GREAT Service

I have been reading Sara Barron's new book- it comes out in a month, and is entitled People Are Unappealing. She is a fantastic writer; Sara's voice sounds a lot like the person who is always talking in my head.

In the galley copy of her book, Sara talks about being part of an Olive Garden wait staff, and how her manager was in the habit of telling everyone that everything "rocks." I know this guy- I work with him and see him in the mall when I venture there. What I found most disturbing, though, was that I ran into this guy today. At an Arby's, of all places.

Hubster and I stopped in Arby's on our way home to the big city after spending a weekend on da Range. I like Arby's well enough, but I was a little distracted because I am trying NOT to eat things like this because I am on Weight Watchers. This week has been very "bad" and I knew that whatever I chose on Arby's menu, I would be screwed. When we walked into the...uh, "restaurant," I noticed a bell with a chain hanging beneath it, with a sign imploring us to "Ring if you receive GREAT service!" I was just musing that I didn't think the chances of that were fantastic at an Arby's, when
"WELCOME TO ARBY'S! HOW YA TWO DOIN' TODAY?" assaulted me and my husband's ears and personal bubbles. We both jumped, collected ourselves while resisting the urge to look at each other and RUN...."fine...gosh, thanks." There was a man with a red shirt, trainee in tow, smiling and gesturing to us in large, stagelike movements. "SURE! GREAT! ENJOY YOUR MEAL!!!! THANKS, FOLKS!! CHELSEA, NOW CAN YOU GO AHEAD AND SWEEP, THEN CHECK THE RESTROOMS? THANKS. THANKS, CHELSEA. GREAT!"
Knowing that Tom was mentally sending me a "holy sh!t" message to the back of my head, I stepped to the counter and ordered. Tom followed, and then I went to the restroom to ease the kink out of my face that had occurred when I was verbally assaulted upon entering. I came out of the bathroom to find Tom puttering around by the drinks. He smirked. "Wow," he said quietly. "That cannot happen again," I agreed. Our order was called, and Tom announces that he needs to stop and load up his sandwich with various condiments. I thought this was ill-advised- the longer we stayed there, the better the chance to be yelled at again. "I'm hurrying- I'm sorry- seriously..." my husband was panicking, and trying desperately to coat every inch of the bun with the various----free, I might add----condiments. We were trying to escape with our eardrums intact and the FOOL needed CONDIMENTS?
"HIYA, GIRLS! HAVING A NICE DAY? ARE YOU DINING IN OR TAKING THE FOOD TO GO TODAY?"

Two pentogenarian women were hurrying in to the counter, with single-syllable utterances to each other and the overly-zealous manager. Tom looked at me again- fear and crazed panic on his face- as he shoved his food into his bag. I waited by the door, gesturing for him to hurry. "I'm trying...I'm sorry..." and I noticed that I was standing right next to the bell. I reached for it as Hubster's eyes widened- telepathically yelling "No! You fool!" and the air was rushing around me...
and I rang that damn bell. Loud.

"WOW! GREAT! THANKS! THANK YOU! BYE NOW!!"
I ran out, Tom at my heels. "What were you thinking?" he demanded, as we both stopped to double over in laughter. And we thought good service- GREAT service, was dead.