To the disgusting pile of shit Italian swine who is my former employer:
Let’s be frank: I am the reason your shit idea of a contemporary/traditional Italian restaurant ever survived its first year in the East Village. I was the first server you ever hired. I had seven years of solid serving experience. I knew Italian wines like I know my own name. I was a dream of a server and every patron was pleased: I made your business men swoon and your middle-aged housewives get extra dessert. I got more phone numbers and business cards than you could count up to in English. I arrived early and stayed as late as I had to in order to keep your business running smoothly. You’re welcome.
First, let me remind you, sir, that you hired me after meeting me at a bar. Your slimy brother-in-law made a pass and asked me to dinner, and I kindly turned him down, citing my search for a job as my reason for being unavailable. How convenient I was looking for a waitressing job and you happened to be right behind him. I should have known from the moment we met that you were not the sort of boss I’d get along with, especially when you asked me to step outside and spin around for you so you could be sure I was good looking enough to be worthy of your employment.
When you called me for an interview, I arrived promptly, dressed well and eager and you hired me on the spot. I am still trying to figure out why, because every moment after that fateful day was a moment I wish to forget. I was a full-time student at an Ivy League university, I lived far away from both school and my new job, but I was a god damn soldier. I worked five nights a week, sometime six or seven. I was there for seven, eight, even ten hours at a time. I memorized the menu and the new specials every night, I was always dressed well, clean make up, nice hair. You called me Wednesday Adams because of my dark features, but I didn’t mind at first – I’ve heard that one before, and it never felt like an insult. I was so very wrong about that.
Perhaps the next warning sign should have been the day we got the new staff t-shirts, with the restaurant’s signature logo across the front. I put mine on in the restroom and when I came out you gave me a once-over, reached at my neckline, and tore fast and quick – the shirt fell down off my shoulder, exposing almost my entire right breast. “That’s better,” you said. I should have ripped your nasty fucking guido tongue ring right out of your dirty fucking mouth right then, but I could not have anticipated that it would get so much worse. I needed your money, I needed that job, and every day I continued my dutiful work in your restaurant wearing that slutty piece of fabric you called a shirt and working hours you were not paying me for.
I don’t remember when it started, or how… it seems like it just sort of started quietly and snowballed out of control. You told me I was disgusting. You said I was gross. I looked dirty. I looked like trash. When I pulled up my hair, I was uptight. When I let it hang loose, I was sloppy. When I wore make-up, I looked like a tramp. When I didn’t wear make-up, I looked like a hobo. When I wore my glasses, you told me I was just a slut trying her best to look intelligent. Every day I would try a new tactic. I tried to playfully joke back and you told me to shut the fuck up. I tried to kill you with kindness, but you told me to stop being a smartass. I told you to leave me alone, and I tried to ignore you, but you threatened to fire me if I didn’t acknowledge every word you said. Is that clear? you would ask. Crystal, I would tell you.
I don’t remember how it got so bad, how I let you keep treating me like a failure, a worthless vagabond and a poor excuse for a woman. I do, however, remember the moment I had enough: You took me aside and I can still hear the words come spewing out of your mouth, thrusting towards my face, then lingering ever so slightly between us so I could see them right in front of me and know I was not imagining this.
“You disgust me. You make me sick. You are a terrible waitress. You look like shit all the time. You look like a freak, and I bet you act like one, too. I bet you like to get tied up, cut, thrown around when you get faacked. When’s the last time you got faacked? I bet that’s what’s wrong with you. Go get faacked and get some color back in your face. You are an embarrassment to this establishment. I bet your mother is ashamed of you. I pray every day that my little girl does not grow up to be someone like you.”
I tried to fight back, but I found myself at a loss for words. All of your insults still hung in the air, choking the space so that my words could not fit. Is that clear? you asked. Crystal, I said. Good, you smirked, and tossed your boy band hair out of your eyes, exposing the receding hair line that the gel was supposed to hide. “This is my two week’s notice. Is THAT clear?” Crystal, you said.
Two weeks later, I said my goodbyes to the rest of the staff, I even said goodbye to you, with a cynical European kiss kiss on either of your fake tanned cheeks. I walked out that door feeling sad for my loss, sad that I couldn’t make things work, sad that I would be poor again, sad I would have to go hunting for a new job, I just felt sad. At least, I thought, I will never have to remember to check if my right nipple is exposed every time I lean down to place someone’s contemporary pasta dish in front of them.
I returned back several times to pick up my last paycheck. The manager on duty repeatedly told me he could not find it, then he told me there was a problem with the taxes, it had to be returned, reprinted, come back in a week, again, come back in a week, and again I came back. Again. And again. Finally I realized you were holding it hostage. I had to face you one more time if I was going to get that check. I walked in on a Tuesday evening, when I knew you would be there. Ciao bella, you said, like we were old friends. I have something for you, and you pulled out my W-2. Excellent, thank you, and what about that last check? This is the moment when I remembered why I quit.
“Oh that,” you said, reaching once more into the envelope. “It’s right here.” You held it up, and as I reached for it, you valiantly torn it right down the middle, a quick, loud rip that made the silence immediately following hold me frozen in an unearthly shiver. This is the moment when I lost my composure.
“Are you out of your mind? Are you sick in the head? That is MY money, you legally owe that money to me, and you better re-order that same damn check and have it to me by next week or so help me God I will sue your greasy ass.” Customers turned, and you told me to hush, and I only spoke louder. “You cannot tear up my paycheck because you do not like the way that I look. You cannot deny me my money after you shorted me on every paycheck for the last six months. You cannot steal my money because you don’t think I deserve it. You are going to get sued, and you are going to lose.” You laughed in my face, even as customers begin shifting uncomfortably in their seats, unsure if they wanted to still give you their business. Get out, you bitch. This is the moment when I made you remember me. I lifted my right leg and swiftly kicked the tacky euro-trash barstool beside me and watched as they all dominoed to the floor. Then I snorted with all my strength every molecular drop of mucus I had, and spit it quick and hard across your trashy neon-lit bar top. You looked down at it and back up at me. Get out now, do you hear me? Yes sir, I hear you. Crystal Fucking Clear. And I walked out the door, slamming it behind me hard enough to emphasize the moment of my departure, but not hard enough to shatter the glass pane. I was not about to pay for any serious damage. I got one block down before I began sobbing. There was literally nothing I could do. What the FUCK could I do?
You know what’s funny, you slimy little shit? You know what’s so fucking great about these United States? Here in the greatest city in the world, we’ve got this department.. . the Department of Labor, and within that department, there is the Department of Labor Standards. And you wouldn’t believe it, but within that department is a department just for you and me – The Department of Claims for Unpaid Wages.
I know you remember me as a terrible, disgusting, worthless mistake of an employee. I know you remember me causing a scene at our final encounter. I know you remember my mucus quivering on the surface of your bar as I slammed that door behind me. But what you are about to find out is that I am not weak. I am a strong, talented, hard-working young woman. And I am an American. And in America, if you fuck with us, we are going to bend you back over and fuck you twice as hard.
So today I proclaim: Bend over, you greasy little guido. That little department of ours? They are sending over an investigator. She is on her way to your restaurant right this moment. She is going to introduce herself, tell you who she is working for, why she is there, and you will hear my name. And you will feel that disgust once more, see that mucus shoot across your bar, and remember just how much you enjoyed fucking me over. And then, that investigator is going to go American on your sleazy Italian ass, and bend you over that god damn bar and fuck you. Fuck you hard with a lawsuit. You know what I think I’ll do with that re-printed paycheck? I am going to buy enough toilet paper to wipe my ass with your money for the next 10 years.
Today is a good day. A good day for waitresses everywhere. A good day for Americans. Today I remember why I love my country, and I am smiling. And today, I even got faacked. And you know what? You were right. There is some color coming back to my face.
