Fishman here. When I wrote stories on my AIM profile, one series was very well received: the story of my summer job at Atria, a retirement home. People would IM me to say how much they laughed at a certain story, which at the risk of sounding like a douche, made me feel good. I recently realized that I should just write a longer version of the stories on Zubazpants.com. My stories were always cut off due to the character limit imposed on AIM profiles, so I often had to edit several details. Hell, I’ll even add on a few new ones. Anyway, without further ado, I present to you “Atria: The Summer Job From Hell.”

The worst job I ever had was working as a waiter/bus boy at a retirement home called Atria. I hated this fucking job. The only positive spots were that it paid surprisingly well for a summer job ($8.50/hour), my fellow employees were cool, and the majority of my shifts were only three hours…but holy shit, I would work non-stop for those three hours and I mean NON-STOP. First of all, if my shift was from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m., one would assume I would come to work at around, say, 3:50 p.m. You would be wrong – dead wrong. If you were a waiter and you came ten minutes early, you would be doomed for the rest of the shift. The old people would eat you alive with their unwashed dentures because they didn’t get their food quickly enough, so they would turn cannibal and settle for you. This job happened in the summer of 2002, so I can’t remember all of the details of my duties, but I’ll try to sum up one 3-hour shift for you.

First of all, I had to arrive at 3:15 – 3:30 if my shift started at 4. This is because every table had to have fancy napkins folded just right. So I would need to spend 5 minutes folding 25 napkins in just the right way. Would I be paid for arriving 45 minutes early for work? No! After the folding, I would place them on every place in my section. Then I would go back into the kitchen and begin filling my cart. My cart would have 25 large glasses and 25 small glasses. The large ones have to be filled with water and ice. Not just some ice – A SHITLOAD OF ICE. Lord help you if one of the geezers doesn’t have enough ice. It’s a scene I dare not write about, for it may burn your eyes out of its sockets if you read it. After the 25 large glasses have ice and water, I had to fill the small glasses with juice. Only two juices were allowed: apple and cranberry. However, some of the old folks don’t like apple, while some don’t like cranberry. I had to memorize the fucking preferences for 25 people. Scratch that. I mean 75 people, because I often rotated between three sections.

After the cups were filled I had to roll the cart out into the dining room and place the right cups at the right places. The entire cup thing lasts 10 minutes. So if you arrived at work at 3:50, you’re screwed! You’ll never finish in time! Your time is already up! That’s only the start of setting up, too! I had to rush back, go into the large refrigerator, and take out a huge tray of salads. Every place got a salad, but some of the geezers were allergic to certain vegetables. This one guy would die if he ate a single shred of carrot! Can you imagine the pressure? What if I forgot? What if I put the salad without carrots in the wrong place? The guy would fucking die! I’m being serious here – the guy would instantly drop dead in the dining room and it would be 100 percent my fault. I’m shaking just typing it out. Along with the salads, I had to distribute packets of tartar sauce, mustard, and other condiments on the table. This would take 5 minutes. At this time, the old farts are already entering the dining room to eat. It wouldn’t even be 3:45 yet, but we all know how old people are when it comes to eating dinner: there is no such thing as having it early enough.

After the salads, I had to rush back in and prepare my cart for after dinner. I had to swipe a big bowl, spray some soap chemical in it, and then fill it with piping hot water. When I put it back on the cart…my memory just got hazy. All I know is there was a lot more, but I honestly can’t remember the rest. By the time I would finish setting up, the dining room would be filled. I won’t bore you with more details about the serving since that is pretty much straightforward. I was only allowed to serve 5 people at a time, so if there were a wait in the kitchen, there would be severe unrest in my section. Well, there was always a wait, so there was always severe unrest. It sucked. I was also sweating like a pig the entire time. Atria was steaming hot because those old motherfuckers were always cold, so the air conditioning was turned off! It was the summer, for shit’s sake!

When dinner ended, it was time to enter bus boy mode and clean up. I slapped on a pair of rubber gloves and stacked plates and cups uneasily on a small tray. Honestly, I don’t know how I managed to balance that shit, but I guess it’s just a skill that automatically comes to you when you’re a bus boy. I would be covered in half-eaten food and disgusting traces of regurgitated juices. After I managed to deliver the utensils, cups, and plates to the dishwashing guy (who was a Thundercats fan, and therefore, was awesome) I had to wipe the tables down. The head waitress always criticized me because there were always soap streaks left. I didn’t get what the big deal was - clean was clean. When the wipe down was finished, I had to set up the tables for breakfast, which meant new plates, new utensils, and coffee cups at every place. Then I had to get the cups from dinner (which were just cleaned) and put all 50 of them (along with two milk jugs) on the cart for whomever was serving my section for breakfast. After that, I swept up my section, punched out, and went home to wash the old person smell off of my body.

Holy shit, I wrote all of that, and I haven’t even begun! To be honest, I know there are worse jobs than Atria. I knew kids who lifted heavy boxes from 9 at night to 5 in the morning for little pay. I knew a kid who had to take a long bus ride to another town to count the entire inventory at a Home Depot. What made Atria so shitty and, for lack of a better word, horrifying, were the residents. I knew that I would come across some crazy old people while working there, but I did not expect how bizarre they would truly be.

FISH

A different kind of fish was served every night, as an option to the main course. This one grumpy old woman, who usually gave me a hard time, always asked, “What kind of fish you got tonight?” I would reply with, “cod.” She would make a face like she just smelled a dirty diaper while sucking on a lemon, and croak, “Ugh, no! Forget it!” Every night she would ask what the fish was, but she would always give me the same fucking response when I told her!

“What kind of fish you got?”

“Trout.”

“Ugh, no! Forget it!” The very next night…

“What kind of fish you got?”

“Flounder.”

“Ugh, no! Forget it!” The very next night…

“What kind of fish you got?”

“Salmon.”

“Ugh, no! Forget it!”

It eventually dawned on me that she just didn’t like fish! The hag just got a kick out of saying no! What a psychopath. When she asked me what the fish was one night, I murmured, “I don’t know. Mermaid.” Would it matter? She would just fucking say no, right? She was a crazy lady, right?

“Eh? What’d you say?” Oops, I guess not.

“Bass.”

“Ugh, no! Forget it!”

HOT SOUP

This impatient lady in a wheelchair always came in early and hated salad. She wanted soup and I always had to wait on line for the other waiters to fill up their soup bowls. Well one day, I wanted to give her the soup early on. When I saw her come in, I dashed to the soup pot, poured some into a bowl, and hurried back out. I was walking a bit too fast, however, and about half of the soup splashed out of the bowl and onto her lap! This was steaming hot soup we’re talking about! I fucking scalded her lap with soup! I couldn’t believe it! This other waiter saw me and was shocked beyond words. He stared as I gritted my teeth for her painful scream.

Amazingly, the old woman was none the wiser. I couldn’t believe my luck. My guess is because of the wheelchair - she probably had no feeling in the lower part of her body. It’s the only thing I can think of. She stared at me all confused because I was standing over her all freaked out. She just wanted her fucking soup and had no idea there were probably second degree burns all over her thighs.

MAY I GO OUTSIDE?

Atria was a retirement home, not an old age home. That means the people could do whatever they wanted. They could go out to eat if they felt like it. One woman did not know this. After every meal, she would ask me, “May I go outside?” First off, she was allowed to leave whenever the hell she wanted. Second, even if she wasn’t, I was a damn bus boy – I had no power. But you all know that I’m a nice guy, so instead of ignoring her and wishing that she would erupt in flames, I would say, “Yeah, go outside.” She would then get up and hobble off to stare at a wall or whatever it is old people do. By the next meal, she would again ask, “May I go outside?” Again, I would reply with, “Yeah, go outside. Do whatever you want.” This happened every day at the end of every meal.

Eventually, I got a huge power trip out of it. When she asked me, I felt like I was freeing a slave from bondage or something. I would reply with, “GO! I SET YOU FREE!” No one saw me doing this because the old lady was always the last one to leave. She was actually waiting until she had my permission to leave the dining hall. I’m actually laughing as I’m thinking about it right now. As time went by, I began to go really nuts. I would throw my arms into the air and shout, “YOU MAY LEAVE! THE WORLD IS OPEN TO YOU! RUN FREE WHERE THE BIRDS SING AND SUN SHINES! I GRANT YOU FREEDOM!” The old lady was kind of out of it, so she never had a reaction. She just sat there half-alive and left when I finished my speech. One day, when she asked to leave, I said, “no.” You know, just to gauge her reaction. The look on her face was that of pure fear. Her eyes went wide and her entire body stiffened up, like the Grim Reaper was standing behind me. I quickly told her that I was just kidding. She was so relieved that she actually laughed, which was the most personality I ever saw on her face.

DEATH

You appreciate life working in a retirement home. There was this one old guy in my section who always ordered his eggs over medium, which I never heard anyone doing before. I do it all the time now just to be different. One day, as I was setting up his place, the head waitress tapped me on the shoulder and went, “No. You don’t need to set up his place anymore.” She then gave me this sad look and walked away. Whoa.

ANTS! ANTS!

In the corner of my section was a married couple. The man was still with it, but his wife’s brain seemed to be elsewhere. He was really nice and understood if the kitchen was backed up – he didn’t complain like everyone else. When I cleaned up their table at the end of my shift, there were always a couple of ants crawling around. I assumed they came out after the couple left and feasted on the crumbs. Big deal, it was only some of them, so I killed the ants with the chemicals that I wiped the table with. During one meal, as I checked to see if their dinner was okay, there was like 15 ants on their table! This was as they were eating!

“Oh man!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know that you had a full-out ant problem here! I’ll move you guys to another table.”

“No,” the man said. “It’s always been like this. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure? I can ask to have the area fumigated or something.”

“No, don’t worry about it.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The couple must have been eating with these fucking ants for months! They were crawling on his vegetable wife! They were probably eating her or something! I told my boss about it, but he shrugged me off, too! What kind of place ignores ants crawling on their residents and eating their food? Was there like a deal between Atria and the ants or something? It was too fucking weird so I never talked about it again.

MMMMMMMWWHHOOOOOOO

I still cringe when I think about this one. This old woman had the habit of making this odd noise. It is impossible to explain the sound through writing, but it was like “Mmmmmwwwhooooooo.” She would do it non-stop and it drove me insane. You could hear it across the dining room too, so there was no way to hide from it. It was constantly in the background, like an annoying car alarm. The strange thing was that she was completely normal otherwise. She was one of the more pleasant residents, despite the “Mmmmmmmwhhhooooo” thing. It was so fucking weird. She would make the noise while talking too! Like “Mmmmm the tuna sandwich is so gooooowhoooooood” and “Mmmmm thank you, young manwhoooooo.” THAT SOUND! THAT HORRIBLE SOUND!

After several weeks of the noise, I contemplated killing her. I would do anything to be rid of that noise. Luckily, nature did that for me. She stopped showing up at the dining room and I was eventually told not to set up her place. I felt slightly sad, but my evil side was like, “Thanks God. You really came through on this one.” I was free…for about a week. One fateful day, as I was setting up my section, I heard, “Mmmmmmmmmwhoooooooooo.” The old lady wasn’t dead! She was alive! It was like she died and went to Heaven, but God saw how happy I was.

“FISHMAN IS VERY HAPPY THAT YOU’RE DEAD. WE’RE GONNA FUCK WITH HIM AND BRING YOU BACK TO LIFE, ALRIGHT?”

“Mmmmmmmwhooooooo.”

“HONESTLY LADY, THAT IS REALLY FUCKING ANNOYING. I CREATED THE KNOWN UNIVERSE, YET THAT IS SOMEHOW MANAGING TO PISS ME OFF. STOP IT.” Okay, that scenario is highly unlikely. I think she was just visiting her family, but man, dealing with this old woman’s noise brought me to the brink of insanity. I still hear it in my nightmares.

OVERFEEDING THE ELDERLY

There was this quiet old man in my section and he barely spoke. He would always order what the other person at his table ordered. Same dinner, same dessert, same drink – same everything. One day, the other person at his table was absent for some reason. When I asked him for his order, he didn’t know what to do.

“Do you want chicken?” I asked. He smiled and nodded, so I gave him a nice piece of chicken. After he finished, I asked him if he wanted anything else.

“Chicken,” he responded.

“Still hungry? Okay, I’ll get you some more chicken.” After he ate that, he asked for more chicken. He must have eaten 5 pieces of chicken. I was impressed. Eventually a nurse came down and saw all of the chicken bones on his plate.

“How much have you fed this man?” The nurse asked me, slightly peeved.

“I don’t know. I guess 5 pieces.”

“This man is senile!” She yelled. “He kept asking for more because he didn’t even remember that he just ate! Now his stomach will be bothering him for days!”

“Oh.” I didn’t really care. No one told me that he was senile. I just assumed that he was a hungry old man. Oops.

I TELL YA, IT AIN’T EASY

There was this large blob of an old woman that needed a walker to support her massive weight. Whenever she sat down, attempted to stand up, or just chewed her food, she would go, “I tell ya, it ain’t easy.” But she would say it just for the attention. She would say it to me sometimes. What the hell was I supposed to say? “Yeah, it’s not easy. You being disgustingly fat and all.” One time she just full out shit her pants and went, “I tell ya, it ain’t easy.” She shit her fucking pants! I heard her pooting! Oh sweet Lord, it was wet too. I resisted the urge to scream, “It ain’t easy? Really? You sure seemed to have no trouble taking a fucking dump in your Depends!” Oh man, it stunk so bad! I had to breathe in a mix of cooked food with solid waste! The only thing I got out of it is a funny line to say in a public bathroom. If you’re taking a crap and there is someone in the stall next to you, fart loudly and go, “I tell ya, it ain’t easy.” Hilarity, thy name is fat old woman.

BIG TIPPER

You will be fired from Atria if you accept a tip from a resident. That’s obvious since the dining room is not a restaurant – the residents pay for it. This one old lady kept offering me a tip and insisted that I take it, but I kept refusing. Her tip was an estimated 50 cents. I say estimated because she just tossed various coins on the table. She probably just wanted to get rid of her spare change. I freaked out because my boss always assumed that I was doing something wrong, so if he saw the money on the table, he wouldn’t believe I was refusing the tip.

The woman got mad because I kept refusing her money. Even if we were allowed to accept tips, I don’t want 50 cents. I want paper money, dammit. She started getting pissed.

“Take it. I want you to have it.”

“No, I’m not allowed.”

“Just take it. Just take and put it in your pocket.”

“No, I don’t even want it.”

“TAKE IT!” She screamed and almost leaped out of her seat! The lady fucking screamed at me! She looked around to see if anyone noticed her outburst, then sat back down. Why did she want to get rid of a few coins so badly? Did she kill someone with these coins and was now trying to get my fingerprints on them?

“You know what?” I finally said. “I’ll take it, but only after you leave.” She agreed and left the dining room. I swept the change onto the floor and slid them into a corner with my foot. On another note, when I worked at Stop & Shop, this woman tipped me $2 for carrying her bags to her car. I took it.

GRAPEFRUIT

This one still pisses me off. These two bitchy old ladies sat by themselves at a four-person table (probably because no one liked them). One time they came in very late, so by the time they wanted dessert, I just finished cleaning my section. One of them wanted a grapefruit. Grapefruits suck. You need to find one in the depths of the refrigerator, cut it in half, hollow it out, and serve it. This really sucks ass because it takes a long time to do all of this, not to mention the citric acid that is flying at your eyes.

When I finished preparing the grapefruit, I was actually proud of my cutting job. I brought the grapefruit out and placed it in front of her. The damn lady refused to eat it! Why? Well, since I was done cleaning my section, I took off my plastic gloves. My bare hand was on the grapefruit. Not on the edible part – it was just on the skin. I attempted to explain this to her, but she refused to even look at it. Both of the old ladies were disgusted and stormed off. I was really pissed. I could have finished up early that day, but I went through the trouble of carving them a grapefruit. And for what? For nothing! I wanted to have revenge, but what could I do? Take a leak on their chairs? Too disgusting. Serve them food that they are deathly allergic too? Too far. As luck would have it, I discovered a filthy, dusty spoon underneath a radiator. I took it, blew off some of the dust, and set up her place with it. Fairly lame, but these two were clean freaks. The next day, the lady with the dirty spoon had no idea that she was using a utensil contaminated with all sorts of germs.

Okay folks, that about wraps it up. There are other things I could write about, like my dickhead boss, the colorful Atria staff members, and the terrible 12-hour shifts, but my eyes really hurt from staring at the computer screen for so long. As is the tradition around here, I’m going to put my e-mail address at the end of this article. How about you actually e-mail me a question or a comment? I’m so lonely…

Questions? Comments? Mmmmmwhooooo? E-mail Fishman347@yahoo.com