If you aren't familiar with Publix Supermarkets, founded by George Jenkins in Lakeland, FL in...I dunno 1947 or some shit... They are ALL ABOUT Customer Service. Trust me I worked there for several years in my youth. (Fun Fact™: I was fired for swearing too much...huh, go fuckin' figure...)
But today was just a goddamn nightmare.
I recently started a new job, and I've been trying to get an idea of what was around for lunch. One of my co-workers, Austin, let me tag along with him to Publix (which was actually about 10 minutes away, but I wasn't driving so, fuck it) and I was suddenly hardcore jonesing for a delicious Publix Deli Sub. If you've never had one, get your ass to a fucking Publix and eat that shit. You will understand.
Now usually when I roll up to a Publix Deli, they have their shit wired tight. Fucking squared away and on lock. Tight as a drum, if you will. But today, I drop in at around 12:30 pm, and this Sub Station...well, it looks a little rough. I give them the benefit of the doubt cuz it's probably just after a lunch rush and I don't expect it to look Spic & Span. Alright, so this kid walks up and disinterestedly asks what I need. He's standing there, all 500 disgusting pounds of him. And I'm not usually one to Fat Shame, but seriously? Have you ever done a sit up? Walked more than 30 feet? Put the fucking fork down, you greasy slob...
I tell this Mouth Breather, I want a footlong Italian on Whole Wheat, Provolone, with peppers, onions and lettuce. Real simple shit. Well, they've got the meat pre-sliced and wrapped in paper. Good on 'em, very efficient. That's why I usually like their service. He throws the peppers on, but he's out of onions. And so is the other station.
"One minute," he say to me. Okay, I'm patient. Cuz believe it or not, I really DO try to NOT be an asshole in public. I really do. But this walking ball of grease is back there what seems like another 10 minutes, and he comes back out with an onion. AN Onion. As in, One Whole Unchopped Goddamn Onion. He takes one of the dullest knives in stock and proceeds to try to slice this yellow onion.
Fuck.
Okay, still being reluctantly patient. But I'm getting pretty aggravated at this point, but I'm trying to let it go (Let it Goooooooo!!). But then he asks what else I wanted. "Lettuce, please." So he takes these...lettuce scrapings...and tried to plop them on my delicious sandwich.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, guy. Don't put that on my sandwich. That's gross." Well, that's all he had left. And all that the other station had left. And there wasn't any back up.
"One minute," the douche-nozzle tries to say. And that was it. I've already wasted more than half my 30 minute lunch break waiting for this lazy, fat tool to slap together a fucking sandwich, I wasn't wasting more time.
How fucking hard is this? How hard is it to make sure that you are prepared for the business that you're here to fucking operate? I know how this shit works, because I've done it before and I use similar methods in other fucking jobs. Preparation!! Efficiency, motherfucker!! Jay-sus Fuck Christ, you are goddamn useless.
"No, not One Minute. I'm done, I'm out. Fuck it..." I say as I walk away trying to find one of those pre-made sandwiches (which are still pretty good, but lack the defining characteristics of a full submarine sandwich...hoagie, po' boy, grinder, what-have-you) eg. vegetables and condiments. I look around uncomfortably cuz I'm still in this bullshit sham of a "deli" and there's some fucking old geezer (I fucking hate old people...) attempting to stock the sandwiches. Great.
"Can I help you?"
"No, you can't help me. You people couldn't help yourselves out of a wet Publix Paper Bag..." I grumble as I grab...I forget what kind it was, probably Ham & Cheese or some shit...
"You're welcome!" the crusty, nursing home escapee tries to call out to me as I stalk away towards the registers. "Suck my fucking dick you mongoloid!" I holla back. I really shouldn't be allowed out in public, let alone Publix (it's a family establishment).
I get to the registers and my heart drops again. Lines out the wazoo. Fuck Fuck Fuck. So dump the sandwich into a front end cooler (cuz I'm not a complete asshole) and I barrel out the front door. Fuck this joint. It's seriously the worst goddamn Publix I've ever been to. And I've been to quite a few.
I make my way back to Austin's car, and I'm visibly pissed.
"What, no food?"
"Don't get me started..." I mumble and then proceed into a tirade to match anything by Moussolini bitching about train schedules.
Understand that Austin has known me only one whole week and has never seen Jaymz in his fucking element. We try Subway, no go. Bullshit. So we drive back to the Shop, and I have to disappoint my boss, Matt, cuz I was supposed to grab him some fried chicken (actually Austin was supposed to, but since I was going Deli, I got handed that task) but if they can't figure out a sandwich, I wasn't trusting them to do a Non-Heinous job with actual cooking involved. Plus...you know...embarrassing. Sorry bro.
I grab my keys and haul ass to the Bodega down the way and try my luck with some sketchy gas station cheeseburgers cuz I'm that fucking hungry. Awesome.
And now everyone knows my secret. I'm the fucking Angry Guy. And I was doing so well...
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