Are they all newborns?

What about, like, ah… interjects Frank, do we have any sort of baby equipment? Like diapers or a crib or something? I mean, we got a lot of chef’s knives in the back, which I feel don’t make for an idea, ah, child-rearing environment.

Baby equipment? Like what? asks Terry, in a daze.

I don’t know, like a diaper? I repeat.

Yeah, Terry, do we have a singular diaper? asks Frank, grinning.

Okay, okay, says Terry with a deep breath, looking around as if trying to find the answers somewhere in the restaurant. Uh, does anyone here have a kid? Lily raises her hand. Lily, yeah?

I have two kids, raised two babies, yeah, says Lily.

Wow, really? says Terry, in probably the wrong tone. Does your husband work full-time or something?

No, says Lily, clearly bitter, he drives for Lyft.

Oh, Jesus, says Terry, surprised, aren’t you on like 25 hours a week?

I’ve been asking for more hours for months now, Terry. It gets very uncomfortable in the room. We open in seventeen minutes.

Okay…okay, says Terry, clapping his hands. I will take that as a followup. But in the meantime, can you please run to Target or something, get some diapers or anything else you think we would need on the first day? Bring your receipts back and I’ll comp you.

I’m not gonna clock out, Terry.

That’s fine, that’s fine, says Terry, desperate and waving it off.

And I took the L here, so I need to borrow your car. Boxes of diapers are big.

Fine! Fine, says Terry, frustrated. He pulls out keys, tosses them to her, and misses by ten feet; the keys hit me in the leg. Please just go! The rest of you, can we please get this place opened up? he adds, his voice rising.

Sorry, another question, I say, raising my hand again, what’s the plan for taking care of the baby at night?

What?

At night. Like…I assume we’re not planning to leave the baby in the restaurant overnight, right? I ask.

Well, we leave the grilled chicken in the restaurant overnight, says Frank. For max two nights, but still. He appears to be really enjoying himself.

Fine, fine, another followup, I’ll call Dorian today and see if I can get this straight- at this point three of us yelp and run forward in an attempt to catch the baby, who is starting to slowly slide down the table. We get to her just fine, but still, it’s very scary for a second.

What – guys, what? asks Terry, startled.

That’s, that’s that table that has that one wobbly leg, I say. We’ve got to find a better place to put the baby-

Well, Jesus, get a matchbook or something under there, but can we please work on opening, we’re gonna have people coming in here in a minute and they’re going to want salads. Amazingly, the baby Rosanna is still asleep through all of this, just there on the table – a different table now – like an adorable little bag of flour that clearly doesn’t belong here at all.

Hey, dipshit. I turn around, it’s Frank. Ha, I said dipshit and you looked. Anyways, my place tonight after closing if you want to get fucked up. We head over to the counter to start prep. The baby is still on the table by herself, I’m watching her from a distance. Frank notices.

How funny would it be, he asks, if just tomorrow, the baby is gone and corporate is like ‘let’s never speak of this again’?

I’m honestly kind of worried about what’s going to happen to her tonight, I mutter.

Bring her to the party, I don’t care, shrugs Frank. If she’s SaladWorks property she can get fucked up, too.

Maybe don’t call her property? I respond, wiping off the knives.

What do you think we- he starts, but at that moment the in-store speakers start up in the middle of ‘The Kids Are Alright’ and the baby immediately wakes up and begins making little crying noises.

We both stand there uncomfortably for a moment. Uh, Terry? I call to the back room.

I hear her! Terry yells from the back. Another line worker walks back into the dining area and hesitantly starts tapping the baby on her shoulder in some half-assed effort to calm her down.

Wait, do we have food for her or something? I ask. What is the plan for feeding her?

Well, I’m assuming she’s not ready for salad yet at this point in her life, says Frank. But, I’m happy to slap together a crude, boob-shaped plastic bag and we can try to breastfeed her ranch dressing. Or any dressing, I GUESS, he says with feigned frustration.

***

What kind of greens would you like? I ask, grabbing another cardboard bowl from the stack.

Spinach, please, says the customer. I load up some spinach and move the bowl down the line.

And your protein?

Chicken. Another two steps down the line.

Okay, and what toppers can I put on there for you?

Hmm, says the customer. What are your options?

They’re all right up there, I say, pointing to the big board behind me where he can find all of the toppers in a nice friendly font.

Hmm, he repeats. Okay, swiss cheese cubes, sesame, mmm, no lo mein…wait. Okay, swiss cheese cubes, no sesame, no…sesame… he trails off.

Ok, swiss cheese cubes, I repeat, yes sesame or no sesame? I say with half a laugh.

The customer glares at me. Look, are you paying attention or not?

I push past this. I just want to make sure we have everything straight before we dress your salad. I smile.

Because I’ve had to explain this twice to you now! he snaps, suddenly and unexpectedly angry. You want to do your job or not?

I take a breath and smile again. Just finish the salad and move on to the next person, never mind that this guy clearly doesn’t know what he wants, and for some reason doesn’t understand that you just need to list the toppers you want, and that he’s reversed course twice on the damn sesame crunchies. How can it possibly be worth it to pick a fight with this customer, even if he is being rude for no reason.

Jesus Christ, do your job, he continues. Even better. "Just do your job, it isn’t even that hard to make