Living in Brighton is a little like living in LA career-wise. Everyone has a second career it seems. Your waitress is an aspiring actress, your mechanic dreams of being a dancer on Broadway, and even your boss might have a band he plays in on the weekends. I’ve been feeling more in tune with the starving artist inside of me lately, having to fall back on my food service history to make ends meet. C’est la vie.
While I can’t complain, there are moments that remind me why I’m trying so hard to maintain a livable career as a writer and break free of what I always hoped would be my fall-back job. A few weeks ago a trainee employee “Sam” tested even my patience.
I know starting a new job can be nerve-wracking and I try to keep things light and happy while I’m training. It’s not med school, hopefully no one is going to die because of the meal that has been served to them, it is only food after all…I encourage questions and pay close attention to the employee. Do they need more observation and help? Are they more or less nervous with me near them? I’m good like that 
It took me no time at all to realize Sam’s grasp of the English language was fragile at best. He didn’t know his green pepper from his tomato. To make it worse, he’s vegan so probably never took the time to learn those words. Bacon? Beef? Tuna? Couldn’t tell the difference. To be fair, I don’t know German but it wouldn’t take me long to recognize that the smooshy gray stuff that smelled like fish was ‘thunfisch’ and the streaky meat stuff was ’speck.’
Bigger problem was rather than politely ask the customer to repeat themselves, he would just give them a random meal and sampling sides, regardless of what they actually ordered. He would nod at all my corrections, never ask any questions, and cheerfully pretend he understood what was going on.
I had to fire him. Forget the customers…he was doing my head in completely. I was probably just as nervous as him, having never sacked anyone before!
“So Sam, I really appreciate all the hard work you’ve done. Unfortunately I just don’t think it’s going to work out.” I did cringe a little when I said that. Basically the work equivalent of ‘it’s me, not you.’ “Thanks so much for your help and good luck.”
“Yes? Okay? When is next shift?” he nodded, smiling blankly at me.
Still cushioning the blow, “No, I think you may not have understood. You’ve done well but I can’t hire you at this time.”
His eyes narrow slightly and I feel I’m getting through just a little when he says, “Oh. Right. When is my next chance?”
“I’ve given you two chances already, I’m sorry.” We continue like this for a few rounds back and forth…
Yanking the cushion completely out now I say, “Listen. I’m sorry but I’m not giving you the job. Thank you for coming in. I have to get back to work,” and I stand up to leave.
He doesn’t move and stares at the ground. “…but my work visa…”
Way to break my heart Sam. For a moment as I was walking out I considered taking him under my wing completely and teaching him all the insane rules and exceptions of the English language, ensuring he can tell his sweetcorn from his sausage. I could change the boy’s life that would lead to a diplomatic posting somewhere war-torn and eventually, of course, a Nobel peace prize.
But as unceremoniously as he arrived, Sam left never to wear the uniform again, bearing the scar of my first firing. It’s a harsh, harsh world but I’m sure he has his budding acting/play-writing/pogo-sticking/impersonation career to fall back on.
