“Fuck You, I Quit” – How To Lose A Job In 10 Days
“We’ve caught you on tape committing theft. We have to terminate your employment”.
Fuck. Confronted and alone, my guilt-stricken body trembled as I pondered which incident they were referring to. Backed into a corner, I slipped into defence mode and blurted, “Pfft terminated from employment? Fuck you, I quit.”
I mulled over my time there, as a Maccas chick. Mopping – saturating – the toilet floors; taking the blender off the sprinkler too early, spraying water all over a drive-thru customer; and writing my number on a cute guy’s napkin, only for his girlfriend to staunch in demanding, “Which one of you is Holly?!” I acted confused and shrugged my shoulders.
“We saw you take a coffee cup full of M&Ms.”
It was a trivial misdemeanour in comparison to my fellow colleagues, and of course I was the one to get fired. Those godforsaken rainbow mini M&Ms; their crunchy outer shell that bursts into a chocolaty, velvety sensation, tantalising your taste buds into a desperate pursuit for more. Yeah, it was totally worth getting fired for.
I burst onto the employment scene at 13, keen to rack up a healthy savings, and promptly stash cash into my bank account, thrilled at the $1 interest I would make for depositing monthly. After two solid years on eight bucks an hour, impressionably following the crowd stealing food on my way out of each shift, I hung up my foundation-stained hat for the last time and called it quits. Because well, I was fired.
At Arawan Thai, the spring rolls rolled off the plate as I clunked them on the table; I spilt curry on customers and I ate the restaurant dry of those godsend complimentary peppermint chocolates. Delivery got me out of the restaurant, and I even failed at that.
Short sighted and geographically challenged, it was a “They see me rollin’, they hatin’” kinda sitch – except mostly hatin’. I’d spend 20 minutes on the customer’s street, looking at Google maps and running over plants while the customers stared from the window, angsty as their food got cold – only to give up hope and come outside to get it themselves. However, it did enable me to conquer ventriloquism, singing along to my favourite tunes while avoiding the social suicide of anyone seeing. Resume material.
I gave food to the wrong houses, for free. I nearly toppled my car off a cliff, and I flattened a customer’s mailbox. One night, I sped over an unexpected speed hump and all the food became a mess on the floor. I could not tell the restaurant, so I scooped that Panang Curry back into its failure of a plastic container and even accepted the tip.
“Do you want a chip?” a customer once asked me. “Okay…” I responded, reaching into his chip packet as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a tip. Already gripping a twistie, I awkwardly took both and dashed back to my car.
Next was a local bar called Mr King: I got employed via a Facebook message. Apparently, a hot DP is all you need these days. I had to wear skanky outfits while serving approximately 500 drinks an hour, at the cost of my lowered self-worth. I decided to play the role and kiss a mate on the job. I got paid during the kiss, so I guess I could potentially put sex worker on my eclectic resume. Superficially bolstering my limited skillset.
Babysitting was fun for a while. I’d chuck the kids into bed straight away, and have the night to myself (or with the occasional exception of a boy). I’d find myself rummaging through their pantry, sniffing out packets of biscuits, which I quickly devoured and promptly destroyed the evidence. One night, I went to the outdoor toilet and the wind blew the door shut, locking me out of the fucking house. Babysitting from outdoors… that’s a thing, right?
I once kissed an ugly boy and put it on my resume as doing charity work.
Sally’s Diner: I worked with a bunch of red necks who fed me rock-hard calamari that literally chipped my front tooth. I chose my own breaks, watched the surf from the window and ate heaps of food for free. High as fuck, they instructed me, hillbilly Holly, to, “Fill the fuck out of the empty ice cream freezer.” I earnestly made a masterpiece of paralleled ice blocks, filling the freezer until the lid wouldn’t close properly. I was fired the next day because the top four layers had all melted into mush. Whoops.
Losing a job is not a real loss, take it from an expert. And remember, if anyone tries to fire you, beat them to it with the good old, “Fuck you, I quit.”
Cover by Emily Kendall