You have no idea.
Monday was supposed to be a good day; our new car would be coming home and I’d be able to take my first ride home in him. (He’s a Scion xB in blue. In other words, he’s Skids. Since I couldn’t have Bumblebee, I now have Skids.)
However, the universe saw fit to take a gigantic shit on me. Or rather, one of my co-workers did. Because fuck me, I guess. One of the managers–we’ll call him “Idiot Manager One”–wanted to ask me a question. I’m thinking it might be about getting more hours since we’re shorthanded. Instead, I get pulled aside and asked why I haven’t been doing lot duty.
Long story short: I need to get a driver’s license or I’m going to have to transfer to a different department. The only one with openings right now is Food Court. We all know how much I loved it in there.
Here’s the thing: I know who complained. I know exactly what the hell is going on here, because it happened several months ago while Dennis was still alive. It’s one of the full-timers–not Wiesia–who has a penchant for complaining about everything. I’m not kidding. If someone goes over their break by a few minutes, she’s in the office, complaining. If someone does something she doesn’t like, she’s in the office, complaining. If she doesn’t get to go on the walk she wanted, she’s in the office, complaining. If someone isn’t fast enough during the walk, she’s in the office, complaining. If someone doesn’t get their papers signed, she’s… well, you get the idea.
She has no friends at the doors, for very good reasons. She’s alienated almost everyone up there. Monday, it was my turn.
So now she’s bitching that it’s not fair that I don’t do lot duty. Okay, fine. But I’m in “vindictive mode” right now, which means I’m willing to passive aggressively lash out and hurt her, not caring if I get hurt along the way. As the night went by, I started thinking that I wanted to simply tell the manager I was dealing with that sure, I’d transfer to Food Court, effective immediately, just let me finish out my shift in there and away from the doors, which would have meant that at least two people from the Front End would have needed to take over.
Hey, that would be fair, right? She could run her shit show however she wanted. No complaints from my end.
Hell, I’m still tempted. As far as I know, there aren’t any back stabbers in there. I might be physically exhausted, but I won’t be nursing knife wounds between my shoulder blades.